Archive of Our Own

“Evening, sir! At least that’s what it was, last I checked.”

Zagreus bounds toward him with ever-youthful energy, though his stature nearly matches that of the ever-dutiful Achilles.

“Welcome back, lad. Made it to the surface again with ease?”

“Wouldn’t you know it, sir,” he says, his chiton still dripping with river water. He almost wrings out part of the chiton onto the floor, but stops himself. “Shame that I couldn’t see the stars this time. The clouds covered everything.”

“That happens, pay no mind to it. Well, off for another run? Don’t forget to rest once in a while.”

“I know, I know,” Zagreus says with a dismissive wave. “Well, if anything happens, I’ll be in my chambers. Take care, sir.”

Zagreus bounds off yet again, his flaming steps fading away against the tiled floor. He is always careful to avoid the newly-placed carpets along the hall, lest they combust like last time.

The House is uneventful, as usual.

Anxious shades wait in line for his Master to hear their pleas and grievances. The Queen tends to her pomegranate trees on the far end of the House, while the steady strums of Orpheus’ lyre bring color to the realm’s perpetual darkness. New decor against the walls - courtesy of the lad - adds pockets of warm light to give his eyes something to stare at.

From one of the halls, Dusa’s cleaning song reaches his ears. It’s more of a high-pitched hum, but a song nonetheless. He admits that her songs stave off boredom amidst his daily tasks. He looks up at the shimmering blue laurels adorning his station, a symbol of his beloved who awaits in Elysium. However time works here, Achilles counts down the moments until he can receive the gift of Patroclus in his arms.

Music slows to a halt, and Orpheus leaves for his scheduled break. A faint scratching sound from his Master’s quill seems to strike fear in the shade awaiting judgment. It’s how he felt when he first pleaded his case with Lord Hades. To the astonishment of shades waiting behind him, he feared eternity in Elysium. He feared endless monotony in the land of glory, the toil of wading through an afterlife without Patroclus.

Next, the Master dryly repeats with each passing shade. Despite regular bouts with his full-fledged warrior of a son, he cleans himself up quickly. There is always work to do.

Work. Stand around quietly. Count the seconds. Stand a little more. He thinks he’s at the edge of the “stand a little more” phase of his shift, and then he will disappear in a ray of light to join his beloved in their humble glade.

Something trembles beneath Achilles' feet. He thinks little of it, for Furies regularly exact their punishments below in Tartarus.

Another tremor. Stronger. Achilles grips his spear, his sharp eyes darting around.

A quiet squeak, and then the floor bursts.

Masses of claws and limbs clamber up the holes in the floor. Guttural snarls sound through the halls, converging to the center.

“The House is breached!” he calls out to the Master’s ears. Said Master answers through the shrill cry of a satyr as he tosses its corpse to the floor. His grand desk is splintered in two as Lord Hades wrenches Gigaros from its hold. Shades scatter in a frenzy, phasing through each other in their escape - only to freeze in place. A sphere of sickly yellow surrounds them, and in a blink, they disappear.

What in gods-

An explosion sounds beyond the hall, followed by a shriek as a satyr flies into the cracked pillar. Zagreus darts out of his quarters in a panic, his bare hands balled into fists. The satyr’s corpse drips ichor onto the tiled floors, which then burst forth in a circular arc. As more foes emerge snarling from the evenly-spaced holes, Achilles comes to a grave realization.

They’re surrounded. And he foresaw none of it.

“Mother!” is all Achilles hears from the lad as he’s forced into battle. He avoids the satyr diving toward his guard post and strikes it down quickly. Another grabs his chiton (how did he not avoid this?), and he swiftly kicks it away.

He thinks of the lad, and then he runs.

“No, no!”

Achilles sprints toward the sound of Zagreus’ cry. Above his head, the Queen stands suspended in that sickly prison with horror in her eyes, arms clasped, frozen in time. And what a horror lies before him.

A tall, gaunt figure with piercing gold eyes stares hatefully at the prince. He brandishes his scythe, the length of its blade far surpassing that of Death Incarnate. The lad barely readies his stance when he freezes mid-strike, his yellow prison joining his mother’s side.

Jagged lines of gold cross the figure’s body. Achilles throws his spear at the junction of lines, only to see it stop midair and return. He narrowly misses the strike of his own spear – how dare this fiend? How could he let this happen under his watch? How could he be so–

“Unhand them, coward!” he yells. Rage unfurls.

“I think not,” the figure says, their voice nasal and distorted.

He reaches for his spear and grips only air as the weapon phases out of view. He clenches his fist and pivots on one foot, intending to dash and–

It all stops there. Eyes barely glance at those he couldn’t save before they succumb to their temporal prison. Limbs and senses immobile, he can only think. Somehow, thoughts remain. Instant shame floods his mind like the rivers of war. Negligent. Incompetent. Abandonment.

My heart…I’m sorry.

“Search the prince’s chambers!” The titan Chronos commands his satyr troops. “Should you find anything, report to me and no other.”

Satyrs turn over shelves, throwing useless crystals and books onto the floor while pocketing gemstones to return to their master. Within a gilded, crimson chest lie clothes of little interest, and they leave it ajar. Outside the chambers, renovations of the House send vast clouds of dust against their faces. Satyrs swipe at their beady eyes and continue to pick through shelves with clawed fingers.

After a lengthy search, one signals to the rest, and they all approach a broken window. Glass shards lie below its ledge – broken from the inside. A satyr looks out at the vast expanse of Tartarus, and with a low grumble, it returns to its task.

It’s been a while, Patroclus thinks.

He attributes Achilles’ tardiness to matters at the House. Perhaps the stranger, who’s not so strange anymore, had a grand fight with his lord father, leaving their house in disrepair. Perhaps shades are causing trouble. Perhaps he simply overslept. No matter. There are many things to occupy his time, from the herb garden to tidying his home. Their home, built by the shades under Hades’ employ. Or rather, at the behest of the stranger.

“Stranger” is an ill-fitting name. The boy has grown to be like a son to him, though he has yet to admit this. In a loneliness heavier than the mists of the Lethe, Zagreus was a welcome presence in this realm of fools. Whenever he sees him again, Patroclus just may tell him.

The house needs cleaning.

Patroclus spends the mortal equivalent of an afternoon in a haze of tidying. He removes various trinkets from wooden shelves, from flower pots to stones and crystals gathered within Elysium. With a delicate touch, he wipes the dust from a crystalline figure of Antos – a memento from Zagreus after he had accepted the softer Antos. Oh, Antos. So strong, and stronger in pairs, given his boy’s regular use of it. He summons them to whatever battle he sees fit, and whether roaring crowds greet him or the cold bite of surface air, Patroclus almost enjoys this thrill of battle. Activity is good for him, as Achilles says.

Achilles… and his boy. Where is he? He almost hears the voice in his head, a “just passing through!” or “any Hydralite, sir?” as he crashes through the next chamber door. When the will of a pact doesn’t spur him forward, Zagreus stays to talk. Patroclus invites him inside, for the house is as much Zagreus’ house as it is theirs. Sometimes, he rants about his father giving him a hard time despite being an expert security specialist and somewhat-surface dweller. He commiserates, saying fathers are fathers, and they can’t see greatness even if the Styx drags them by the ankle.

Sometimes, he asks for advice. He manages two relationships at once, and, to his own admittance, not as well as he hopes. A strong-willed Fury and Death Incarnate himself is a delicate balance, indeed. Take your time, Patroclus always seems to say. Time is infinite here. There’s time to talk, to be with each other. Time to give space.

A soft sigh. He’s had a lot of space from Achilles. He yearns for him now.

Within the fetid depths of Tartarus, the site of a titan’s rebirth is Achilles’ prison.

The floors are lined with sickly green ichor, tracked through with hurried footsteps. Satyrs and vermin skitter through the halls in mindless activity, moving this way and that in accordance to their master’s commands. Despondent shades, tethered to the walls by metal collars and chains, float aimlessly. Here, time doesn’t exist. Only torture.

Enchanted hourglasses bolster the prison with beams of discordant light, manifesting as thick chains that encircle his body. The prisoner’s reputation surpasses realms: the fleet-footed, and the greatest of Greeks. Such fools must know their place.

Immobile, he can only wait. Unlike his limbs, thoughts are rampant. Memories are all that he has, and even then, he is not in control.

“Zagreus. Prince. Son–”

“Oh, Hades, could you be any more wooden than this?” the Queen chides. “My trees really are the liveliest things here!”

Beneath the shade of pomegranate leaves, the House servants gather to celebrate the prince. He is taller and visibly stronger, a most distinguished lad. On this day or evening, he is to be formally honored as the Prince of the Underworld. Supposedly, the gods were invited to mark the occasion, as they were when the Queen first returned. He isn’t particularly keen about it and hopes to simply stand about on guard duty.

With a look of annoyance (feigned or real, who is to say?), she takes the crimson fabric from Lord Hades’ hands and approaches her son. The lad shows his mother great deference, lowering himself to one knee.

“Zagreus, my son, my heart. Pride is too short of a word to convey my feelings for you. But it is a start. You are the reason we are here. I am proud of all that you have accomplished beyond whatever limits others have imposed on you.”

She eyes the Master at this moment. Achilles holds in a chuckle.

“You ensure the safety of our realm through your daring escapades – and escapades they were! Despite everything, you have brought peace and order. Mortals, once separated, can be together again.”

There’s a stir in his phantom heart, and Achilles lightly bows in acknowledgment. Thank the stars for someone like Zagreus.

“Hah, I can go on and on, but we have the festivities for that. Now, Zagreus, my son, if you may...”

Zagreus bows his head as the Queen drapes the regal, crimson cape over her son’s shoulders and clasps it in front. A gilded trim and laurels adorn the fabric, and upon a closer look, pomegranates shine against his shoulders. Zagreus stands, and the cape flows down like a river. It fits him well, though will he fight like this? Surely, burning the fabric away like his lord father would be inconvenient.

“Mother, I… thank you,” he says quietly. “And Father…”

The Queen almost glares up at Lord Hades, and he is even-keeled. Quite a power, indeed. This is how Patroclus keeps him in line, and now, slightly less foolish, he understands.

“Erm, hm, Zagreus. Son. Go forth, and do what you are more than capable of doing. What I know you are capable of doing. Your judgment is yours.”

It’s as much emotion as the lord can muster, yet the lad takes it well. Befitting of his character, he forgoes a speech and personally approaches each servant of the House to give his thanks. Each word of praise is personal, and Achilles himself is no exception.

Zagreus clasps his hands and bows his head again (no lad, no need to be deferential to someone like me).

“What can I say, Achilles sir? I wouldn’t be who I am today without you. You’re more than just a mentor to me. You’re the greatest. I’d lay my life down for you, but, heh, you know.”

“I know, lad. Or prince, should I now say.”

“Oh, I don’t mind the “lad” part. It keeps me young, or whatever young is in god years. What is even a year, I don’t know.”

Achilles chuckles at his way with words, as he tends to do. He used to be young, so young. When he first entered the Master’s employ, Zagreus craned his neck to look at him with wide, mismatched eyes of wonder. He was far from the perfect mentor, lacking any such experience in his mortal life. Through the growing pains, they made things work. He offered his support, and Zagreus – kind, steadfast Zagreus – became the god he is now.

What can he say? Zagreus is like a dear son to him. And he failed to save him.

Worry gnaws at Patroclus’ phantom chest.

Every time he wakes up, he hastily reaches for his other half. Only a cold section of blanket greets him. With a sigh, he places his bonnet on the cushions and reluctantly leaves the bed. Some activity is good for him, he repeats in his head.

He searches every corner of the house, as if Achilles is playing a hiding game, as they often did in their youth. That mischievous fool, always making him work more than he needs to. Behind beams of partly-assembled furniture, there is nothing. Among ocean-hued cloaks in their closet, there rests only lint and stale air.

In the living area, dust weighs upon sconces on the walls. Books yearn for their readers, but Patroclus holds no interest. A single tome rests on the low table – the most precious one, in his mind. A gift from Zagreus himself, it's the only tome he holds in his hands regularly. Within its pages lie an infinite wealth of Patroclus’ musings, from research notes on Elysian flora to his own attempts at poetry.

One particular page is worn at the edges. He finds it immediately.

Fool, it reads.

Fool. Fool. You are a fool.

But I still love you,

And I always will.

It’s a strange comfort to read each time. He knows Achilles’ foolishness by heart, after all. But this fool is something no one can take from him. So where is he?

His hand trembles. The Fates mock them yet again. Perhaps they truly can’t be together.

On another day or night, he finds himself in the former shadow of his garden. What remains of his precious herbs is but a shriveled stem.

A familiar “hrrrrough” sounds from the Lethe. The small rowboat drifts across its misty waters, compelling a forlorn Patroclus to move forward.

“Boatman,” he says, devoid of expression. “What do you want?”

Charon says nothing as he procures something from his bag: a large, worn tome, with the insignia of the House of Hades on its cover. The symbol itself is chipped and cracked, and its edges are stained with blood.

“Hrrrr….” Charon points at Patroclus’ chest.

“What? This isn’t–” He stops upon seeing the writing inside, so harrowingly familiar.

“This is–! How did you get this?”

With a bony finger, Charon points downstream and shakes his head. A forlorn sound comes out of his decrepit mouth.

Desperate to understand, Patroclus hastily flips through the tome. There are detailed entries of the Underworld’s regions and its inhabitants. In his haste, he nearly misses a particularly long entry right at the start, and he clutches the tome lest he drop it into the misty waters.

It’s still Achilles’ writing. He knows it by heart and soul. This tome was once his, and now it belongs to his boy.

“You're doing it, lad. You're really doing it. Well, who would I be to stop you?

We've trained countless days or nights, honing your skill with all sorts of weapons. But now you have a purpose. And I will see to it that you fulfill your purpose – not as a result of the Fates’ weavings, but your own. Your path is yours to make, the Fates be dammed.

This codex contains records of my time here, from the lay of the land to the foes within. It also includes passages of those you shall meet in whatever manner you see fit. My memories are bound to me, and thus, you may not see all of them at once. Mortals are guarded like that. In any case, as you learn the ways of the Underworld, perhaps you shall see for yourself.

Part of me is somewhat anxious at the prospect. I rarely share my true feelings with another. Yet what I share now is true: it has been an honor to mentor you, lad. A true honor. May this knowledge guide you on your path. And do not be afraid. Fear is for the weak, as you know. As I’ve taught you. And I will always be at your side.

One last thing. Take it from a former man of war. Should the House come under siege, quickly discard this codex.

War is inevitable. We love to spill blood, whether we're mortals, shades, or gods. Those too fargone fight for sport; most fight for information. Anything to gain a foothold over the other. They must not take this codex. For a more selfish reason, there is a part of me that I do not want to forget.

Achilles

Achilles…

A chilling realization hits him. His boy is in trouble, too. There is no other possibility. He hasn’t seen Zagreus around these parts, and it started around the same time as his beloved’s absence. But what can he do, all alone here in this glade?

When Patroclus looks up again, Charon and his boat are gone.

He turns back to his beloved’s own entry, each line laced with self-loathing. This unmade, unwhole Achilles, in his own words, feels like a different person. It’s this stark difference that urges Patroclus forward. The poet inside of him compels him to find his quill and its vial of infinite ink; quill in hand, he answers his beloved’s call.

Yet our time, I think, is long since passed.

“Our time has never stopped,” he says aloud as he writes, as if somewhere, Achilles can hear him. “In this infinite time we have… we have together, things are possible. Look at us. We are here. We were brought together.”

He no longer speaks, words flowing beside his entry in resolute silence.

“My love. I know you would not leave me unless there was a good reason. Or, if you physically could not. That something stopped even the fleet-footed Aristos Achaion, held him like gnarled roots hold the mightiest tree.

Something is very wrong in the Underworld. That much, I know. I may be a fool to write in these pages under the presumption that, somewhere, somehow, you can hear me. But I must try.

Please hear me.

Please hold on. Endure. Your stubbornness must take hold here, if nowhere else. I shall not leave your side, no matter how far we are.”

If experience tells him anything, it’s that he’s good at waiting.

“I can’t believe you, Achilles.”

Outside their tent, the stench of blood permeates the air. Rivers choke on piles of corpses at their banks.

“Our men lay dying as we attempt to speak. I am the only one trying,” the figure says through tears. “And here you sulk.”

He cannot see what lies before him. Oh, but he can hear it – hear that anguish, that pain. He knows that voice in the marrow of his phantom bones, but he cannot move. He can only watch in horror at his own incompetence. This representation of him, in all its truth, wounds him like no other.

“Why do you cry like a fool, Patroclus?” Irritation drips from his words.

“Me? The fool?” He laughs bitterly. “If I am a fool for having a heart, then so be it. What say you, greatest of Greeks? Our comrades are dying!”

They’re dying, they’re dying. He knows it all too well, and scolds himself for his inaction.

But to this past Achilles (one he wishes he didn’t recognize), comrades mean nothing in the face of his scorn. He wants what is rightfully is, and he will wait until he gets it.

A ship explodes in the distance. Flames strike the sky in a rage. Panic grows with them.

“Risk it all, fool, risk it all! This grudge doesn’t matter! Lives matter!” The voice breaks. “I- I matter, do I not? Is it all for naught?”

All for naught, all for naught. He is all for naught, yes. Useless, useless fool of a man. Most repulsive of Greeks. Not even the bloodthirsty call of Varatha brings Achilles to his feet. He should have stopped him, should have done anything. He wants to cry out, reach for Patroclus with his arms, but he cannot.

The past Achilles speaks, unmoved. “You look like you’re ready to fight.”

A scoff. “You bring me no other choice. This prophecy of yours must be cursed. I do not know the man in front of me. But these men do. If you won’t do it, then I will. And in your guise.”

Patroclus reaches the set of armor on the opposite side of the tent. He holds the metal grieves in scarred hands, and his expression is inscrutable. A slight shake of his head, a resigned sigh, and he starts to put them on. Pulling the silver bindings, he fastens the metal to his legs. Next, he tightens an engraved breastplate onto his body with no help. Why would he need help from an unmoving fool?

Stop, please stop this. I’ll risk it all, I’ll risk it all. I’ll fight! I’ll end this!

Next comes the helmet of bronze, complete with its plume of horsehair. The sight alone denotes its bearer as Achilles, greatest of Greeks, regardless of whose eyes lie beneath. In his left hand, he wields a near-pristine shield; with the other, he carries his bronze spear. No mortal can bear the weight of blood-soaked Varatha, after all.

Only for you. All for you, the spear mocks.

A horse-drawn carriage hastily stops in front of the tent. Wearing Achilles’ armor, Patroclus departs for the final time.

Don’t leave me!

He turns away. The disappointment in his eyes is a brand on Achilles’ heart.

“Erebus,” Patroclus reads quickly, quietly. “If the dead excel at anything, it is having to wait.”

The words certainly hold truth. From waiting for his place in the Underworld to waiting for his love, aimlessness is a toxic companion.

Inside a disorganized home, the gleamless spear rests in its holder. An asinine thought comes to his mind. Prior to his first reunion with Achilles, he didn’t intend to wield that cursed weapon again. The occasional bouts in the arena revealed some pleasure in recreational violence, and on the rare occasion of joining Zagreus at the realm between realms, he enjoys striking the lord of the dead. Poor fathers deserve no mercy.

Ah, but he has led himself astray, as addled minds tend to do. Perhaps they might know something about this predicament.

With a tsk, he wipes dust off the forlorn spear, still familiar in his trained hands. He practices his spear tosses alone, reacquainting himself with the rhythm of his technique. Throw the spear, watch its swift return, catch it, and repeat. A divine shield briefly surrounds his form when he catches it. If only the weapon can shield him from his own thoughts.

Patroclus bursts into the arena. The roaring cheers are nothing but noise to his ears.

“A worthy challenger!” The loud-mouthed champion of Elysium addresses the crowds more than Patroclus himself.

“I've little need for banter,” he says. “Have you seen Achilles?”

“Achilles!? Why would he come to me before coming to you?”

“Sometimes, he would surprise me with ambrosia after a bout with you.” A quick bout, at that. “You truly haven't seen him?”

“I have not, warrior. Oh, I almost wish I could be slain by his hand again!”

“You exaggerate, my King,” Asterius cuts in.

“I do not!” he retorts, directing his ire toward Patroclus. “Something foul is about, warrior, I know it!”

“I will explain for our peace of mind,” Asterius says. “My King and I, we have a routine. We often battle familiar shades, but new challengers face us, as well. This was a regular routine.”

“Was!”

“My King,’ Asterius raises a hand to stop him. “As of late, no new challengers have arrived. We have noticed. From the time I was born and breathed air, humans waged war. Death is constant, except at this very moment. It is as if they cannot come to this realm.”

They cannot enter the realm of the dead? Are they trapped in Erebus, perpetually wandering as he once was?

“And what a terrible thing!” Theseus shouts. “I’ve grown awfully tired of these weak shades, acting like they are the greatest of Greeks as they stride in. No, the greatest of Greeks hasn’t graced us with his presence in eons! Ah, but! Do you know what the greatest of Greeks says about you? Don’t pretend that you don’t know!”

“I’m not pretending. I truly do not know. Speak clearly.” Or stop talking, whichever suits him best.

“The title is mere folly to him, no matter what shades say here. The greatest of Greeks is, in his own words, you! And the greatest fight shall be here, amongst these roaring crowds!”

Crowds erupt in cheers – mostly for Patroclus, to his disbelief. Do these shades know that much about his private life?

Well, if he must. Fear is for the weak? No, fear is in the way.

He brandishes his spear.

He doesn’t greet the good shade on the way out.

Alone, he somehow prevails. He is out of that flood of noise and enters some new world, entirely.

The Styx floods the floors of a decaying temple. An otherworldly force starts to pull at him, wrapping its phantom tendrils around his ankles. He kicks the air. This is not his place, nor is it entirely the realm of the living. Guttural groans travel down the corridors, and Patroclus gathers his muddled thoughts beneath a half-fallen pillar.

He vaguely recalls passing this place when he died. Avoiding the cartographer’s eager quill, a false slab of stone gives way to the realm of the dead. The river flows, while ripples of life and death mingle at the surface.

Sounds cease, and he emerges. The pull of Elysium is a charioteer pulling their confused steed back to the fields of blue monotony. No, not yet. Not until he has answers.

Vermin skitter past his feet. Tendrils pull more taut with each passing of a hall, a corridor, but he cannot go. When he sees the carved stone that separates realms, he finally stops.

Beyond the slab, wails and moans fill the damp air. Shade-like fists pound against the rock. “Let me in!” a strangled voice cries out. “Let me die! I cannot- will not fight any longer!”

A war rages outside the doors? It never ends.

Glory’s realm takes hold of his leg and doesn’t let go. Will he fade away like the spirits of Elysium’s champions, only to reconstitute himself in the same place, and with the same purpose?

Well, why not? He always wondered what it would feel like to “die” here. There’s no Achilles or audience to witness his folly, while Zagreus treats his repeated, often-gruesome deaths as a game. What will he see before an aggressive surface goat runs him through? What observations will he share with him?

When will his boy share such tales again?

Patroclus wastes no time. Walking through corridors, he sees the clawed creatures first. They growl and grumble to one another, looking confused. Yet, the spears in their hand ache for prey to strike.

He opens his arms; one hand points his spear to the floor. This is merely research, he tells himself. And he’s well acquainted with spears.

It feels better than the first time.

He reforms in the glade unscathed. Even his spear returns to his side. How convenient.

Some part of him yearns to record these strange events, but his mind is despondent. He returns to his home and shuts the door. It remains shut.

Time moves on. Patroclus tries to take care of himself.

Removing the bonnet, he feels grease building in his hair. His once-luscious curls lack their gentle touch, and the ends are dull and split. Remembering his love’s words about physical activity, he gathers his soaps and oils and makes the trek to the hot springs.

Warm water does little to soothe his spirits. Still, he dutifully sections his hair and lathers the soap, clearing roots of his grief. Soap splashes and disappears beneath the water’s surface. He, too, wants to dissolve into its depths.

He wakes up again on his side of the bed, blankets crumpled solely around his body. Rubbing dead muscles, he forgets to straighten the covers on the way out of his bedroom. A gardening journal remains in the bedside drawers, devoid of its once-meticulous records.

His Elysian plants start to wilt at the tips of their leaves. A white-spotted fungus appears to fester on another’s petals. He takes a knife and slices it off at the stem, only realizing the error of his ways as it lays limp in his hands. I’m sorry, he murmurs, and sends it down the Lethe. Perhaps it may forget about its last moments at the hands of its careless owner.

His phantom heart aches.

He wakes up. Blankets lie abandoned on the floor. Outside, creeping vines cling to the house’s brick-layered walls, yet he cares not. Flowers droop, their leaves wilted and brown.

Slowly, dreadfully, he returns to his old habits, with the bed as his self-imposed prison. Why get up? What awaits him in this void?

Beloved…

The codex calls to him like a wounded warrior on the edge of death. And so, he painfully leaves the bed, reaching for the worn tome. He opens it and writes like the emptiness can kill him.

Regale me of your past. Speak of me about our youth, the mountain cliffs upon which we laid. Speak of the nights we spent beneath the stars, in each other’s arms, lips pressed together in heated passion. Speak of the lyre we share in song. Speak of our songs among blooming flowers. Speak of what you helped me remember. Speak of it all. I am here. I am listening. I have made mistakes, too. Mistakes that nearly consumed me. But there is one mistake I cannot make, and that is the mistake of loving you. My love is eternal. My heart, my soul, hear these words. May this love transcend realms, wherever you are.

Achilles clutches his battered corpse until he no longer comprehends life.

His world exists and doesn’t all at once, the cruelest murder by his cowardly hands. He tries to wipe the mud from Patroclus’ face, its thick hold choking the life out of his once-beautiful hair. No, no, he is beautiful, because he’s still here, because death can’t take his beauty, because he’s not dead.

Not dead, not dead, is all he can think as he isolates himself. The stench rouses men to complain at his tent flaps. He threatens to kill them. A spear flies out; they flee with haste.

Flies encircle them. The corpse festers. More blankets. More smashed flies between palms. Another blanket. An impenetrable cocoon from which Patroclus may no longer face life’s horrors. But the horror is here, clawing into Achilles until remnants of his heart bleed dry.

The Myrmidons’ tears are an ocean.

Clad in battle-worn armor, they weep for their fallen comrade. In the midst of grief, several warriors look at the man with scorn.

Achilles’ eyes are bloodshot, a reddened hue rivaled only by the blood he has spilled. Killer, Varatha whispers to his tormented soul, twisting like a lethal spear in his side. He deserves it.

Knives unsheathe. Men cut long locks of hair from their heads: tawny, rust-iron like the blood-drinking ground. Black like the depths of his heart. Clean slices. Trembling, broken cuts from broken men. He, too, unsheathes a hidden blade he never needed to use, for no man got close to him. Once-silken, golden hair mirrors his grief through grease-laden, unkempt strands. This won’t do, this won’t do, he tries to tell himself. Only the best for his beloved.

He cuts a lock that frames his face, the former envy of all reduced to fool’s gold. The pyre ignites, and he watches as embers rain down with his tears.

Achilles bolsters the flames with greater strength than he’d ever used to fight. Only the brightest pyre can honor a dead man, and so, he fans the flames through gritted teeth. Crackles mingle with the wails of a dozen men, fellow Myrmidons who mourn their brother-in-arms, greatest of Greeks compared to the coward who mourns him.

You killed him, Varatha calls from the depths of a cold, empty tent. They’re right. What love does a dead man have for his murderer?

Mistakes… consumed me…

Thunderous clouds roll through the sky, and rain pours like blood from a thousand pierced throats. Achilles cries out as the fire dies with his shattered heart. He hears a man’s anguish in his head, the battle of all battles.

One mistake… loving you.

He screams, devolves into guttural groans. Sprinting toward the pyre, he braces his foot against the backs of confused men and flies into the flames like a spear toward oblivion.

He misses his boy.

He misses that characteristic singe of grass. He misses the tales he shared about his surface discoveries, the feelings akin to experiencing the world again through the eyes of youth. He wishes he may comfort and console him in his times of need, the way his own father failed to do.

Patroclus fights in the arena to feel something. Both champions show concern over his haphazard battle form. A once level-headed warrior fights like a man on the brink. His losses grow. When he does prevail, he still feels nothing. When he enters the realm between realms, he finds no information and lets the satyrs take him again and again. Surely, his boy would frown upon this, if he were here.

It’s not worth it, and he hides away in the dangers of isolation.

Wilted plants beckon Patroclus to take action.

From the base of their struggling stems, they gradually curve with the passing of time. When he leaves the confines of his self-made prison, the herbs and flowers collectively point at the Lethe.

“Do you mock me?” he says with annoyance. “I refuse to drink, no matter how tempting.”

At the river’s edge, wildflowers point toward an incoming presence. The edge of Charon’s boat emerges through the mist; inside the boat lie various sacks overflowing with coins. A stalwart “hhrouugh”, and the boat slows to let the flow of the Lethe carry it along.

“Boatman,” Patroclus says, emboldened by a feeling he cannot describe. “You seem rather free of this predicament. You’re still here, after all.”

“Hhhhnng.” is all he says, unperturbed by the comment.

“I’ve read the codex. I know he is apart from me, as is the prince. I’ve tried to investigate. I’ve fought the champions and traveled up the realm.” He sighs, annoyed at himself. “What am I going on and on about?”

When there is no reaction, he answers his own question. “I’ve traveled upward, so what if I traveled downward? Boatman, is that possible?”

Charon’s hollowed gaze looks downstream.

“I fear no danger. I’ve “died” in this realm. I will come back. It is not like the prince. Surely, you already know this. He always comes back. He...”

At the mention of Zagreus, Charon stares toward the Lethe again. He slowly arranges sacks of obols in his boat and points at an open spot in the center.

“You will take me? I thank you.” Patroclus glances at his mourning glade, then turns back. “I don’t think I’ll see them, but I just want to know what they endure. I’ll make a record to show them how things were, how things will be once they… well.”

Charon makes no comment, picking up his oars and sailing down the river.

As he expects, they don’t talk much. Patroclus focuses his attention on the sheer amount of gold beside him. He envisions finding them in the middle of a battlefield, inwardly noting how men would tear each other apart to have a mere taste of wealth. He grasps a coin between his fingers but doesn’t dare to take it. Something about Zagreus being beaten with a paddle. Still, he laughed about it.

Elysium’s teal, jewel-toned hues shift into the blazing reds of Asphodel. From what he remembers, it contains the most souls – unremarkable yet decent souls of the living. Had Achilles not intervened with the pact, Patroclus believes this would have been his designated place. While it is certainly hot, the flaming river doesn’t burn his phantom skin. Perhaps it senses some goodness in him that he has long forgotten.

From the flames of Asphodel come the gaudy golds and strange, circular mechanisms, like spiked chariot wheels turning without end. This is nothing like Achilles’ description of Tartarus. Spectral tendrils pull at his arms, urging him back. No, not yet. He needs to see more.

Charon’s boat slows to a stop. The spiked wheels continue to turn, their sound incessant in his head. Patroclus peers past the boat; the river drops down an apparent cliff on which they sail. Below him is a void of nothing.

“Achilles…” he murmurs to himself, his heart and soul. “Achilles…!”

Phantom tendrils return to tug at both arms, nearly pinning them back. He gasps as the boat tilts, and Charon hisses. Not wanting to inconvenience him any further, Patroclus tells him to return. Even so, his face never leaves the side of the boat. He stares into the void, wanting to make out the shape of his beloved, to reach into the depths and pull him out.

Charon leaves before he can thank him. Mist enshrouds the Lethe once more.

Spurred by the ghastly state of the depths, Patroclus flings open the door and slams it behind him. Trembling hands reach for (and drop) the codex, and as he procures his enchanted quill and ink, he speaks only his name.

With the same haste as his Achilles, he writes and writes. Not once does he lift his quill from the parchment.

Achilles. Achilles. Achilles. Achilles. Stop this. Look at yourself. You must look at yourself. You must risk it all. You can risk it all! You can risk it all. You have risked everything, have you not? You are to risk it all! Why should you? For our sake. For our love. Our love, which transcends realms. Only sips. I am sorry. Only sips. But I remember. I did not forget. You must not forget. Not yourself, nor I. Life’s cruelty is to separate us, but it is not final. I feel. I feel. I feel the hole in my heart that yearns for you. If you must fear, then let me cradle fear in my arms, and from our embrace, may courage spill forth like light through the parting storm.

Blood overflows the banks of Troy.

Clad in god-forged armor, Achilles’ heart is a shell of itself. His grip on the spear never falters except to kill. The spaces where he most often strikes are transparent; most lie on the heart, while others mar the tender flesh of the neck. Heads stare with glassy eyes, nearly severed from transparent necks, their souls wailing for release.

Memories distort. The sky turns redder than blood-laden rivers. His victims bare transparent wounds on their lower abdomens, spots that Achilles knows too well and wishes he didn’t. The sight of his fallen love mirrored across fields of broken soldiers nearly breaks him. Gnarled, ugly wounds. Wounds that he made.

A lone warrior charges forward. Behind him, soldiers lie prone on the blood-soaked fields. He’s closer, faster. His armor clamors with each pounding of the earth. Beneath the grime, it tries to gleam. The plume of disheveled horsehair denotes a man of great might – the greatest of Greeks. His armor. The gleam accentuates the warrior’s dark skin and curls of his hair, black as pitch.

Some part of him screams.

Achilles tries to throw Varatha aside, but the cruel weapon holds him like a depraved man holds his victim. I am what you love, it calls to him. He wants to cover his ears, but the spear is a siren call for blood. Against his will, he launches the spear. The warrior dodges with uncharacteristic ease. What happened, Varatha mocks.

Pride and despair clash amidst war cries and wails. It’s what he has earned. It’s what he deserves. Voices mock him. Fated for nothing. Fated for nothing.

Godly hands of blinding light crash down on Achilles’ shoulders, sending him to his knees. The force of the blow shatters his armor, bronze pieces laying helplessly in the dirt. He finds no spear in his hand. He cannot move. He looks up; a hair’s length away, the spear of his beloved points toward his neck. Those once-beautiful dark eyes lack any semblance of warmth.

Patroclus, greatest of Greeks. Greatest of men.

Patroclus, most gentle and courageous. His hands heal. He takes up arms when others will not. The only medicine is death.

“I deserve this, my love.” Acceptance drips with his broken voice. “Do with me what you will.”

They draw the spear back. Achilles closes his eyes.

Risk it all.

It stops a breath away from his soft flesh.

Stop this. Look at yourself.

He looks at himself, then at the man before him. The warrior’s body lies still in its stance, a fatal strike stopped by an unknown entity. Surely, the gods don’t seek his favor now.

You have risked everything, have you not? You are to risk it all!

Why is this so familiar? And why do his frozen limbs begin to move?

Something grasps him by the shoulder and forces him up.

Only sips. I am sorry.

Achilles steps toward this frozen visage. “I am the one who is sorry,” he says quietly. A strange force compels him to reach for the spear in the man’s hand; his grip relents with ease.

Hole in my heart… yearns for you…

He yearns, too. It’s all he can do.

The same force turns his tear-stricken gaze to the false man’s heart, transparent like the other nameless soldiers.

Risk it all. Risk it all. If you must fear, then let me cradle fear in my arms.

He’s scared. Scared of hurting this man more than he already has. Fear is for the weak. Fear is for the weak. Fear is for the weak. Fear is for the weak. But this singular voice does not reprimand him for fear. It does not scold him nor shame him. It only asks, an echo of a love that was once alive.

Life’s cruelty is to separate us, but it is not final.

Not final. Not until their ashes cease to intermingle. Not until the lock of golden hair loosens from the grip of the fallen, the greatest. Not if he can fulfill his duty.

“Forgive me,” he whispers as he thrusts the spear into the false man’s chest. Bones crack from the piercing, desperate strike. He twists. A soundless, final breath; from parted ribs, tortured memories unfurl and shatter, golden light takes its place. He lets out a broken laugh. Another, and another.

He pulls back the spear and turns it onto himself.

A strangled gasp.

A panicked hand flies to its throat. The other swiftly punches the first blurred shadow in front of it.

“–ow! Achilles, Achilles, it’s me–!”

The hand stills quicker than the temporal prison. That voice, that unmistakable–

A hoarse gasp of phantom air. “L-lad?”

“Yes, it’s me!” followed by a drawn-out groan. “Gods, that hurt, urgh.”

Frozen vision clears. Where is he? How is he–?

He shakes over and over, a remnant of mortal rage consuming his very being. The last time he heard this voice, he was fighting– failing to fight. Failing to protect the House.

The familiar hand reaches out, followed by a quick, “please don’t punch me, sir.”

Widened eyes look straight ahead. Blood red. Laurels of flame. Raised arms, crossed in front as if to block an impending strike. The lad looks relieved and unfathomably worried.

A wave of deep shame washes over Achilles. Achilles, once the greatest of Greeks, swiftly humbled. He almost can’t take the hand in front of him. But the lad, safe and whole and here, grasps it anyway. He stands up, somehow.

“We're safe, sir, it's all right.”

His legs tremble from disuse, though the feeling dissipates in the face of nausea. The stench alone is repulsive, and the dilapidated walls look nothing like the House he remembers.

“Where are we?” he asks, voice unrecognizable to his own ears. He’s heard so many voices in his trapped mind, he almost doesn’t remember.

“Beneath the House, sir. This is where Chronos remade himself. He’s the one who got us, and… he shouldn’t be a problem anymore.”

A noxious steam rises from the soles of Zagreus’ feet. The lad mutters some sound of disgust and moves aside, only to step into another ichorous pool. How many satyrs did he slay to reach him?

Questions upon questions fly through his head. Who exactly is this Chronos, and how will he not be a problem anymore? How is the House? How fares its inhabitants, the Queen – the lord Master, even? If he is to return, how will they accept him, if they even will? He failed his duty. He may very well return to these depths in chains, away from his–

“Patroclus!” he gasps, a look of horror crossing his face.

“Achilles, wait–!”

He disappears in a flash of light.

Curtained windows conceal his body on the floor. Here, he’s a hair length closer to him in the depths. A pitiable comfort.

Something stirs the air outside. A thud, the quick crushing of grass–

He doesn’t need to hear another step as he rushes to the door, nearly flings it off its hinges, and pulls his beloved into his arms.

Achilles lets out a quiet, broken sound.

They stay like this for a long time. Time feels still and in their favor; two broken halves meld into one. When one finally speaks, it leaves as a wisp in the wind.

“...I left you again.”

“You stop that,” Patroclus catches his falling voice. “You did not leave me. You did not. You were taken.”

“Even so.” Achilles leans heavily against Patroclus’ embrace. “I… don’t know where to start.”

“Then I will. Speak later. Let me hold you.”

“Please.”

They don’t leave the house for a while.

As in life, Patroclus and Achilles’ phantom bones lay together. Limbs gently entangle beneath the blankets. A kiss here and there, but otherwise, they are still. Together, the realization slowly mends their aching hearts.

They share little words, lacking the energy to do so. Patroclus feels Achilles tremble in his arms, not unlike the first reunion in the glade. How cruel are the Fates to keep them apart again? Once in life, twice in death.

“I’m sorry,” Achilles murmurs in the crook of his beloved’s neck. “I just need time.”

“You have it. We both do.”

Patroclus strokes his soft hair. How he missed the feeling of it. And when he is the one to tremble, Achilles is there for him.

With some effort, Patroclus salvages enough herbs to brew two cups of tea. He clears the table in the main living area, but little more. The rest will have to wait.

“I was correct, I see. You were taken.”

“It all happened so quickly,” Achilles begins. “I reached the Queen just as she was captured. And the lad, he tried to save her, and, well. I tried to save them both, but I was no match for the titan. Saying this out loud pains me.”

“You are a demigod,” Patroclus says without jest. “Part god, but also human. If this titan overthrew an entire house filled with wholly divine beings, then you could only do what you did best. But that lends itself to my next question: how did you get free?”

“When I regained my senses, my body was poised to strike, and I did. I struck the lad. He was there to rescue me. I didn’t even stay to apologize, I came running here.” He runs a nervous hand through his hair. "I… I don’t know if I can go back."

"What do you mean?"

"My duty was to protect the house. I couldn't. I didn't even have the chance to try, they just–" A frustrated sigh. "They may decide my fate right then and there, for my failure isn't without consequence. I may be imprisoned. I fear I may never see you again."

The prospect of another separation is something he prefers not to think about.

“You will just languish here?”

“It is not languishing so long as I am with you,” Achilles quickly says. “And there is no house to which I can return. At least, not the one that existed prior to the invasion.”

Well, he wouldn’t need to work again. Yet, at the other end of Achilles’ lack of employment is an infinite void, and Patroclus believes that outcome is far worse.

“Someone’s coming.”

Patroclus moves the curtain for a better view; emerging from the Lethe is none other than the boatman, and this time, he carries a familiar, missed passenger.

“Zagreus? Oh, my boy…!” His excitement deflates upon seeing Achilles’ dire expression. “What is it?”

“If the lad is here, then, I– oh no,” he says, almost hiding into himself.

“If you won’t go, then I will.”

And in your guise.

Patroclus stands, his back toward Achilles as he makes his way to the door.

I can’t believe you, Achilles.

Achilles rises from his feet, grabbing Patroclus with enough force to make him stumble back. “Wait!”

“What–?”

“I’ll go.” He quickly lets go, feeling a rush of shame for needlessly hurting his beloved. “I’ll go with you. I don’t want to be far from you.”

Lines of worry soften in Patroclus’ face, and he takes Achilles’ hand in his own. “All right. Let us be off, then.”

There he is, in the flesh. Patroclus lets go of Achilles only to stop in front of Zagreus. Both in shock and relief, they simply embrace without words. Safe in their humble glade, he’s relieved that his boy is here, safe and sound.

“...’Don’t be a stranger’, mortals say.”

Patroclus tightens his already-protective hug. “You’re safe, my boy, and you’re here. That’s what matters.”

“I’ve worried you greatly, sir. I’m so sorry. I’ll make it up to you, somehow.” Zagreus shifts his focus to Achilles, who starts speaking before he gets a proper word through.

“Forgive me for striking you, lad,” he apologizes quickly. “I didn’t know where I was, and–”

“–you were trying to protect me. Mother, too. That much, I remember. I forgive you. And I’d like you to be part of the House again, if you’d allow it. What’s left of the House, anyway. Ugh, it’s a mess, and Grandfather was never known for his interior decorating. You don’t need to answer now, but… think about it, all right? I’ll come back for you.”

Time and time again, he appeared, delivering what he promised. Repairing the fractured bonds of once lost-souls, and bringing them together again.

The next time Zagreus enters the glade (and at the behest of his beloved), Achilles returns with him.

Back in the House, the words spill out without end. Achilles takes in whatever he can, and he wonders how Patroclus will react if he gets the chance to tell him.

Melinoë, the Princess of the realm, the lass… she’s alive and well. She’s a different lass compared to the one he remembers, yet still the same at her core. She’s the true reason they are here again, no longer trapped in their temporal prisons.

As expected, the House is in shambles. Only the floor surrounding a gilded throne remains clear of debris, and on that throne sits no one. Rather, the King and Queen stand side by side. While the Queen herself appears in decent spirits, the expression on Lord Hades’ face is undiscernable.

He lets Melinoë and Zagreus explain the situation, though not by choice. The princess speaks like a tumbling river, with the looping paths of her words eventually converging toward the titan’s apparent change of heart. He doesn’t know what to do with that statement, for it’s outside of his realm of his responsibilities. That raises the question regarding his role in the House, if any role exists.

“Mother and Father wanted to speak with you, sir.”

The lad’s words break him from his tumultuous thoughts. “Ah, of course.”

“Well, I’ll be in my chambers if you need me. Mind helping me out, sister? Still not used to saying that. Think I threw something out the window, could just hop down and have a look.”

“I’ve got plenty of time, brother. Heh, not used to it, either,” Melinoë says, then turns to Achilles. “Hope to catch up properly soon, Achilles sir. Do you like ambrosia?”

“I do very much. But ah, don’t let me stop you.”

The lad disappears in what remains of his chambers, muttering about broken windows to fix. Melinoë bows in deference to Achilles and follows behind, commenting about how she and the lad have similar taste in decor. Something about weird trinkets that sit on shelves and stuffed toys. She is fond of frogs, herself.

Achilles kneels before the King and Queen on his own accord. “Master. Your Majesty. I will get straight to the point. I have failed to protect the House. I did not foresee the threat, nor could I do anything to stop it. For that, do what you will with me.”

It is the Queen who lowers herself to the ground, meeting his gaze as an equal. “Achilles. You need not apologize.”

“I failed to protect you, Your Majesty,” he repeats. “And the lad, and everyone. Spare no sympathy for me.”

Persephone shakes her head. “The titan Chronos was too much for all of us. Demigods, full-blooded gods. All of us. You are not to blame.”

His Master is a master of snide remarks, yet there he stands, unmoving.

“Her Majesty– ahem, the Queen– is correct. Not even I could fight my father, painful as it is to say out loud. I, too, was imprisoned, but I was not frozen in time. I was aware. And with one threat neutralized, it would be foolish of me to dismiss our finest guard into the depths of my own prison. One that has humbled its creator.”

“Does this mean I will not be punished?”

“Correct,” the Queen answers in Lord Hades’ stead. She gently takes Achilles’ hands in her own. “And you are more than just a guard, Achilles. You are a cherished member of this House, and, if you accept our humble request, you shall remain a part of it. I think I can speak for my husband when I say that I’m quite tired of prison.”

Lord Hades clears his throat. “The Queen speaks the truth, as she often does. I have no objections. The terms of your pact remain the same as they were prior to this predicament of ours.”

“I can still see him?” he says so quietly.

Persephone nods. “You can still see him.”

Relief fills his phantom heart. That is the only answer he needs.

“Thank you for giving me another chance. I shall not fail you.”

He allows the Queen to help him off the ground, mainly for her peace of mind.

“As you can see, everything is a mess,” the lord addresses. “Reconstruction shall begin immediately, and I require your presence here. Given our vulnerable state, there comes the possibility of new threats. I ask that you keep a sharp eye on them.”

“Understood, Master.”

So long as his Patroclus is safe and he can see him soon, it’s all that matters.

“Before you go…” Patroclus hands him the worn-out codex. “Can you return this to our boy? I forgot to give it back when he was here.”

He gasps when Patroclus gives him the familiar codex. “How did you get this?”

“It’s a long story. I shall tell you when you return. In exchange, you must tell me about this princess I never knew existed. I have a new stranger to welcome.”

“Heh, will do, but be ready for that one. See you soon, my love.”

They share a long embrace and a kiss or ten, and Achilles returns to his chambers in the House. In the privacy of his room, he opens the codex. Beside his writing are Patroclus’ words, the very ones that reminded him of his memories.

He cradles him close, his heart filled with light from the passing storm.