Chapter Text
He will come back to me. He promised.
I remember the way he said it, so certain, so gentle. “I will return,” he told me, “with your glory and your armor both.” He has never failed me, never lied. Even the gods could not make me doubt him.
How could I not believe? He was the best of us in ways I was not. I am Aristos Achiaon in war, shedding blood like water in a stream. But even in the blood shed he was still gentle, he killed as much as I and yet he was still kind, giving swift merciful deaths and not letting the war taint his pure heart.
Despite every reason he has to become heartless, to become cold, still, he chose to be lovely. Still, he is mine. He smiled before leaving, I saw no soldier then. Only the boy I loved, brave enough to wear my wrath like a crown.
When I think of him now, I do not see war. I see his hands, steady where mine were restless. His eyes, always soft even when the world was burning. He was not made for death; he was made for light. And I let him go, believing that my name, my armor, would keep him safe. No man born of Troy could strike him down.
I stand on the ridge overlooking the battle field watching shapes of battle moving across the field of Troy. I cannot make out faces or individual forms. The raid of Troy looks like a bloody sea with the glint of swords and their armor as fish-scales shining beneath the sun. The Greeks are routing the Trojans, as Patroclus had said.
I wait for him, my armor gleaming on his shoulders somewhere in that bloody sea. I cannot wait for his return, to see him return in my armor with a grin of triumph on his soft lips that will meet mine at his arrival. I cannot wait for Agamemnon to kneel at my feet before my already won glory. We will be happy again. I will fight for us again.
Men are starting to come down the beach and towards the camp. I scan the crowd for Patroclus. I do not see him, but I do not worry, Patroclus always had a habit of lingering in the back. I fight not to smile at the memory during such a gruesome scene.
I see Odysseus, he limps while walking alongside the other kings. They limp as well, it’s clear it was a harsh battle. Menelaus has something large in his arms. The closer he comes with it, the more the air reeks of blood and sea-salt. From it a grass-stained foot hangs loose. I come closer to see whose, though an uneasy feeling knots in my stomach. Locks of tousled hair have slipped from the makeshift shroud and now I know all too well what has happened.
The feeling starts numb, like freezing cold winters. Then the ice breaks and I’m submerged in ice water. I can’t breathe, my lungs burn.
They look at me, yet avoid my gaze, however crazed I must seem. Whatever, I cannot tear my eyes from him anyways. I reach for my sword, I wish to slit my throat, to release all this horror and this agony and this blood and—my hands turn up empty. It’s then that I remember I gave my sword to him before sending him to this fate. No, no, no.
Antilochus realizes my intentions and seizes my wrists, the men around murmur. Antilochus whispers words of pity behind me, “I’m sorry. He fought bravely. Please listen, Pelides—” Before he can say more, I throw him from me with a harsh cry. He knocks into Menaleus, they both trip and fall like clumsy children.
I don’t even care for the fearful looks sent my way when a scream escapes my throat, not a prince’s, not a warrior's, just a man’s. A broken man. I do not care for how loud it is or I am. I grab fistfulls of my hair, hair that he so gently would tuck behind my ears in affection, yanking at them in anger, frustration, and grief.
My knees meet the floor, I hadn’t even realized I collapsed over his body, bending over this lifeless form. His body is here. One I loved for all its scars, muscles, smiles and all. But it is worth nothing without its soul. Without my philtatos. My poly philtatos.
“Patroclus.” Pat-ro-clus. His name, honey in my mouth, a name the world never spoke right. Patroclus. Patroclus. Patroclus. Until it is sound only, until sound becomes plea, until plea becomes scream. Patroclus. Patroclus. Patroclus. Over and over, I find myself sobbing a name meant to be praised. Over and over as if a godling could bring back the dead with word alone. Over and over as if I am not the cause of the loss of the best of men.
I do not realize time passing, only that with every growing minute, the warmth to my cold winter grows colder and colder beneath me. Odysseus kneels. “Come, Pelides. You must eat.” I am so filled with rage I could have killed him right there. But I would have to let go of Patroclus. I cannot.
“No.” I do not know if I say it to Odysseus, myself, or the fact that my love is dead. Odyseus’ eyes are full of pity as he stands to leave.
I hold Patroclus so tight I could’ve sworn to Styx I can still feel his soul. Warm and kind, patient where I was reckless, true to the heart when my pride had taken over me. He is dead because of my hubris. He is dead because of me.
I know Briseis runs towards us, I feel her presence but I do not look. She bends over his body as well, she covers her face with her hands and I hear her wails. I refuse to look at her, she loved him too, but not as much as I. Never will such be possible.
I never understood why Patroclus had loved the slave girl, as a friend, as a sister. Perhaps she was humble as well. Perhaps she was kinder than I could ever be. Even to Patroclus. Perhaps that’s why I cannot look at her.
But what of it now? What dim witted fool could dwindle on jealousy when in front of me is a man stripped of my armor, my glory. I should have kept him safe. I should have gone myself.
The gods watch. I can feel their eyes upon me, waiting for the legend to rise. For Achilles Pelides, swift and shining, to rage and rend the world apart. But I am no legend. I am only a body beside a body.
All that I was, the wrath, the beauty, the invincibility, it dies here with him.
I touch his face, but the warmth is gone. I cannot find the line where his skin ends and mine begins. I still whisper his name, I have not stopped since I started. I plead like a prayer to a god that will never answer. The only truly divine being I believed in was him. No song can save him now. No glory. No promise. No love.
The world blurs at the edges, and the sea itself feels too quiet, as if it mourns me as well. Not the prince, nor the warrior, but a fool who thought love could keep death waiting.
I press my forehead to his, and the salt of my tears meets the iron of his blood. “You said you would return,” I whisper, though I know he cannot hear. “You promised.” My voice cracks. The rest dies in my throat.
For a moment, I want the world to end. Let Troy burn, let Greece drown, let every god choke on their own divinity. What use is eternity without him? But even rage deserts me now. I am left only with the sound of my breath and the weight of him in my arms.
Achilles, Aristos Achaion, godhead, deathless in name, bows over the body of the one he loved most in all the world, and weeps like the boy never got to be.