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Thetis is more than upset. She doesn’t understand why this is happening, nor does she know how to stop it. She isn’t used to this.
Achilles is a much simpler name than Patroclus. Why does her son, a boy barely 4 years old, with so little knowledge of life, choose the more complicated path instead of the one his mother offers him? No matter how many times Thetis writes “Achilles” in front of the kid, spelling out one by one the letters of the name that Chiron had so lovingly chosen for him, he would grab whatever white chalk was within reach and carefully trace his friend’s name on the steps, in large, uneven letters.
The goddess visits her son more often, trying to fix this mess, but no matter how hard she tries, the boy won’t listen to reason. The centaur tells her she must be patient, that eventually he’ll understand the importance of knowing how to write his own name, but that she must let him be himself; he reminds her that her son isn’t easily swayed once he has a goal in mind. Thetis knows he’s right, the centaur is a professional and can read the boy easily.
That doesn’t mean she’s going to listen to him.
She keeps searching for solutions, for ways to erase the stranger’s name from her son’s mind. Considers taking him away from all of them, to another realm, where he could stay for a long time and, eventually, forget about the little mortal. But Thetis knows her son: he wouldn’t stop crying and raging until they brought him back to Phthia.
Meanwhile, the filthy mortal—the boy’s father—finds the whole situation adorable. A fleeting creature of clay; she has no intention of speaking to him, not even if the bearer of the lightning bolt himself were to order her to. The whole problem was his fault; the friendship he formed with the king Menoetius led Achilles to meet Patroclus. Now, her son is fascinated by the boy his own age, not caring that he is a mere mortal, and Thetis must set him straight.
But she is running out of ideas, and refuses to leave things as they are. She consoles herself with the thought that she can change her son’s mindset; he is young, malleable, nothing about him is set in stone. At the same time, the task is very difficult. Nevertheless, she knows she must persevere; her son, the future greatest warrior of his generation, must not choose the name of a mere mortal over his own. It is both irrational and unacceptable in equal measure.
She snorts.
From the seashore, she watches her little Achilles—his hands and golden hair streaked with white, the guilty piece of chalk in his right hand—sitting on the ground and writing the abominable mortal name on the castle’s entrance steps, with the tender concentration typical of his age. His father watches him from beside him.
Only then, defeated, does she send for him.
The man appears moments later, walking slowly as if a carpet of broken glass were sliding beneath his feet. Fearful of the goddess’s wrath, as is often the case.
“Bring me the mortal.”
A second of silence passes as he takes it in.
“He’s a child, Thetis. He’s the same age as Achilles…”
“You have four days.”
The goddess vanishes with the waves of the sea.
Patroclus doesn't understand what's happening.
One moment, he was playing with his wooden toy cars in his room, and now there he was, standing on the seashore and waiting for Achilles’ mother to arrive. He understands that she is a goddess—his mother told him she is a goddess of the sea before leaving the castle—but that doesn’t explain why he has to speak with her, and no one will give him an answer.
His father usually gives him time to pack before visiting the palace of Phthia. Patroclus always arrives equipped with his flawless tunics, carefully folded inside his luggage, and most importantly, he brings his best toys, meticulously selected by himself and meant to be shared with his best friend. He knows that the wooden horse is Achilles’ favorite; it was the only toy he was able to grab before being hurriedly taken from the castle and put into a carriage, without even being given time to say goodbye to his mother. His father was his only companion, and he flatly refused to answer Patroclus’s questions. He would hurl threats if the boy deigned to speak to him.
He doesn’t know what to expect, and hates this loneliness. An overwhelming urge to cry washes over him; he hugs his wooden horse tighter, clutching it in his arms in an automatic search for comfort, and bites his lower lip in an attempt to hold back the tears. In his entire short life, he had never spoken to a goddess; the closest thing he has to that is Achilles, and he isn’t even a full-fledged god.
He thinks of his friend. He wants to see him, but was promised he could do so once he spoke with Thetis, and Thetis is taking her sweet time showing up.
Patroclus turns his gaze toward the palace. His father watches him from a distance, standing on a vast terrace, with King Peleus by his side. He looks at his father with sadness in his eyes, though he doubts the man can detect it from where he stands; not that he would do anything to change the situation even if he did notice his son’s state of mind. His father was never a man who allowed himself to be moved by the emotions of others. A trait befitting a worthy king, Patroclus understands.
He lets his gaze wander over the windows, even though he can’t make out anything. He knows that no one told Achilles about his arrival. Had he known, the other boy would have already overcome the obstacles keeping them apart to be there, by his side, babbling whatever came to mind.
It occurs to him to close his eyes and imagine himself with Achilles. First, they play with their toys; they mix them up and share them, creating their own fantasy worlds. When they get bored, they deign to go outside; they run around and pretend to be expert warriors, hiding among the bushes, hanging from tree trunks, and touching the leaves on the trees. He imagines them having races, over and over again, until Achilles gets tired of winning and they get hungry. Then they decide to sneak into the kitchen and steal figs, and they eat in secret until their tummies hurt. Every so often, Achilles tells silly stories to entertain them, and he always gets the biggest laughs out of Patroclus.
Memories evoke the absent boy, and Patroclus can sense his friend’s presence even though he cannot see him. He wonders what he might be doing right now, how they must have kept him from thinking about going outside. Achilles loves to leave the palace.
A splash snaps him out of his reverie and forces him to open his eyes.
The interruption startles him, but he has no time to react. The imposing figure of Thetis looms over him.
She doesn’t bother to greet him.
“You will do as I command.”
Patroclus blinks. His green eyes, stunned, cannot believe what he is seeing.
Finally, he nods.
With clumsy, inexperienced steps, Patroclus sets out on the journey back to the castle. Halfway there, he encounters both kings, who had rushed out to meet him as soon as they saw the goddess descend once more into the depths of the sea. Menoetius lets out a suppressed sigh upon seeing his son safe and sound, with all his limbs in the same place they were when he left. However, he does not speak to him; neither does Peleus. They simply sink into silence and wait, as they walk, for the boy to speak.
But Patroclus remains silent. The king of Opus always reproaches him for his silence, but sometimes he simply has nothing to say, and his limited vocabulary isn’t enough to explain himself either. This time is no different. He wouldn’t know how to recount what Thetis has ordered him to do even if he tried, for her request makes no sense to little Patroclus. Still, he knows he has no choice but to obey. But he won’t be able to do it alone.
When they arrive at the palace, he still has the horse wrapped in his arms. He stands frozen at the entrance, waiting. He begins to search the stern eyes of his father and then those of the other monarch, wondering if they will keep the promise that had made him walk all the way to his audience by the sea in the first place.
Peleus is the first to understand the boy’s unspoken desire. His expression softens, breaking the tension in the air.
“Come on, Patroclus. Achilles is waiting for you.”
At four years old, Achilles already runs faster than any mortal child. The palace’s back gardens are his favorite track and, moreover, his training ground, where Chiron watches him hone his skills whenever he visits; for the boy, the outside world disappears for hours when he retreats among the trees. On that peculiar afternoon, the centaur—fully aware of everything that was happening outside the castle with the sea goddess—used the boy’s fixation to his advantage to distract him.
He knew that to keep him away from the seashore and ensure his father’s absence went unnoticed, he had to present him with an obstacle that would test his speed. Even at his young age, Achilles already carried that obsession so typical of demigods: the urgent need to prove his worth.
He had to go the extra mile to keep his mischievous student entertained, but in the end, he succeeded. That’s why Patroclus finds him trying to catch hares when he goes to meet him.
Of course, the boy lets them escape once he catches up to them; he doesn’t mean to hurt them, just to outrun them. But as soon as his gaze meets Patroclus’s, Chiron’s challenge and the elusive animals fade into the background. Achilles stops stroking the fur of his latest prey, trapped between his clumsy hands, and abruptly sets it free.
“Patroclus!”
“Achilles!”
The swift-footed boy runs toward him. Barely any time had passed since they last saw each other, but in childhood, days are measured differently: a brief absence feels like an age of abysses. That is why, when their smiles meet, they shine brighter than the sun itself. Nature around them awakens, dazed by the brilliance, and the kings leave them be, allowing them to simply be. For Patroclus, the weight of the goddess’s command and the chill from the waves vanish in an instant. For Achilles, the presence of his best friend is a gift from the gods, a reward and a surprise for his courage and speed.
Pure happiness fills the castle’s atmosphere with its sweet scent. They run back and forth, leaving their laughter lingering in the air wherever they go, and enlivening every corner they enter. All of this, of course, under Chiron’s watchful care.
The centaur watches them play and flit about from a distance, accompanying them like the protective shadow of a great tree. Silently, he rejoices as he notices that Achilles’s boundless energy still shows no signs of waning.
After a while, running stops being fun for them, and their toys are left abandoned to one side. That’s when Achilles decides to show his best friend his colored chalk.
“Do you know how to write your name?”
Sitting on the steps at the palace entrance, Patroclus’s gentle eyes gaze intently at his best friend; something tells Chiron that the boy already knows the answer.
Achilles, sitting on the ground and drawing with chalk, shakes his head. Patroclus doesn’t look surprised.
“No, but I know yours” to back up his words, he begins tracing the letters on the pavement.
He says it as if it were just as important, as if both were equally valuable, but even at his young age, Patroclus knows that’s not the case.
With that in mind, he tries to stop the prince of Phthia.
“You should try writing yours,” Achilles paying him no mind.
“Later,” he declares, without interrupting his arduous task. Patroclus sighs and looks around for Chiron.
The centaur, sensing the boy’s frustration even from a distance, points to the pieces of chalk. The prince of Opus quickly gets the message. So, without saying a word to his friend, he settles down in front of him, picks up a piece and joins in.
Meanwhile, Achilles spends extra time on his work; he wants to impress Patroclus, show off his ability to remember and write his name so neatly, and demonstrate just how much he’s been practicing, waiting for Patroclus to arrive. Only when he finishes does he turn to look at his best friend, and he’s disappointed by what he sees; he thought Patroclus had been watching him the whole time.
However, any trace of frustration vanishes when he realizes what his best friend is doing.
It’s the first time he’s seen his name written in a handwriting that isn’t his mother’s or Chiron’s. It’s beautiful. Patroclus’s handwriting instantly becomes his favorite.
“That’s my name,” he exclaims, staring intently at the floor.
“Yes, and that’s my name,” Patroclus says, looking at Achilles’s work. “I like it.”
“Really?” he asks excitedly, and Patroclus is surprised by his hesitant attitude.
“Yes!” he replies quickly. Only then does Chiron intervene. Achilles startles; accustomed to his shadow, he had forgotten Chiron was there.
“Maybe you could have a contest,” Chiron says. The two boys exchange glances. “Each of you writes your own name, and whoever finishes first wins.”
To Chiron’s relief, Achilles finds the idea fascinating. The boys immediately move to another spot and start writing again, but not before Patroclus gives the centaur a grateful smile.
Achilles surprises everyone in a good way by spelling his name perfectly. For both Patroclus and Chiron, the constant weight of Thetis’s pressure vanishes in an instant, replaced by a satisfying sense of relief.
“I beat you, Patroclus.”
“That's right. But mine is prettier.”
Both begin to laugh and wrestle, and the chalk slips aside, losing its novelty just like the rest of their previous activities. Once and for all, Patroclus forgets about Thetis and allows himself to enjoy himself fully. Just because he can, he starts running through the palace’s vast gardens, and Achilles is quick to start chasing him, amused. Chiron watches them run off, pleased with the results of his visit.
On the seashore, Thetis watches and feels satisfied.
Perhaps she doesn’t understand her son’s obsession with the mortal boy—perhaps she never will—but she can definitely use it to her advantage.
She casts one last glance and returns home.