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Chapter Text

CW: character death (temporary but repeated), mention of hair pulling, blood, non graphic descriptions of hand injury, canon typical violence

Achilles does not remember when he stopped screaming. Perhaps he still hasn’t.

It has been two days, which does not seem possible. The sun should not be allowed to move. The moon should not be allowed to rise. 

Hector’s body lies in a corner of the tent.

Patroclus’ body lies on their bed. 

No matter how often he looks, Achilles feels his heart stop as though seeing it for the first time. This cannot be true. He must surely be dreaming. The tides could not continue to rise and fall when Patroclus is gone. It would be impossible. Patroclus is only sleeping. 

He is not sleeping. Even in sleep Patroclus never lay so still or so stiff. 

Achilles’ throat is still raw. There are scabs on his scalp from where he tore clumps of his own hair. Achilles’ heart is still pounding, pounding, pounding in his chest. This is wrong. How can his heart still beat when the reason for it to even do so is gone? 

I wish he’d let you all die.

I wish. I wish. I wish. The strength of his longing chokes Achilles. As soon as he lets them, the wishes flood his mind. I wish I had kept you here. I wish I had let them burn everything to the ground. I wish I had killed Agamemnon where he stood. I wish I’d never set eyes on Briseis. I wish Helen had never left Sparta. I wish I wish I wish.

Please, he prayed, I know I could have made it right. I will offer you a hecatomb- a hundred hecatombs- I will offer you all I own- my kingdom, my gold, my life- all of it is yours if you let me make it right. Please. 

And someone, somewhere, heard him.

“Achilles… Achilles… Achilles, wake!”

Achilles flung himself out of bed. He was on his feet and reaching for his weapons before he’d even fully opened his eyes. 

“Achilles!”

Patroclus’ body was still on their bed. Only he sat upright. His eyes were open. His hand reached toward Achilles, hanging in the air. Achilles blanched. He spun, searching the room. Hector’s body had vanished. And there, in its usual place, his armor was still sitting: golden, clean, undented. 

“Achilles?” Achilles held his breath as he turned again to Patroclus. His eyes were just as he remembered them, the same warm brown, though perhaps worried in a way Achilles preferred not to see them. “What’s wrong? Should I not have woken you? You were crying in your sleep.”

The words caught in Achilles’ throat. He could not force them out. He could barely force out his own breath. His hands were shaking, he realized. Patroclus swung his legs over the edge of the bed and reached for him. He was warm when Achilles finally touched him.

Achilles broke all at once. He seized Patroclus so tightly that the man yelped and squirmed before managing to free his arms to return the embrace. Achilles was still crying. Patroclus made a few inquisitive noises, but soon lapsed into silence and simply held Achilles while he wept. 

Achilles was still shaking when he pulled away, if only to look again on Patroclus’ face. The pallor was gone from his skin. When Achilles cupped his face in his hands, he could feel the pin prick of stubble from hair that had grown overnight. He could not look away as Patroclus frowned at him. Every movement seemed a small miracle: every blink, every crease of his brow, even the miniscule twitch of his nostril as his breath passed through it. 

“Achilles?” Patroclus said again. “Tell me what troubles you. Please.”

“A dream,” Achilles managed to say between shaking breaths. “I think. The most… The worst…”

He shook his head. The image of Patroclus’ broken body was still burned into the back of his eyelids. The smell of his unburied corpse was still in Achilles nose. And yet Patroclus sat before him, stroking his sides, waiting patiently for Achilles to gather himself. Surely, what he saw now was the truth and everything else had been a nightmare beyond comprehension. 

“You have woken me?” Achilles asked suddenly, “Haven’t you?”

“Yes,” Patroclus told him. He caught Achilles’ hand and pulled it to his lips, pressing kisses to his knuckles. “You are awake. Although, perhaps you should not be. Come back to bed. It is early yet.”

Achilles obeyed. He curled himself tightly around Patroclus, one hand firm on his ribs just to feel the rise and fall of his breath. His hair smelled of sea salt and the smoke from their fire last night and faintly of the soap he’d used to wash it - far from the smell of decay that Achilles feared.

“It must have been a very bad dream,” Patroclus murmured and Achilles could feel his lips move against his collarbone when he spoke. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you scared like that before.”

“I never have been,” Achilles said. What could possibly frighten him more than what he had seen? Not battle, not his own death, no god or man or creature on this earth could begin to compare. 

Achilles did not know how long they lay there: long enough for the light to begin to change, for the noises of their camp to begin filtering in. He wished again for the sun to stand still in the sky, but now it was only to prolong this moment. And yet, the fear remained lodged in his chest.

“Where is Hector?” Achilles asked. He should be nothing more than a corpse in their tent, somewhere Achilles was certain he could pose no threat. He disliked the idea of Hector up and walking as Patroclus was. In his arms, Patroclus froze. 

“He is outside the camp.” He said stiffly. “I could see the lights of their fires from the hill last night. They will reach our walls today.”

“Let them,” Achilles snarled. Let the Trojans kill every last Greek who had failed to stand between Patroclus and death. And yet, Patroclus stayed still and quiet for a long time. 

“You will not help them,” He said. It was not a question but Achilles could hear the thin hope in his voice anyway. “They will burn our ships too.”

“We can build new ones.”

“We would not have to if you went to their aid.”

“I will not ,” Achilles snapped. “Do not ask it of me again.”

Achilles would have stayed in bed the entire day with Patroclus if he could have. He could not stop counting all the signs of life still on him: the drops of sweat on his brow when the day grew hot, the sneeze when a strong breeze blew up the dust in their tent, the small sounds of confusion and enjoyment when Achilles kissed him deeply, and, of course, every sacred breath. One after the next after the next, and still Achilles remained in awe of it. Yes, he would have spent the entire day just like that. 

Patroclus, however, would not. He saw Achilles’ unease, but he did not understand it and he certainly did not see why his own breathing was cause for celebration. Achilles’ strike was still in place, but even without leaving the Phthian camp, there was plenty of work to be done. 

“Someone else can do it,” Achilles pouted, but Patroclus rolled his eyes. He was not so proud that he would allow others to do work for him that he would not do for them in return. There was wood to gather and there were fires to stoke and inventories to review. Patroclus wanted to check that Phoenix had gotten the tea that Patroclus had prescribed for his aging lungs. He wanted to see that Xanthus and Balius and the other horses were well. He wanted to visit the women and verify that they were well supplied.

All the while, Achilles trailed him like a shadow. He could tell Patroclus found it odd, but Achilles could not help himself. The dream had felt too real: the pain in his throat, the smell in his nose…  What if it had not been a dream? What if it had been a vision of the future? The ghost of whatever it had been clung to Achilles and drove him closer to Patroclus, afraid to let him out of his sight. 

At first, Achilles thought that perhaps Patroclus was annoyed with his behavior. He seemed to keep so busy that Achilles wondered if he was trying to avoid him. Quickly he realized that that was not the case at all. 

It did not take long for the sounds of battle to reach their camp. It began as a dull roar, like thunder so distant you were unsure if you’d heard it at all, but the sound grew steadily louder through the day. In the distance they could see the clouds of dust kicked up by the soldiers feet, the flash of their swords. Patroclus turned his head toward the battle at every opportunity, always with his brow creased, always with his hands clenching whatever he was holding. He was not avoiding Achilles; he was striving to keep track of the battle they took no part in. 

By noon they could pick out flashes of color from the dust - banners of different legions, the odd colored plume on a helmet. By supper they could hear the frightened whinnies of the horses in among the shouting of the men. Patroclus soon gave up all pretense of carrying out chores and simply stood and watched the battle inch closer, his face growing graver and graver.

“Do not be afraid,” Achilles told him once, quietly. “I will keep you safe.”

“You know that is not what I fear,” Patroclus said with a smile that held more sorrow than mirth. “Look, someone has fallen. A king, I think.”

Achilles did not care. Let them all fall. He barely made a noise to acknowledge that he’d heard. 

“I will go see who it is,” Patroclus said.

“No!” Achilles grabbed his arm hard enough that he could see Patroclus wince and turn his head in annoyance and confusion, but Achilles’ heart was pounding now. He’d heard this before. He could not remember who had fallen in his dream, only that Patroclus had returned distraught, that whatever he’d seen had started his begging. “Someone else can look.”

Patroclus stared at him for a moment, looking as though he might argue, but slowly nodded and Achilles could breathe again. He only needed to keep Patroclus by his side, that was all that mattered. 

“Let us return to the tent,” Achilles said, but this time Patroclus did shake his head. He would not disobey Achilles directly, would not seed mutiny among the men or run into battle when Achilles had forbidden it, but he stood his ground on this small rebellion. If he could not help the Greeks, he could at least bear witness to their deaths. 

Achilles warred with himself. He had no desire to watch, but he did not dare take his eyes away from Patroclus. He sat by the fire and watched Patroclus’ shoulders drop incrementally as the battle unfolded. Achilles saw the first sparks at the same time as everyone else. Patroclus held out longer than Achilles thought he would before he turned to him.

“They are burning the ships,” He said. 

“I know,”

“Achilles, they cannot do this without you. They will all die .” The camp was dark now, but in the firelight, Achilles could still see the tears that Patroclus did not let fall. He watched Patroclus’ face. He thought he could see the exact moment that Patroclus realized the depth of his apathy. 

“Please,” He begged. He knelt before Achilles and gripped his hands. “Please, if not for them, then for me. Do this for me.”

“Anything but this, my love.” Achilles thought he’d said it more cruelly in his dream, but this too was familiar. Silently, Achilles prayed Patroclus’ next words would be different.

“If you will not go, then let me.” Achilles’ heart stopped in his chest.

“You cannot fight,” Compared to Achilles, no one could fight.

“I do not need to, put me in your armo–”

“No!” Achilles was on his feet before he realized it. Patroclus had fallen back on his heels in surprise. Had it been a prophecy that Achilles had seen? He had known what Patroclus would suggest and the knowledge of how his plan would play out made his hands shake. “No. Not this. Never this.”

“Achilles,” Patroclus begged, “It will be fine. The myrmidons would be with me and-”

“No!”

Achilles did not see the carefully averted eyes of the men around them. The entire camp could hear their argument. Achilles must have surprised them. His rages were legendary, but they had never been directed at Patroclus before.

“If you love me-”

“No! No! A thousand times, no!” Achilles was faintly aware that he sounded like a child throwing a tantrum, but he didn’t care. “If they see through your ruse, they will know you are an easy target and if they do not then they will attack with the force they would attack me with. No. I do not care about the Greeks. I do not care about the ships. They can have everyone and everything else, but they cannot have you. Do you understand?”

Patroclus clenched his fists. He rose silently to his feet and marched into their tent without a word. Achilles followed quickly. He threw aside the tent flap only to find Patroclus gathering his armor. 

“I told you ‘ no’ ,” Achilles barked.

“And I am telling you that I do not care,” Patroclus spat. He reached for the golden breastplate and the image of it wrent and bloodied flashed before his eyes. Achilles struck it from his hands and it clattered to the floor. “Achilles!”

“No!” Achilles seized him by the wrists, his grip bruisingly tight. “You cannot go. I will not allow it.”

“I was not asking for your permission!”

“ Patroclus! You will not step foot outside this tent. If I have to tie you to the bedposts then so be it!  I will not let you go!”

Finally Achilles met his eyes and wished immediately that he had not. He had never seen such an expression on Patroclus’ face. There was anger and disgust there where Achilles normally only found patience. Worst, was the flash of fear. Not fear for the Greeks, Achilles realized, not fear of the Trojans. Fear of him. But mostly it was anger distorting his face, causing him to shake in Achilles’ grip. His lips moved without sound, but Achilles could read the shape of the word.

Murdurer. 

Achilles released him as though burnt. He knew the weight of that word for Patroclus. He knew how it had haunted him in their early days at Phthia. Patroclus turned his back to Achilles. He was certain that Patroclus wept now, though only the shaking of his shoulders gave it away. 

“Patroclus,” Achilles said again, softly now. He reached to touch his shoulder, but Patroclus flinched.

“ Don’t touch me. ”

Patroclus crossed to their bed, where he curled with his back still to Achilles. For a moment Achilles stared dumbly. He did not know if Patroclus had ever rejected him like this in anything. The closest they’d ever come was Scyros and even then Patroclus had only fled. He had not recoiled like this. Achilles did not like this heartbroken image of Patroclus, but visions of his lifeless form in that same bed were still close and Achilles liked those even less.

Let him sulk, then. Achilles could make amends tomorrow, when he was sure his dream had not come to pass. He took his armor from where it lay, worried Patroclus might try again if it were in reach, and stalked from the tent.

They’d had an audience, Achilles realized. The tent walls did little to muffle their voices. All those who had been staring looked away quickly. Achilles grabbed a few of his men. 

“Do not let him leave,” He said. “Keep him there however you must.”

The men exchanged wary looks. Patroclus was no bed slave. They might wonder about what went on between them out of sight, but in the light of day Patroclus was still a soldier. Even if he rarely fought, he more than pulled his own weight in the camp. It was strange to see Achilles treat him as a prisoner, no matter what he’d said to Achilles. Still, Patroclus was not their prince and the men obeyed with no other question. 

Satisfied, Achilles summoned Automedon to help him with his armor. He did not miss the way the men looked hopefully toward their own weapons. They scattered, scurrying like the ants they were named for as soon as Achilles bid them to ready themselves. 

“Do not leave the perimeter,” Achilles ordered when they were assembled. “We defend what is ours. No more, no less.”

The shore was a wall of fire now. They were coming.

Achilles’ heart beat hard against his chest once more, but now it was with excitement. He’d gone too long without a good fight. His limbs ached to be used. He left the chariot aside - their camp was not large enough to make it practical - but he sat astride Balius and he waited. 

The Trojans broke on them like a wave. There was a savage glee in finally allowing himself to do what he did best. The first ten- twenty- thirty men to fall to him were a pleasure. He had always wondered if there was a limit to his skill. How far could he go on his own if he were ever allowed to unleash himself fully? The next thirty were nearly as good. And then the thirty after that. And the thirty after that. And the thirty after that. 

Had they summoned every man in Troy for this? Achilles wondered. He trusted in his men’s abilities. He knew that they were each worth ten of anyone else’s soldiers. He had no doubt that they fought well. But normally at this point Achilles saw some change in the tide: lesser warriors began to avoid him, seeing their doom reflected in his helmet, and the greater would-be heroes began to seek him out to test their skills against one another. 

There was no change in the tide of this battle. Trojans continued to pour over them, like water from a broken dam. It felt as though he were fighting Hydra: for each soldier he cut down, three more seemed to spring up to take their place.

Achilles blinked hard, his eyes stinging. There was sweat in his eyes.

They were everywhere, Achilles realized suddenly. He had not been pushed back, but there were so many of them that the Trojans had simply flowed around him into the camp. It was not just sweat stinging his eyes, either, but smoke. Everything burned around him. 

Achilles turned Ballius with his knees, his stomach clenching. His own tent was ablaze as well. There was a cluster of men before it, Patroclus and his would-be wardens, struggling to hold their own against the tide of soldiers. They could gain no ground:  forward meant throwing themselves deeper into the throngs of the enemy, but with their backs pressed to the burning tent, they could not retreat either. 

Achilles urged his horse toward them. He ran Ballius into anyone who stood in his path, but even then, the crowd was so thick that they may as well have been wading through mud. 

One by one, Patroclus’ guards fell around him. Achilles would bury them with every honor he could think of if they could just hold on long enough for him to arrive. He was so close.

Patroclus’ sword was nowhere to be seen. Its empty scabbard hung at his waist. Blood streamed down his shaking arms as he held an enemy’s sword at bay with his bare hands. Achilles’ spear was in his hand, flying through the air, burying itself in the soldier’s back before Patroclus’ arms could give out. 

He was near enough that he could see the relief on Patroclus’ face when he recognized the spear, as well as the pain that replaced it as he cradled his ruined hands to his chest. He was not close enough for Achilles to hear him, but he could read his name on Patroclus’ lips.

“ Achilles.”

“Patroclus!” He cried, knowing he would not be heard over the din. Patroclus took a step toward him.

And stopped.

He looked down in surprise, touching the spearhead emerging from his chest with trembling fingers. And then the faceless soldier braced a foot on his back and pulled the spear back, racing on without a thought to what he had done. 

Achilles was screaming again. He was off Ballius. He was on his knees. He was reaching- he had Patroclus in his arms. He’d fallen forward and his face was caked with grime. Heavy footsteps and blood had churned the dirt into mud. Achilles wiped it away frantically. It would not be wiped away, he realized. The mud was gone, but blood still streamed from his mouth and nose.

But he was still alive. Patroclus’ eyes found his face. His mouth moved, but only a horrible gurgling sound emerged. Still, Achilles could read his name on his lips.

Achilles. Achilles. A…chi…lles.

Achilles howled. He’d thought his dream had been his worst nightmare, but at least he had not had to watch. He had been able to believe that if he’d been on that battlefield, that something might have been different. Now he was here and he could do nothing but weep as his life slipped between his fingers. 

He was still warm. Achilles hunched over the body. He would not move. He did not want to see Patroclus cold and stiff ever again. He let himself drown in the sounds of battle.

“Achilles… Achilles… Achilles, wake!”

Achilles choked on his own breath. His chest heaved. His heart felt as though it would burst from his chest. He lay on his back, gasping and sobbing. 

 “Achilles? What’s wrong? You were crying in your sleep.”

He was crying while he woke too. He forced open his eyes to find Patroclus’ concerned face hovering over him once more. His face was clean of blood and dirt and rage and fear. Now Achilles did not care what he had seen. This time he grabbed Patroclus once more and held him too tightly and wept against his shoulder until he thought he would vomit from how hard the sobs shook him. 

“Achilles, speak to me,” Patroclus soothed. His hand was warm against Achilles’ back. “You’re scaring me.”

But Achilles could not speak. He could not say if it had been a nightmare or a vision or else some kind of curse. He clung desperately to Patroclus until he was so worn that he would have fallen back asleep if not for the fear still clenching his heart. 

“Where is Hector?” He asked when he was finally able to force words from his throat. 

“He is outside the camp.” Patroclus said, as Achilles guessed he would. “I could see the lights of their fires from the hill last night. They will reach our walls today.”

One more day. One more chance. Achilles breathed in slowly through his nose. 

“You will not help them? They will burn all the ships. Ours too.”

“I will not let them burn our ships,” he said this time. It was not the answer Patroclus wished to hear and Achilles knew it, but he rolled over and buried his face in Patroclus’ hair. “Let me lie here a bit longer. Please. It is early yet.”

Achilles behavior was strange enough that Patroclus allowed it and stayed in bed with him long past the hour he would normally rise. Eventually, however, Patroclus did rise and begin his rounds around the camp. As he had before, Achilles trailed him closely, this time inspecting the camp and the men as he went. It was strange to see them all whole and well after what he’d just seen. 

“Who are those two men?” Achilles asked suddenly, tilting his head toward a pair of soldiers. Achilles recognized them as ones who had stood with Patroclus in front of their tent in his last dream. Patroclus raised his brow. Achilles never asked the names of other men. By his own words, it was easier for them to simply remember him. 

“That one, the one with curly hair, is Kallikrates. The one with the crooked nose is Praxiteles.” Patroclus supplied. Achilles nodded.

“They… fight well.” Achilles said, voice stilted. Patroclus’ brow rose even higher. It was rare for him to ask after any man and even rarer for him to praise them. The only one who received his praise freely was Patroclus himself and that was never for his skill in battle.

“Perhaps you should tell them yourself,” Patroclus said. “I’m sure it would mean more to hear it from you.”

“Perhaps, I will,” Achilles said softly. But he would not do so at this moment. This moment was reserved for thinking of how to convince Patroclus to leave the camp.

Patroclus’ pride was not so great as his own, but it still existed. He was not a coward. He would not turn his back on people if he thought that he could help. Achilles hated it, but he knew that this included the Greeks. He knew now that Patroclus would seek a way to aid them no matter what Achilles told him. 

Patroclus’ angered eyes flashed suddenly in Achilles’ mind. Murdurer. The accusation had not been made here, not yet, but the weight of it still lay heavy on Achilles’ shoulders. 

What he needed, Achilles decided, was someone that Patroclus would deem weaker than the Greeks, someone who would need his help more than they did. Briseis instantly came to mind only for Achilles to shoo her away. She’d taken up enough space even in his thoughts lately. 

Her companions, however, would suit his purpose well. 

“They will reach our walls tonight,” Achilles said over lunch. 

“Yes. I know.” Patroclus looked resigned for now. 

“I need you to leave before then.” Achilles told him. Patroclus opened his mouth to protest but Achilles held up a hand. “Take the women into the hills. We cannot guarantee their safety here.”

Patroclus looked at him with the same odd expression as when Achilles had asked for the men’s names. 

“They are Trojan women though,” Patroclus said after a moment. “Surely the Trojans would not harm them.”

“They are an army. ” Achilles pointed out, leaving Patroclus to fill in the rest. Where a woman came from hardly mattered to one army plundering another. Some might escape, but many would die and many more would simply change hands. 

“Then can you not send them with someone else?” Patroclus asked. It was unusual for him too. Normally, Patroclus was content to play along with whatever schemes Achilles concocted. 

“And who would you volunteer to escort slave girls alone into secluded wilderness?” It was Achilles’ turn to raise a brow. Patroclus winced. Even among their own rank, he could not say for sure that no one would take advantage of the situation. 

“I do not want to leave you,” Patroclus said finally. 

“I do not wish you to leave, but this is something I trust only to you.”

“Why now?” Patroclus asked. “You have never worried about their welfare before.”

Achilles didn’t think he meant it as an accusation, but Achilles tried not to wince all the same. He was right, of course. He took the women because Patroclus had asked him to and ended his involvement there. If not for him, Achilles would not have cared who they went to or what became of them. 

Still, Achilles could not tell him the truth. He could not say that he did not care about their welfare, that he only cared about Patroclus’. Patroclus would never leave if he thought he was being coddled. 

“I don’t want any more prizes taken from me,” he said instead, hoping he sounded as lofty as ever. “One was too many already.”

Patroclus bit his lip, but he nodded. He would do it.

Achilles helped Patroclus into his own armor for once. 

“Won’t I make too much noise like this?” Patroclus wondered aloud, but Achilles shook his head. 

“No one will hear you over the fighting.”

They might see him though, if the light shone off his armor at all, so Achilles draped a cloak over his shoulders despite the warmth of the night. 

“Go now,” Achilles urged. “Return in the morning. Do not return before then.”

Patroclus nodded and Achilles felt something loosen in his chest. He was certain that whatever battle they faced would be over by dawn. It would be safe to return by then. Still Patroclus hesitated.

“Be careful,” he said and Achilles very nearly laughed. 

“Are you worried about me, my love?”

“I am.” Always. Each time.

“Well, then, you are the only one.” Achilles assured him.

“You won’t go near Hector?”

“I will not.” Achilles had not yet decided if he would. Hector had not been the one to kill Patroclus last time, but Achilles had yet to forgive the first account. It did not matter. He would say anything to get Patroclus out the door. Patroclus took a step toward the door only to hesitate. At the last moment, he caught Achilles by the back of the neck and kissed him.

“I will see you tomorrow?”

“Yes. Now go.”

Patroclus went.

The ships burned. The Trojans swept through their camp and so that burned too. The ground was churned into mud once more, wet with the blood of Greeks and Trojans alike. 

Achilles did not kill Hector. He sparred with him for a long time, but it was not like that first time. It was as though they both knew that this was not the night that would decide their fate and eventually they were forced to withdraw. The retreating Trojans were forced to choose which comrades they could carry home for proper burial and which they would have to leave behind. It was a terrible choice, but they did choose and they left before the sun crested the horizon. 

The morning dawned dim, the sun obscured by the wall of smoke still billowing off the remains of the ships. Achilles wondered if any of the other Greeks had survived. Soon he found that they had. Not many of them, but some. Achilles did not know how they all decided to gather at the Myrmidons’ camp. Perhaps it was the only one left with any semblance of shelter. 

They trickled in slowly. Odysseus leaned heavily on one of his men, his leg barely bandaged well enough to keep him from bleeding out. Diomedes appeared, soaked to the bone. One of Nestor’s sons came with the news that the old man had not survived. 

And then Menelaus. Menelaus again. Menelaus again carried someone covered in a shroud and Achilles knew before anyone could speak.

He did not scream this time. He only wrenched Patroclus’ body from Menelaus' arms to his own and sank to the ground with it. 

“No-” he moaned, “No. No, I sent him away. He wasn’t supposed- How? How?”

Menelaus shifted his weight, uncomfortable in the face of Achilles’ grief. “He was at the healers’ tent. It was burning. Some of the patients couldn’t escape.”

Achilles closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to Patroclus’ through the shroud. He was a fool to think the women would have been enough to distract him. As soon as they were safe, Patroclus must have turned around. He’d been so sure… But he’d been wrong. This day was immovable. The army was too close. He could never have gotten Patroclus far enough away without running from it himself. 

“Just a little longer,” he prayed, not caring who heard. “I can fix this. Just a little more time…”

Chapter Text

Achilles woke on his own this time. He sat up, panting.

He could feel the tears on his cheeks and wiped at them furiously. Patroclus lay beside him, alive once more and Achilles wondered if this would ever stop being a shock. He reached to tuck Patroclus’ hair behind his ear and the man stirred. 

“Chilles?” He mumbled, sleep logged. “Time is it?”

“It is still early. Sleep a little longer.” Achilles was proud of how his voice sounded nearly calm. And yet, it must not have sounded calm enough because Patroclus cracked open an eye and frowned. 

“Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Achilles said, but Patroclus was scrubbing at his eyes and pushing himself up on his elbows. 

“You’ve been crying. What is wrong?”

“A dream,” Achilles said for what felt like the thousandth time already. “A nightmare.”

Patroclus made a sympathetic sound in the back of his throat and slung an arm over Achilles’ waist, pulling him back down onto their bed. Achilles let himself absorb the moment as long as he dared. 

Patroclus did not look quite so well as he had the last few mornings they’d woken together. His hair was unwashed and there were dark circles under his eyes. He smelled strongly, though not exactly of decay: sweat and smoke and the heavy pungent scent of crushed herbs.

“Where is Hector?” Achilles asked when he could stand it no longer. This time Patroclus only sighed and shoved his face harder against Achilles’ shoulder. 

“I do not know. Probably in bed at this hour,” He mumbled. “Behind Troy’s walls, I’m sure.”

So something had changed. Patroclus lifted his head with what seemed to be great effort and rested his chin on Achilles’ chest to look at him. His chin was sharp and uncomfortable digging into his skin like that, but Achilles didn’t move him. 

“Will you tell them today?” He asked. Achilles watched him, hoping for some hint as to what he was obviously meant to know. Patroclus took pity on him. “About the plague. About what your mother said.”

Achilles took a deep breath. So he had yet to confront Agamemnon in the agora then. Hope sprung in his chest. He did not know what he wished to do with this chance, though slaying the Mycenaean king where he stood ranked high on his list. 

“I will,” he said. “Soon.”

Through the morning, Achilles fought to remember exactly what words had been exchanged that day. Rage had distorted his memory, however, and he could not for the life of him remember more than the outline of the argument. 

He called for Calchas when the men gathered in the agora, as he felt sure he still must. He placated the old priest until Calchas pointed a finger to Agamemnon, who was already turning an alarming shade of purple.

“Thank you, Calchas,” he spat, “For always bringing me such–”

“Enough.” Achilles interrupted before Agamemnon had the chance to finish the thought. He was sick of hearing Agamemnon’s voice. “Bring the girl and be done with it.”

“And I suppose you had nothing to do with this ‘divine command’, Pelides.” 

“I gain nothing from this and you know it.” He snapped.

“Don’t you? Have we not all seen how proudly Aristos Achaion carries himself? He has never pledged his fealty to our cause and now seeks to humiliate me before all of Greece.”

“This is not about my pride, this is about your stubbornness!”

“If it is not about your pride, then you should take no issue with swearing your loyalty.”

“I am here of my own free will. I bow to no one. The girl, Agamemnon!”

“On your knees first!”

The two stood, chests heaving, eyes locked together. Agamemnon broke first. He snapped his fingers to two of his men. Achilles straightened. He had won this time. Agamemnon must know that he would not bow. 

Soon, the men returned with Chrysies held between them. She looked much worse now than she had standing on the platform the day Agamemnon claimed her. Achilles barely spared a thought to her beyond making note of it: of course, Apollo would be angry with his priestess treated like that. Agamemnon grabbed her by the arm and hauled her up beside them.

“Kneel, Pelides.”

“I do not kneel to mules.” Achilles spat. Agamemnon must have been expecting this because he seized Chryseis’ arm and twisted it up behind her back. The girl whimpered, forced to half double over in the awkward grip. Achilles did not know what Agamemnon thought he was accomplishing with such a show. He was only confirming how poorly he had treated her. 

But then the dagger appeared in Agamemnon’s free hand.

“Kneel to me and I will release her now. Refuse again and I will ensure that her ashes are the only thing returned to her father.”

“You’re mad!” Achilles cried. “You’ll condemn them all over a girl. Do you think you will escape punishment? You only bring it on yourself!”

“Do I? Or do you? I have said I will release her. I only ask for something in return. You are the one condemning them if you refuse. You hold their fate in your hands. Kneel!”

“I will never kneel to you.”

Somehow, Achilles had not truly expected Agamemnon to make good on his word. The hot spray of blood took him by surprise anyway, staining his face and his tunic. Another young girl’s blood spilled before him for Agamemnon’s greed. 

The agora was silent as Agamemnon dropped Chryseis, silent as they all watched the life drain quickly from her body. When she was dead, Agamemnon turned.

“Clean that up,” he ordered his men and stalked away from the agora. 

Until now, the plague had contained itself to common men. It took less than a day after Chryseis’ death for the kings to begin to fall. Achilles retreated with Patroclus to their tent.

“I cannot stay here,” Patroclus said, distraught. “I must help them.”

“You cannot,” Achilles told him, calm for once. “You cannot fight the gods’ wrath with medicine.” 

“There must be something,” Patroclus squeezed Achilles’ hand, searching, but Achilles only shook his head. 

“You could not even ease their passing if it was not their will.”

Patroclus covered his face with his hands. He knew this to be the truth just as Achilles knew it broke his heart to be helpless in the face of another’s pain. That word flashed again in Achilles’ mind. Murdurer. Patroclus had sworn not to let Achilles’ deeds in battle change his opinion of him, and he had kept his word; it had been Achilles’ lack of action that had finally pushed him to such lengths. It frightened him. Achilles had never considered that Patroclus might have a breaking point.

“Do you blame me for it?” He asked, though he almost did not want to know the answer. Patroclus let his hands fall away from his face and shook his head. 

“No. You did not take her. You did not hold Agamemnon’s hand around the knife. His actions are his own.” 

Achilles released a breath he hadn’t entirely realized he’d been holding. Perhaps other men would see it differently, but Achilles did not care what other men thought. Only this man. 

“Stay here with me.” Achilles said. He could see the hesitation on Patroclus’ face, the lingering hope that there was something he could do, but slowly, Patroclus nodded and allowed himself to be led to bed.

That night, Achilles crept out to the sea. He called for his mother. Surely if there was a way to escape Apollo’s wrath, then she would know of it. He stood in the surf and called but he received no answer. Either she could not hear him or she was unable to come to him. Achilles suspected the latter. Eventually he was forced to admit defeat and dragged himself back to their tent.

By the time he returned, Patroclus was shivering in his sleep. Achilles’ gut twisted. He placed a hand on his forehead, unsurprised to find it burning beneath his palm. He had told Patroclus there was nothing he could do for the other men, but Achilles still searched for something now. 

He wrapped Patroclus in all their blankets and furs. He stoked the fire into a blaze and settled him before it. The shivering continued but Patroclus cracked open his eyes.

“Don’t,” he croaked, “You’ll catch it.”

“I will not,” Achilles lied. He knew- he hoped that he was close behind Patroclus, but it would be because of Apollo’s poisoned arrows, not from any natural contagion. Achilles was not even sure if Patroclus had even heard him. Those few words seemed to have exhausted him. He slept.

Achilles watched the fire. His anger was usually like a brush fire, catching quickly and consuming everything. He did not know what to do with the burning ember of anger that had settled in his stomach. He hated Agamemnon. He was a selfish old man who’d killed them all over nothing. Why should they have to pay for his sins? Had the gods not seen how Achilles had tried to follow their will? There was no reason that he should be sitting, watching Patroclus’ breathing grow more and more labored. It wasn’t fair.

But then, they were gods. Fairness was not in their nature. 

To his relief, as the hours crept by, the tell-tale lesions began to appear on Achilles hands and arms. He had almost feared that his divine blood would protect him. He covered them as best he could if only to prevent the woodsmoke from irritating them more than it had to.

“Achilles… Achilles…” Patroclus called. 

“I am here,” he said, beside him in an instant. Patroclus’ eyes were open. They passed over Achilles as though he were part of the tent wall.

“Achilles!”

“I am here!” He cried, grasping his hand tightly. “Patroclus, I am here.”

At the touch, Patroclus settled once more, leaving Achilles shaken. For a moment, his Patroclus had not known him. Wherever the fever had stolen his mind away to, it was somewhere far from him. His face, even his voice, had not been able to reach him. Only by touch alone had Patroclus known him.

He is leaving me again, Achilles screamed in his mind. He is going again to some place I cannot follow. He would follow, Achilles knew, but only follow. He could not walk hand in hand with him to face whatever came next. 

Patroclus’ sleep turned fitful. He called Achilles’ name and, unable to hear Achilles’ response, wept until the sobs turned to coughs. All the while, Achilles held him. It was all the comfort he could offer. A pain built steadily in his skull and his chest until the room spun and Achilles was forced to lay down beside Patroclus. It was not a befitting end, he thought unhappily, but at least he would not be far behind Patroclus this time. 

For the first time since this nightmare began, Achilles managed not to wake Patroclus.

He lay very still, listening to Patroclus’ breathing. It was clear and steady and Achilles let the sound wash over him.

Never again , he swore to himself. Agamemnon’s pride would never damn them all to such pathetic deaths.

In the quiet of the camp in its earliest hours, Achilles crept. There was no honor in slitting Agamemnon’s throat while he slept. But there was great satisfaction. Let him bleed like the girls he’d bled for his damn war.

He was discovered on his way out. It was the first time that he had died before Patroclus.

The next morning, Achilles woke Patroclus on purpose. 

“I believe I’ve been cursed,” he said.

“Yes, I’ve thought so too.” Patroclus frowned and bit back a yawn. “A choice between life and mediocrity or fame and death was never a real choice for you to begin with.

“No,” Achilles shook his head. “Not the prophecy. Something different.”

And so Achilles told him. He could not bring himself to go into the details, they were still too painful, but he drew the general outline of events. Patroclus listened without interruption. He did not even question it, Achilles realized with a rush of awe. The Patroclus before him would believe anything Achilles told him, agree to any plan Achilles devised. He believed in Achilles in a way the Patroclus from the night the ships burned did not. When had that changed? When had he lost the trust he saw in Patroclus’ face?

“What became of Briseis?” Patroclus asked when Achilles had finished.

“I do not know,” he said. He’d never bothered to find out. Truly, he could hardly care less.

“You must not let him take her,” Patroclus said, sitting up fully.

“I know. I have been searching for a way to avoid it, but nothing thus far has worked.” Achilles sighed. If he could just avoid having her taken, then he could continue to fight for the Greeks with his honor intact. The ships would never burn. The Trojans would never have been able to get close enough.

“We shall think of something.”

They did not think of anything. 

When they could delay no longer, they went to the agora and to Agamemnon. It would be of no use to let him keep Chryseis . The plague would take them all without her timely release.

“Just hand over the girl and be done with it.”

It was different now. For the first time, Achilles felt as though he had to watch his tongue. He would never flatter Agamemnon’s ego, he could not live with it, but he could not lash out as freely as he was accustomed to. In the end, he was too distracted by the new limitation to dissuade Agamemnon. He had set his eyes on Briseis and nothing would distract him now that he’d fixated on a new prize.

Patroclus disappeared into the crowd, but Achilles was not terribly surprised. In that first horrible nightmare, Patroclus had run to warn Briseis of what was to follow. He returned to their camp alone to await Agamemnon’s soldiers. 

He did not have to wait long. They appeared more quickly than Achilles remembered and soon he understood why. 

Two men dragged Briseis into the camp between them. And behind them, two more held Patroclus firmly by the arms. Agamemnon followed with a handful of other kings, his mouth trembling with the urge to smirk. Achilles’ hand flew to his sword, but he did not draw. Not yet. He looked to Patroclus. He seemed unharmed but he would not meet Achilles’ eye.

“So this is what Aristos Achian thinks of us,” Agamemnon sneered. “He takes us for fools. He has broken his word. He thinks he can humiliate us without having to pay the price.”

The soldiers forced Patroclus and Briseis to their knees. Achilles’ hand tightened on the pommel of his sword, but he dared not go further. He was fast, but not fast enough to cross the camp before Agamemnon’s soldiers could draw their own swords. When he said nothing, Agamemnon jabbed a finger in Patroclus’ direction.

“You sent your dog to free the girl so she could not be taken!”

“I did not.” Achilles said slowly, but he kept his eyes on the men holding Patroclus. 

“How can we believe you? You’ve already shown that your word means nothing .”

“I did not send him. I swear it.” Achilles hissed.

“On what ?” 

“On whatever it damn well pleases you for me to swear on!” he barked. “Name it, I shall swear on it.”

“On the gods?”

“Yes.”

“On your honor?”

“Yes.”

“On your father’s honor?”

“Yes.”

“I see. So the dog bit without his master’s command.” Agamemnon smirked. Achilles had not seen the trap until it snapped closed. His heart dropped into his stomach. No, he tried to say, but Patroclus’ tongue was faster. 

“I did,” He said quickly, still refusing to meet Achilles’ eyes. “He had no knowledge of it. I acted alone.”

“No!” Achilles cried. He felt torn in two. There was anger that Patroclus had gone behind his back, that he would knowingly tarnish Achilles’ honor if he succeeded in releasing Briseis. The fear was much greater. Patroclus had been willing to tarnish Achilles’ honor, but Achilles did not think he would be ready to die for his failure- for surely, this is what Agamemnon would demand. “No, he did not! I swear!”

“You swear and swear and swear,” Agamemnon sighed loftily. “How are we meant to believe anything you say if you swear so easily? You have already sworn on your honor and the gods that you did not bid him - do you break all your oaths so easily?”

“He did not know.” Patroclus said again. His voice was shaking, but loud, ensuring all the kings could hear. “You heard him swear so yourselves. My crime is mine alone.”

“No!” Achilles shouted once more, and suddenly his own men were at his side. He felt buoyed by their presence. Patroclus had cared for each of them, surely they would not allow this.

“You admit your guilt,” Agamemnon mused.

“I do.”

“And you accept the consequences for your actions.”

“I do.”

Agamemnon turned to the onlooking kings. They had remained silent all the while and Achilles hated them for it. He tried to remember each horrible way he’d seen them all die before and swore to think of something worse if he was ever given the chance. 

“It would be crime enough to steal from me,” Agamemnon announced. “But to steal from your own prince is greater treason still. Execution shall be the punishment for such betrayal.”

Achilles screamed. He tried to draw his sword. He had his men beside him, they could take all the kings and peons before them. Only he was unable to draw his sword. His men converged on him, pinning him, holding him in place. Achilles struggled. There were too many of them. He was not Heracles, blessed with enormous strength. He could not push them off. He could not draw his weapons. He could not get his feet under him. 

He could hear Agamemnon’s sword being drawn from its sheath. 

“Hold him.”

Achilles writhed like a snake. Forget Agamemnon - he would kill all his own men first for holding him here. Had they not loved Patroclus as well? It is only that they love you better , a voice supplied in his brain. They would choose your honor over his life.  

Briseis screamed. There was a heavy thump as something- someone- was dropped to the ground.

Achilles howled. All at once his men subsided and Achilles charged.

The Greeks needn’t have worried about the Trojans. Achilles would see them dead long before they ever reached their walls.

Achilles could still feel their blood dripping off him when he woke. The rage still burned in his breast. Damn every king. Damn his own men. Damn every Greek. Damn every woman they lost their senses over. 

He could not take Chryseis without Agamemnon seeking retribution. He could not leave Chryseis with him without cursing them all to a slow death. His ire even piqued slightly at Patroclus. Was the man trying to get himself killed? Achilles felt exhausted and yet he could not live with any of the realities he’d seen thus far.

Ah.

Perhaps if there was nothing for Agamemnon to take, things would finally settle into place. He rose from bed.

“Chilles? Where’re you going?” Patroclus called sleepily.

“Go back to sleep, my love,” Achilles told him. He took his sword from his sheath. It would only take a moment.

“What are you doing with that?” Patroclus sat up.

“Go back to bed.” Achilles said again. He lifted the flap of their tent and stepped out into the early morning light. The womens’ tents were nearby. A moment later, he heard Patroclus’ footsteps following him.

“What are you doing?” He called. Achilles did not answer him. Briseis slept alone. She was the most senior, the most important of his prizes. “Achilles, wait!”

Achilles did not. Patroclus must have guessed his destination for he broke out into a run. It was hopeless, of course. Achilles could outrun him in his sleep. Outrunning him when he was beset with single minded purpose was nothing. 

He tore open the flap of Briseis’ tent.

“Achilles, stop!”

Achilles swung his sword in a single clean sweep. Briseis screamed. Blood splattered her face and soaked her tunic, but it was Patroclus who sank to his knees before her. 

Achilles could not understand what he saw. He dropped his sword and it clattered as it hit the ground.

Briseis continued to scream. She pulled Patroclus’ head into her lap, pressed her hands uselessly against the gash in his neck. The blood welled up between her fingers. Achilles could not breathe.

He dropped to the ground, staring. He searched Patroclus’ face for something- for fear or anger- but found only surprise. And then he found nothing at all.

“What have you done?” Briseis cried. “What have you done?”

Achilles could not answer. He could not speak. He could not even scream. He and Briseis looked to his fallen sword at the same time.

“Please,” he begged with all the breath he could summon. “Please.”

She took hold of the sword.

It had been a while since Achilles awoke crying.

“Achilles? What’s wrong?”

“I am sorry,” he sobbed. He took Patroclus’ hands, pressed the knuckles to his forehead. “I am sorry. Forgive me. Please, forgive me.”

Of course, Patroclus did not know what he was meant to forgive, but that did not stop Achilles from begging. He wept until his stomach turned and he choked.

“I would never hurt you, I swear. I am sorry.”

“I know you wouldn’t,” Patroclus said, which only caused Achilles’ heart to clench. He did not know. Accident or not, Achilles had- he had- Achilles rolled out of bed in time and managed to vomit only on the floor. 

“Achilles!”

Achilles could not bring himself to push Patroclus’ hands away as they searched out his forehead to check for fever. 

“Are you well?” Patroclus demanded. “Are you in any pain? Let me see you.”

He let Patroclus manhandle him into a seated position. He tore Achilles’ tunic away, but for once it was not with passion, but with terror. Achilles had almost forgotten all about the plague.

“I am not ill,” he said finally. Patroclus must have come to the same conclusion. He slumped with relief, dropping his head to Achilles’ shoulder.

“What is the matter? You frightened me.” 

Achilles stayed still for a long time. How could he begin to explain? Moreover, would it even matter if he did? If he failed, he would only have to retell the events again. 

“Do you still trust me?” He asked softly. 

“I do. You know that I do.”

“Will you grant me one favor?”

“I will.”

“Stay in the tent this morning,” Achilles begged. He lifted a hand to cup Patroclus’ face, running his thumb across his cheek.

“Achilles, the men need me. The plague-”

“Only for the morning. I promise, just for a few hours. Run to them afterward if you must.”

“They are dying,” Patroclus said, brow furrowed. But he had not yet said that he would not do it.

“You know as well as I that this is no natural illness. Your presence will not be enough to sway the gods on those they’ve already condemned to die.” Achilles tried to say it as gently as he could. He’d said it harshly before and he’d seen how deeply the words had cut into Patroclus. “Please. Please, just stay until I return.”

“Where are you going?” Patroclus asked as though it had not occurred to him that, not counting battle, there was somewhere that they would not go together. Achilles hesitated. He wanted Patroclus to be able to swear that he had not known if Achilles failed, but he was certain now that if he did not tell Patroclus and Patroclus believed that he was in danger, then he would follow him.

“I am getting Briseis out of this camp.”

Patroclus startled back. “What? Why?”

“You know what I must ask of Agamemnon today. He will strike back at me if he can. A prize for a prize. I’d rather see her gone of my own will than be taken by that snake.” Patroclus watched him carefully. He did not ask how Achilles knew such a thing, though perhaps it was only common sense. 

“And you will release her?” Patroclus asked slowly. “You will not harm her?”

“No,” Achilles huffed a wry ghost of a laugh. He knew now what Patroclus would risk to ensure her safety. He would not test him again. “I will not harm her. I swear it. So please… wait for me here.”

“I will wait.”

It was the easiest thing in the world. Achilles wore Patroclus’ helmet to hide his bright hair; it was standard, without the markings of any particular king. Briseis had leapt to her feet when Achilles entered her tent.

“Come quickly,” he said, but she shook her head.

“I do not trust you.”

“You do not need to. I swore to him that no harm would come to you. Trust that I will keep my word to him.”

They left. The camp was so overrun with sickness that there was hardly any obstacle to their escape. There were only a few men walking about, and the ones that were awake were distorted by the smoke from the ashes of the night’s pyres. Those who might have seen them were either delirious from their fevers or else too busy tending the sick to bother.

They crept into the hills and walked until they could no longer smell the smoke, until it was little more than a dark smudge in the distance. 

“Can you make your way from here?” Achilles asked. She nodded. Troy would grant her sanctuary if she wanted it. Achilles did not care. If she wanted to wander the hills until she dropped, that was her own business. 

“Why?” She asked as Achilles turned to leave. Achilles could not explain. He only shook his head.

“He would not forgive me otherwise.”

Achilles nearly wept anew when he returned to find that Patroclus had kept his word. The man was anxious, pacing their tent, but he was there and Achilles swept him into his arms. 

“Thank you,” he said.

“Is she safe?”

“Yes. As safe as anyone can be in a war.” Achilles said. He could not promise that she would remain safe, but she had been safe when Achilles left her. That was all he could guarantee. “You waited for me.”

“I said that I would.”

“ Thank you ,” Achilles said again. Patroclus looked at him oddly. It was the same look he’d given Achilles when he had asked for Kallikrates and Praxiteles names. The same look as when he’d asked Patroclus to escort the women into the hills. Was it really so strange for him to do these things? Surely, Patroclus needn’t look that surprised. 

“You are acting strange today, Achilles,” he said. 

“I know.” But he did not regret it yet. “Do you wish to go to the healers’ tent now? I will walk with you.”

Achilles’ heart felt lighter than it ever had when he finally met with Agamemnon in the agora. He tried to go through the motions. He tried to summon the rage that was expected of him, but he felt giddy. He knew something that Agamemnon did not. He could not wait to see his face when he realized. 

They returned to the Phthian camp to wait. As with the first ‘nightmare’, only a pair of soldiers arrived to claim Briseis. He waited until they were face to face with Agamemnon’s men before he called Automedon.

“Fetch Briseis,” Achilles commanded and the boy hurried away in the direction of her tent. They waited in awkward silence until Automedon returned with shaking hands.

“I cannot find her, my lord.”

“What do you mean?”

“She is not in her tent.” Automedon explained. Even his voice was shaking now. “She is not with the other women.”

“What have you done with her?” One of the guards turned to Achilles. He too looked shaken, no doubt fearing Agamemnon’s wrath should he return empty handed. 

“You accuse Aristos Achaion?” Achilles simply raised an eyebrow. Agamemnon’s men conferred among themselves. They had not been prepared to meet with any complications. 

“I will fetch my king,” One announced.

“I will stay.” The other said. It went unspoken that he was to stay in order to watch the Phthians in case they tried something underhanded.

“Do,” Achilles waved a hand dismissively and settled down to lunch with Patroclus. 

Agamemnon was purple in the face before he opened his mouth.

“What is the meaning of this, Pelides?” He blustered. He had a few more men with him, but not so many that Achilles worried.

“The meaning is that your men were unable to find the girl,” Achilles said coolly. 

“If you’ve hidden her somewhere-”

“I have done no such thing.” Achilles interrupted sharply. “Search the place yourself if you think you can do a better job of finding her.”

Agamemnon narrowed his eyes. He was stuffed with every flaw that Achilles could imagine, but never let it be said that Agamemnon was entirely stupid.

“You got rid of her.” He said. 

“That is a heavy accusation to lay on Aristos Achaion.” Achilles didn’t think he ever used the title more than when he was speaking with Agamemnon. Truly, he did not know that he ever used it except on Agamemnon. But then, he was the only person who needed reminding.“If she is not here, then she must have run away.”

“You keep such poor track of your things?”

“What I do with my ‘things’ is my own business.” Achilles sniffed. Agamemnon grit his teeth.

“Search the camp,” he told his men. “But if she is not here, I will not walk away empty handed.”

What began as an idle search soon escalated to full on ransacking. Neither Agamemnon nor Achilles moved to stop them and soon the Mycenaean men seemed to be taking joy in smashing pottery to pieces, tearing blankets and clothes apart, splintering wooden benches and heckling the slave girls under the pretense of thinking each of them to be Briseis. Achilles supposed he should count himself lucky that no one set fire to the place. 

Let them have their fun , he thought to himself, it will not summon her back. Soon enough Agamemnon seemed to realize this as well.

“Enough!” He cried, summoning his men back to his side. “The girl is not here. She might very well be dead, for all we know.”

Achilles felt the satisfaction rolling off his back. This is what he had craved. Agamemnon furious, stripped of his prize, unable to prove Achilles had anything to do with it. Only, Agamemnon did not look how Achilles had imagined he would. He was angry, to be sure, but it was not the wild senseless rage Achilles had hoped for. He seemed almost calm despite everything.

“If I cannot have his best prize, I will settle for his favorite bed warmer.” Agamemnon sneered.

For a moment, Achilles could not fathom what he meant. Who would the Greeks assume he liked next best among the slave girls after Briseis? Beside him, Patroclus sucked in a sharp breath and Achilles suddenly understood.

His sword was in his hand before he realized it. He bared his teeth at Agamemnon. Phoenix hurried forward.

“Patroclus is not a war prize. He cannot be traded as one.” Phoenix said, though it was unclear who he was attempting to placate. 

“I fail to see why not. If something barks like a dog, it is a dog. If someone spreads his legs like a whore, then he is a whore.” Agamemnon was clearly unimpressed with the old man. “What is good enough for Aristos Achaion is good enough for High King of the Greeks.”

“Try it! I dare you! See how quickly your head falls from your shoulders!” Achilles’ bellowed. Agamemnon gestured his men forward. They took only a few steps before they hesitated. Even for their king, none were eager to face Achilles.

“You know this to be beneath you,” Achilles hissed at the men. “What king may lay claim to another free soldier? If you allow this here, what is to stop the others from following suit? Who will stop me from laying claim to all of you?”

There was a ripple among the men. Patroclus was well-known throughout the army. Regardless of how they felt about Achilles, at least a few of them must have met Patroclus in the healer’s tent if not on the battlefield. Generally speaking, Achilles realized, men’s greatest quarrel with Patroclus was that he was close with Achilles - not through any particular flaw of his own. Achilles hoped that this would be enough to stay the men.

Even if it were not, Achilles’ threat might be. Agamemnon’s demand was unheard of. If they followed his order, it would set the precedent that any man could be abducted from his camp at the whims of a foreign king. Finally, Agamemnon’s face contorted into the apoplectic rage Achilles had initially hoped for.

“Any man that does not move forward will be executed for the traitor he is!” Agamemnon roared. 

The Myceneans moved. 

Chapter Text

Achilles awoke, still seething. It hadn’t taken long for the fighting to spread throughout the Greek camp. The Trojans had probably been dancing for joy as the Greeks had torn themselves apart. It was Agamemnon’s threat, however, that lodged itself in Achilles’ ribs and refused to leave. 

Achilles had been told a hundred times that he was a possessive man, a jealous one, but he’d never thought to be jealous over Patroclus before. It had never occurred to him. Patroclus was his and he was Patroclus’. There had never been room for any other truth and no one had ever dared to challenge it before. 

Perhaps Agamemnon would only have held him hostage. But what if he hadn’t , a voice in Achilles’ mind hissed, what if he’d done more? Agamemnon was not known for controlling his lust, even if he was not known to favor boys much. He had certainly spoken as though he intended to take Patroclus to bed. The thought of Agamemnon’s sweaty hands touching any part of Patroclus, even just his arm, made Achilles’ throat burn. The thought of his mouth near enough even just for Patroclus to sense his breath and Achilles felt as though he could have breathed fire.

“Chilles?”

Achilles curled himself against Patroclus’ back, wrapping his arms tightly around his waist. He pressed his mouth to the back of Patroclus’ neck, felt the top of his spine under his tongue, sunk his teeth into the back of his shoulder. Patroclus gave a muffled yelp, suddenly much more awake than he had been a moment before, but he did not pull away. He leaned back against Achilles, threaded their fingers together, pulled Achilles’ arms tighter around him. 

“Patroclus.” Pa-tro-clus. 

“I am here,” Patroclus said. Achilles pressed himself between Patroclus’ thighs. He reached down to grip Patroclus so that each time Achilles thrust against him, it would push him against his fist.

“Patroclus…  Patroclus…  Patroclus.”

Achilles felt like a beast, gripping the back of Patroclus’ neck with his teeth while he rutted against his legs, but he did not care. He held them together so tightly it must have hurt, but it did not stop them from rocking together to completion. 

Afterward as they caught their breath, Achilles rolled Patroclus onto his back so that he could look on his face. The pleasure had helped erase some of Agamemnon’s threat from Achilles’ mind, but not all of it.

“You are mine. ” He said fiercely. “Do you understand? I will not ceed you to anyone else.”

To his annoyance, Patroclus only laughed. “Who else on earth would want me anyway?”

Achilles did not like that answer. Everyone, he wanted to say, anyone whose mind was sound. How could they not? Or else he wanted to say, surely that is not the only reason you stay. Surely it is not for lack of better options. But Achilles did not say these things. Instead he frowned like a put out child and bit Patroclus’ lower lip in retaliation. 

“ Mine. ” He insisted. “Say it back to me.”

“I am yours, Achilles,” Patroclus said, though the laughter was not gone from his voice or his eyes. “As though I could be anyone else’s.”

Now ask it of me, he almost said. Now say that I am yours too. Say you do not wish to let anyone else have me either. Patroclus did not say any of this. He brushed the hair away from Achilles’ face and shook his head. 

“You are in a peculiar mood this morning,” he said. Achilles could only hum in agreement, struggling to understand the tangle of emotion suddenly lodged in his chest.  “Are you well?”

“My dreams have been strange of late,” Achilles said, though that hardly seemed to describe even a fraction of what he had seen. 

They lay together a while longer, Patroclus tracing invisible patterns on Achilles’ back until he finally rose and began to dress for the day. 

“Are you coming?” Patroclus asked. Achilles shook his head. 

“Not yet. I will catch up.” 

Patroclus nodded and left and Achilles tried not to worry. Nothing ill had ever befallen him on this particular morning. Everything always came to a head in the afternoon. He should be fine for a few hours.

Achilles shut his eyes. He was beginning to run out of ideas. What would become of him if he never managed to keep Patroclus alive? How long could he stand this cycle before he went stark raving mad? He could not simply kill himself either. First because he could not bear for his legacy to end in such a lowly way, and second because his death had never done anything to stop the cycle before. 

He could not stop thinking of the Mycenaean soldiers in the last cycle. If they’d had a larger audience, if there had been other men echoing Achilles’ words, would the soldiers still have given into Agamemnon’s threats? Achilles guessed that the Mycenaeans had seen death as a certainty by the time they attacked. It was only that Achilles would grant them swift deaths and Agamemnon would undoubtedly devise something slow and creative.

But they had stopped. Only for a moment, but Achilles had been able to stop them with peer pressure alone. It was worth a try. It wasn’t as though he had any other ideas.

Achilles scattered the Myrmidons throughout the crowd that would gather for his and Agamemnon’s spectacle. 

“You must protest,” he instructed them. “Loudly. Involve the men beside you from the other camps. Convince them that they must protest as well. Whatever idiotic scheme Agamemnon suggests, let it be known that the men disagree.”

It felt a bit underhanded. He felt as though he were essentially instructing his men to fight this one for him, which sat poorly with Achilles. But who else would know of it outside the Myrmidons? And it wasn’t as though the Myrmidons objected to the scheme. They seemed to look forward to smacking aside any ideas Agamemnon put forth. Agamemnon was unpopular even now, before he tried to claim Briseis. 

It worked better than Achilles ever could have hoped. The seed of discomfort that he felt at using such a manipulative tactic was forgotten as soon as the men began to shout. Satisfaction bloomed in Achilles’ chest as Agamemnon once again turned purple with rage as the crowd aired their grievances.

“Just give over the girl!”

“Find another hole to wet your dick!”

“You brought this plague upon us!”

“Who will fight the Trojans when all of us are dead?”

“Are you going to pout about it like a girl without her favorite doll?”

“He takes Aristos Achaion’s prize today - whose will he take tomorrow?”

It was everything Achilles had longed for in that first nightmare. He had longed to hear the men’s validation. He didn’t care if they’d thought all this back then; it hadn’t helped him at all when it remained unspoken. They were so effective, in fact, that Achilles barely had to lift a finger during the entire argument. The crowd did all the work for him until Agamemnon was forced to bend. 

“You will regret stripping me of my honors,” Agamemnon shouted over the crowd. “From this day forth, Mycenae will not lift its sword for you. We will watch as you all perish until our honor is returned.”

Agamemnon stalked away. His men trickled out after him. Achilles finally allowed himself to grin. Finally, finally, he had finally managed to force Agamemnon’s hand without losing Chryseis or Briseis.

That night in the Myrmidon camp, they celebrated Agamemnon’s humiliation and the end of the plague. Achilles could not remember the last night he’d felt so carefree. They mixed bowl after bowl of wine until the men were howling with laughter and composing lewd songs to honor the day. Later, when everyone had shambled off to bed or else snored by the fire, Achilles pulled Patroclus into their tent and they made love once more.

“You’re insatiable,” Patroclus teased afterward. 

“How can you say such a thing? It is only natural after having to spend all day without touching you.” 

Patroclus laughed. When was the last time he’d heard Patroclus laugh so much? He had never been so merry in all the other dreams. They slept and Achilles wondered when that laughter had faded. How had he failed to notice its absence? 

It was easy at first. The Greek army was visibly smaller without the Mycenaeans, but it did not matter. They had Achilles . And how incredible did it feel to be out on the field while Agamemnon sulked, dishonored in his tent? Achilles did not think he could imagine a better outcome. 

The first days were marked with continued celebration. They did not need the Mycenaeans. They would win the war without them and carry home Agamemnon’s portion of the treasure themselves. 

Only victory did not come so easily as Achilles thought. 

He did not think much of other men’s skill, but he knew there were a handful of talented warriors besides himself: Ajax and Diomedes and Odysseus to start. As the days wore on, however, it became clear that it was difficult to gain ground with only a handful of exceptional men. But they did not lose ground, not yet.

Only when Troy’s allies began to flock to her side did the situation begin to deteriorate. Achilles was never forced back himself. Rather, he became an island in the middle of the battle. The lines around him withdrew inch by inch until he realized he was alone in the midst of the enemy’s army. 

Irritation crept into Achilles’ joy. No one else could keep up with him. He could not hold the entire line by himself. Inch by inch, the other Greeks pulled Achilles back toward the sea, toward the ships. 

“They are outside the camp.” Patroclus said one morning. “I could see the lights of their fires from the hill last night. They will reach our walls today.”

Achilles flinched. If he ever heard those words again it would be too soon. “I will not let them burn the ships.”

In his first, most awful dream, Patroclus had turned the tide of this battle, dressed in Achilles’ armor. Now, Achilles never took off his armor and it was Agamemnon who held the balance of the battle in his hands. Only, Agamemnon had no Patroclus. He had no one to force him to release his men, no one who cried for the Greeks as Patroclus had cried. 

They all burned for it.

Achilles woke.

And immediately shut his eyes again. He’d managed to avoid the entire conflict over Briseis and still he had not been able to prevent Patroclus’ death. If that did not work, then he did not know what would. 

Before this, Achilles had only felt despair when Patroclus died. That had been greater than despair; that had been a grief so sharp and all consuming that Achilles had been surprised it did not cut him open where he stood. This felt different. This was a stone in his stomach. Lead in his bones. This was anger and futility. 

Perhaps he would do nothing this time. Perhaps he would lay in bed and refuse to move until catastrophe befell them. He barely even had to imagine Patroclus’ disappointment. He’d been on the receiving end of it so many times now. 

Achilles did not believe himself a fool, but he wished suddenly that Athena would touch him, would grant him the wisdom to find the way out of this labyrinth. He doubted she would, even if he prayed to her.

He realized suddenly that, though he might not be favored by Athena, he knew of one who was. He sat up. 

“Chilles?”

“Go back to sleep.” 

“Where are you going?” Patroclus asked and for a flash Achilles wanted to shout at him. They were not chained together. He could go where he pleased without reporting his movements at all times. Achilles bit his tongue, but it was a near thing.

“I am going to speak with Odysseus. I will return soon.” He left before Patroclus could offer to accompany him. 

The king of Ithaca watched Achilles over his long knotted fingers. He had been intrigued to receive Achilles, especially alone at so early an hour. 

“You know the cause of the plague,” Achilles accused.

“I have a theory,” Odysseus said. 

“Why have you not confronted him?” Achilles clenched his fists. All this time he’d assumed the task must fall to him. Had Odysseus been hiding behind him all the while? Letting Achilles take the brunt of Agamemnon’s anger so that he did not have to?

“The only one more unpredictable than our high king is you, Prince Achilles,” Odysseus told him. “I would not wake a bear unarmed and neither would I face Agamemnon without a plan.”

Wiley Odysseus. Crafty Odysseus. Odysseus of the thousand tricks. Achilles hated him then almost as much as he’d hated him on Scyros. 

“I can tell you what he will say,” Achilles growled. “Craft me a plan from that.”

Perhaps it was telling that Odysseues did not ask how Achilles knew such a thing. Achilles laid out the events to come step by step and all the while Odysseus watched him over his folded fingers. When Achilles had finished, he paused for a long while to think. 

“Offer Briseis to him before he can ask for her,” Odysseus suggested. “I doubt he will want to be seen taking charity. He would not accept.”

Achilles’ rage sprung anew. “I will not! I will not give him crumbs from my meal, let alone my fair-won honors.”

“Then offer to send her along with Chryseis back to the priest,” Odysseus said. “Show them that there is no sacrifice you will ask of them that you are not also willing to make yourself.”

“You have not been listening!” Achilles cried. “I cannot let them take her. I will not dishonor myself simply to flatter Agamemnon’s ego.”

Odysseus sighed deeply and sat back in his seat. 

“You asked for my advice, Prince Achilles. I have given it to you. Make of it what you will.”

Achilles left, seething.

By the time he returned to their tent, Patroclus had gone for the day. Achilles did not seek him out. He brooded until long past the time he normally went to confront Agamemnon, and still he could devise no plan. He brooded through lunch, through supper until the sun had set and Patroclus returned slowly to the tent. 

“Did your meeting with Odysseus go well?” Patroclus asked as he washed his hands and face in the basin by the fire. 

“He hears only what he wishes and crafts plans that benefit him alone.” Achilles spat.

“Surely, they must benefit some other people.” Patroclus said diplomatically. “He cannot win the war all on his own. He must keep some allies.”

“If you think him so clever, then go sleep in his tent.” Achilles snapped. He did not wish to hear anything diplomatic about Odysseus. Patroclus set down the cloth he’d been using to wipe his face and frowned over at Achilles.

“You know that I do not wish to.” He said. “Why do you say such a thing? What troubles you?”

“Odysseus troubles me! And Agamemnon. And every fool who kisses his horrid feet. I hate them.”

“Do not say so,” Patroclus said with a heavy sigh. “We are losing so many. We cannot afford to be divided amongst ourselves.”

“I do not divide us! They divide us! I will not bow and scrape like the rest of them! I will not lower myself for their pleasure! I will not yield!” Achilles shouted. Patroclus flinched. It was the tiniest of things, but Achilles saw it. “And you! Why do you recoil as though I would hit you?”

“I did not.”

“You did, I saw you! Is that what you think of me? That I would strike you to appease my own temper? Is that why you always look at me so?”

“Look at you how? Achilles, I do not follow.” Patroclus said, pleading. He set aside the basin but stayed seated on his knees.

“You look at me as though I were a monster.”

“I do not!” Patroclus cried. “I have never!”

“You do! Any time I speak a kind word to anyone else or offer any sort of gentle aid, you look as though you’ve just heard your dog speak! You think I do not have it in me. You promised you would not let the war change how you thought of me. You promised , and yet you think the blood and the anger are all I have left in me! That is what shocks you so when I try to be anything else!”

“That is not true, Achilles.” Patroclus said. There was the slightest wobble in his voice. “You know that is not true.”

“You cannot lie to me, I have seen it.”

“I do not know what you have seen, but I know you are not a monster. You are a man, Achilles. You are the man I love.”

Hearing it almost hurt worse than if Patroclus had agreed with him. Achilles gave a wordless shout of frustration. 

“I cannot speak to you,” he declared. He grabbed his cloak and reached for the tent flap.

“Achilles, wait,” Patroclus called. Achilles did not wait.

Achilles slept on the beach. At least, he tried to sleep.

As soon as he was alone, the anger began to drain from him. He did not know why he had lashed out at Patroclus. He was just so angry all the time. Everything seemed so hopeless and Patroclus would not let him be. 

But even this, Achilles knew, was born from the love Patroclus held for him. He could not let Achilles be because Achilles was suffering and Patroclus could not stand it. Achilles knew this. He knew this and he had still shouted.

He kept expecting to hear Patroclus’ footsteps follow him down to the beach. If Achilles wasn’t following him, then Patroclus was following Achilles. It was just the way things were. 

He did not come.

Achilles returned to the tent before dawn, the darkness acting as a veil to hide his guilt-ridden expression. Patroclus was asleep at their table, his head resting on his arm. He looked exhausted. He’d been toiling away over the plagued men all day, Achilles remembered suddenly, before he’d come back to the tent and Achilles’ temper. And he’d been crying, Achilles realized with a lurch of shame. He’d been crying and now he was shivering again.

Achilles’ heart fell. Achilles had not confronted Agamemnon, but it had not even been a full day yet. Surely Apollo’s arrows were not so swift.

They were. Achilles brought them to bed so that they did not have to die on the ground before the fire again.

“Please,” Achilles whispered to the dawn when he woke. “Please, I cannot keep doing this.”

No one answered him.

He feigned sleep until Patroclus woke him and went through the motions of the day as best he could. He could not think of a way to alter the conflict with Agamemnon.

“You’re just going to let him take her?” Patroclus cried. Achilles had nothing more to say.

He lay in their bed with his back to the world and let the days roll on. 

“He is outside the camp.” Patroclus finally said. “I could see the lights of their fires from the hill last night. They will reach our walls today.”

He did not beg Achilles to fight. He did not ask for Achilles’ armor. He did not weep or plead or say anything at all to Achilles. 

He stole the armor while Achilles slept and returned in Menelaus’ arms again, covered in his shroud. No one had known, it seemed, not even the Myrmidons - no one had known until the helmet had fallen from his head. Achilles got up long enough to carry Patroclus’ body back to their bed before he returned to his position and shut his eyes.

The camp was overrun twice more.

The plague claimed them only once more.

Patroclus was caught freeing Briseis again. 

Achilles freed Chryseis before he confronted Agamemnon, though it made no difference. 

He slew Odysseus once, just to get his resentment out of his system.

Once, he screamed at Patroclus to go, to get out and go as far from the Greek camp and the war as he could. He said every hurtful thing he could think of to convince him to leave. Patroclus only stole the armor again. Somehow it hurt more when Patroclus did not try to appeal to him first.

Please, he begged anew. Please tell me what I am doing wrong. I will fix it, but I can not know what I do not know.

The guilt was a constant companion now. Each time he failed to save Patroclus was awful, but each time he hurt him was almost as bad. Perhaps he truly did not see Achilles as a monster. Perhaps he should . Every minute they spent together here was a minute stolen and yet Achilles squandered so many of them in anger. 

It is no wonder he looks so surprised each time , Achilles thought bitterly, if this is who I am. He used to enjoy the company of others, once. He’d entertained the boys at his father’s court just for the sake of making them laugh. He’d composed songs just to hear his own voice. He’d stood in the surf just to feel the sand running away under his feet. And he’d done anything and everything he could think of to impress Patroclus, to entertain him, to please him. 

When was the last time he had shared a meal with his men? When was the last time he’d played his lyre? When was the last time he’d done something to surprise Patroclus, just to see the look of confusion and joy on his face?

Patroclus had sworn not to let the war change how he thought of Achilles. Achilles had never sworn not to be changed by the war.

“If you will not go, then let me.” Achilles’ heart stopped in his chest.

“You cannot fight,” How had they arrived here again? 

“I do not need to, put me in your armo–”

“No!” Achilles felt sick to his stomach. He could not do this again. He could not. 

“Achilles!” Patroclus was desperate - he was always desperate. He reached for one of Achilles’ gleaming shin guards, but Achilles snatched it away. He clenched it so tightly that he felt sure the metal would bruise his palms, but he could not let Patroclus take it.

Patroclus reached for the other shin guard and Achilles snatched that too. Patroclus gave a shout of frustration and turned his back. He has given up , Achilles thought hopefully, but of course he had not. If he could not take Achilles’ armor, then he would just take his own. 

Suddenly they were racing against each other to arm themselves, but there was no contest. Achilles’ fingers flew over the buckles and straps. If he was wearing the armor, then Patroclus could not take it after all. He was standing in the doorway to their tent, blocking the way when Patroclus finally slipped his own helmet on. 

“Move, Achilles.”

“No!” Achilles spread his arms. Patroclus stared at him for a long time. He turned on his heel and drew his sword. Before Achilles could think to process what he saw, Patroclus ripped through the tent wall and climbed through the gash. Achilles made a sound like a wounded animal. Patroclus could not go into battle. Achilles could not allow it. He grabbed his spear from where it had sat untouched for weeks. Achilles was faster by far but Patroclus had a head start. If he reached the front lines before Achilles then Achilles must have some way to protect him from afar. 

He raced from the tent, but he could not see Patroclus.

“Automedon!” He cried. “Automedon, the chariot!”

Achilles thought only that it would be easier to drag Patroclus back by chariot than on foot. He did not see the eyes watching him or the sudden flurry of movement around him.

Automedon readied the chariot faster than Achilles had ever seen him do so before. He did not call the men to muster. He did not wait for them, and so he did not notice that they streamed after him. He did not hear the thundering of their footsteps or their battlecries. 

Down to the beach, to the ships, to the flames. Patroclus was here, he only had to find him. He cleared a path for himself without thinking. He did not register the terror on the Trojan’s faces. He did not hear the Greeks’ elated calls of his name. 

There was Patroclus, knee deep in the water, passing bucketful after bucketful of sea water up to the men desperately trying to put out the flames on the ships. Achilles lept from the chariot.

“Patroclus!” He screamed. “Patroclus!”

Achilles did not think he’d ever moved faster in his life. It felt so much like all the other terrors he’d seen. Patroclus would not hear him, Achilles thought, or soon a spear would appear in his chest. But Patroclus looked up, turned toward the sound of his voice. Even with his helmet on, Achilles could see the shock on his face. 

It was only for a moment though and then Patroclus turned all his focus back to the task at hand. Achilles screamed again in frustration. He waded into the water beside him, grabbed him by the arm.

“Patroclus!”

“Later!” Patroclus snapped. “Help me first!”

What else was he to do? Achilles leapt onto the deck of the ship Patroclus was working on. It was easy from there to spot anyone who turned their eye in his direction. They fell before they even had the chance to raise their arms to strike. Man after man after man. Achilles barely paused long enough to ensure that they were enemy soldiers.

And then there was Hector. Patroclus had not seen him yet. Good. He would try to stop Achilles if he knew. Achilles had not forgiven Hector for the first death. 

Achilles jumped from the ship on the opposite side from where Patroclus worked. Whatever Hector saw in his eyes sent the man leaping back to his own chariot. Achilles had barely to raise his hand for Automedon to bring Xanthus and Balius near, he did not even need to speak for the boy to steer them after Hector. 

The Trojans saw. They saw their prince with dreaded Achilles on his heels and their resolve crumbled. They scrambled madly against the sand, back away from the beach, away from the ships, away from the camp. Achilles chased after Hector, but soon he lost track of the man in the sea of retreating soldiers. Fine then. Let him escape today. He’d been away from Patroclus’ side too long. 

Fear seized him once more and he wheeled the chariot back around. How would he find him this time? Face down in the sea or washed up on the shore? Shrouded in Menelaus’ arms or trampled black and blue under the feet of the fleeing soldiers?

“Achilles!”

On his own two feet, Patroclus ran out of the sea and up the beach to meet him. Achilles stumbled from the chariot, his feet failing him for once in his life. He dared not breathe. Surely there would be a stray arrow, some wound or poison not yet seen. Achilles tried to speak his name, but his voice cracked before he could.

Patroclus tossed his helmet aside. He grabbed Achilles by the forearms, staring at him. It was not the stare Achilles had grown to fear: the confusion, the surprise (or worse, the anger and disgust). Patroclus was grinning. His eyes shone.

“You are here,” He marveled. “You are here. ”

What is so marvelous about that? Achilles wanted to ask. You are here! That is what is truly marvelous! The words would not come. He gaped and swallowed like a fish out of water.

“Achilles? Are you well? Are you hurt? You are shaking.”

Achilles broke. He did not care who saw. He pulled Patroclus to his chest. He wept as he ran his hands over his back, his arms, his head, searching for a wound that did not exist. Finally, Achilles threw aside his own helmet. He pressed his face to Patroclus’ hair. He kissed the crown of his head over and over.

“Do not-” Achilles choked. “Do not ever do that again!”

“Achilles?”

“Do not go into battle without me, do you understand? I dont- I don’t care what we might have argued about. Never leave me behind again.” Achilles could not stop weeping, even as he found his voice. 

“I scared you,” Patroclus said quietly, as though the thought had not occurred to him before. Achilles grunted in frustration. 

“I have never been so afraid.” Somehow it did not feel like admitting vulnerability to say it. It was only stating the obvious. “I don’t- Never again, you hear me? I don’t care if it’s some prize or my honor or anything else. Everything else can be fixed, but not- not if you–”

“I am here.” Patroclus said, apologetic for the first time. “I will not do it again, I promise.”

Achilles nodded, unable to speak another word. 

It would be hours- after they’d returned home, after they’d stripped off their armor, after they’d washed themselves, after Patroclus had fallen asleep - before Achilles stopped shaking. Still, he dared not close his eyes. If he woke to the same day after this, he felt sure he would shatter into a thousand pieces. He lay with his head on Patroclus’ chest to feel its rise and fall. If he concentrated, he could hear his heartbeat. One after the next after the next after the next…

Achilles slept.

When he woke, Achilles shook Patroclus awake.

“Where is Hector?” He asked, breathless. He should not have fallen asleep.

“Mmm I do not know,” Patroclus shuffled beneath him without opening his eyes. “At home licking his wounds, I suppose.”

“The ships?”

“The ships are safe, Achilles.” Patroclus yawned before his face settled into a lazy smile. “You saved them.”

Achilles felt as though he might collapse with relief. 

“Last night?” He asked, still shaken. Patroclus’ smile only broadened. He ran a hand through Achilles’ hair. 

“You were brilliant.” Patroclus said. “I wish you could have seen yourself.”

Achilles was not sure he’d ever heard Patroclus praise him for fighting before, not directly. They did not discuss it much. Achilles was the best and they both knew it so there was not much to say. Even so, the praise warmed him in a way Achilles did not expect. Patroclus continued to run his fingers through Achilles’ hair.

“You did it,” Patroclus said, still smiling. “You saved them. You were like the sun burning away the morning fog, the way they all fled before you.”

Achilles was surprised to feel his face warming. He knew all this and yet he had not realized how badly he wanted to hear it from Patroclus. He let himself bask in the praise for a moment before he sighed ruefully.

“I only hope I can salvage my honor as easily as I saved the Greeks.”

To his annoyance, Patroclus laughed.

“You truly did not see them?” Patroclus asked. “You did not hear them? Achilles, they called only your name. They watched only you. Perhaps some are still resentful, but they looked at you as though you were driving Helios’ chariot all by yourself. I do not worry about your honor.”

Achilles did not bother to contradict him. It was not as though he’d been paying any attention to anyone else last night. They could have all turned into a flock of colorful birds and Achilles probably would not have noticed. Instead, Achilles pressed his face against Patroclus’ chest, once more straining to hear his heartbeat.

“Do you remember what you promised me?” Achilles asked.

“I will not go into battle alone again,” Patroclus repeated dutifully. “I remember. I promise. I am sorry.”

“No, you’re not,” Achilles grumbled.

“I am sorry that I frightened you,” Patroclus amended. “I did not… I did not think it would affect you so.”

At this, Achilles sat up with a frown. “Did you think I would not care? ”

“No! No, not that. I knew you would mourn. I just did not think…” Patroclus trailed off, searching for the words. “I thought you would recover.”

“Never.” Achilles braced his hands on either side of Patroclus’ head, hovering over him. “How can you think so little of yourself?”

“Well… You’re Achilles.” Patroclus said, as though this were sufficient explanation.

“And you are Patroclus.” Achilles countered. He bit his lip, frowning, before he lay back down with a sigh. “I think I have failed you. If you do not realize that none of it means anything without you, then I have not done enough to show you your own importance.”

“Achilles, you’ve done plenty,” Patroclus hurried to say, but Achilles only shook his head.

“Not enough. I am sorry. I will try to show you now, so that you will not forget again.” 

“Well, then, I suppose I look forward to seeing it.”

Achilles did not think Patroclus had lied about the men’s reactions last night, but he suspected that Patroclus was exaggerating or perhaps just biased.

Thus, he was taken somewhat by surprise when, upon emerging from their tent, he was beset by crowds of eager men. They called his name. They reached toward him. Achilles did his best to greet them in return, surprised by the strength of their joy. But these were Myrmidons. Surely the rest of the camp would not be so forgiving.

And yet, everywhere he went that day, the murmurs followed him. The faces he expected to be filled with resentment or, worse, pity, were mostly filled with admiration and awe. His name was repeated with reverence everywhere he went. Truthfully, he had not been prepared. Achilles had been bracing himself to rail against their disdain and he did not know what to do when he found that it did not exist.

Achilles withdrew to the Myrmidon camp. This was better, he decided. He could handle their joy because he knew them. Perhaps he still did not know all their names, but their faces were familiar after so many years together. They knew him well too: they knew which cuts of the roast he preferred, they knew that he preferred hearing songs to hearing long-winded tales, and, most importantly, they knew to reserve the space beside him for Patroclus. 

Achilles sat back, content to watch them move around him as they celebrated that night. He felt very strange, but for once, it was not uncomfortable. His belly was full and his skin was warm and his heart was oddly light. He felt proud of himself, but he also felt regret.

“Is it strange,” He asked Patroclus quietly, “That I do not know their names? It has been nearly ten years.”

“Perhaps a little,” Patroclus said, but without the judgment Achilles feared. Achilles hummed.

“It seems there is more I ought to atone for.” 

“They love you,” Patroclus told him. “You have time.”

The next day, Agamemnon appeared with a host of kings beside him. Behind them, a swarm of men drove carts stacked full into the Myrmidon camp.

“What is all this?” Achilles asked. They had offered him bribes before when they begged him to return to the fight, but he had already returned. He did not see what the use of it was now. Agamemnon cleared his throat.

“It is time to put aside our differences. We fight for a common cause. We should be brothers in arms. The gods must have stolen our wits from us to make us so divided.” He said. It sounded rehearsed, but it did not infuriate Achilles like he’d expected it would. Achilles waited. When it became clear that he would not speak, Agamemnon continued. “Please accept this tribute in recognition of your value to the Greeks and as a symbol of our reconciliation.”

Achilles could not help himself. He snorted. Patroclus smacked his arm. Achilles dutifully tried to cover the sound with a quick cough, though from their expressions, the kings arrayed before them were unconvinced. Achilles waved a hand.

“Save your tribute. I do not fight for gold.” He said. On another man, the words might have sounded humble. Achilles was not another man. “If you truly wish to reconcile, I am in favor of it. I will accept this apology if you return the girl.”

“Naturally,” Agamemnon said, though he was clearly clenching his teeth.

“ Publically. You needn’t make a grand speech, but return her to me in the agora before any men who might assemble.” Achilles continued. “A promise whispered behind camp walls does nothing for me. Let them all see how well Agamemnon and Achilles care for each other now.”

Achilles could not quite manage to keep the sarcasm from his voice. Even if they made a show of public reconciliation, everyone already knew the two of them despised each other. Surprisingly, this no longer felt terrifically important. Agamemnon clenched his fists but he nodded curtly.

“Tomorrow then. Before the men. Let no one say that Agamemnon does not grant Aristos Achaion his dues.” 

Achilles had expected more of a commotion. He’d expected to want more of a commotion. The agora was no more or less crowded now than it was on any other day. True to Achilles’ request, Agamemnon kept the exchange brief. Really, all Achilles had to do was show up. Briseis was released with little fanfare, crossing the agora with her head held high, and soon those who had gathered began to disperse. 

“Are you alright?” Patroclus asked her when they had returned to the Myrmidon camp. “Are you hurt?”

“No, I am alright. You saw to that.” Briseis said before quickly covering her mouth, her eyes darting to Achilles. Oh, he thought, I forgot that I hadn’t discovered Patroclus’ interference this time.  

“Be calm.” Achilles told her. “I am not so ignorant as to think he would sit idly by while you were in peril.”

Even Patroclus looked a little startled at that. He took one of Achilles’ hands.

“You are not angry?” he asked. Achilles shook his head. He had been, once. The first time Patroclus had gone to Agamemnon behind his back, Achilles had been so hurt that he’d accused Patroclus of terrible things. It felt like a very long time ago.

“I am not,” Achilles assured him. “The sun burns, the wind blows, and Patroclus tries to protect those he loves. I do not begrudge you what is simply your nature.”

Now the days felt much as they had before the plague. After breakfast, Achilles would ride out to meet the Trojans on the plains. He would return as the sun set and share the evening meal with Patroclus and his men, and the hours afterward were reserved for him and Patroclus alone. There was an easy rhythm to it, though not identical to how it had been before.

For one thing, Briseis seemed to like him better now. Achilles did not really understand why, since he still rarely crossed paths with her. Occasionally in the morning, if Patroclus sat with her when Achilles was leaving, Achilles would turn to her.

“Keep an eye on him,” he’d say, only partially in jest. 

She seemed to take her job rather seriously though. Sometimes in the evening she would approach him with tidbits about the day. Make sure he washes behind his ears; we got covered in dirt chasing a goat today. Clean your armor yourself tonight; he burnt his fingers pouring tea today but he will try to clean it anyway. Sometimes it was only fragments of something Patroclus had said: he told me you knew how to juggle, he said he likes the wine that Antilochus mixes the best, he missed you today.

Achilles did not know if she realized how valuable a currency the information was to him, but he tried occasionally to supply her with his own. He was even quieter as a boy than he is now. He did not know how to talk to any girl before you. He liked the story of Perseus best because it had the happiest ending.

“What are you two whispering about?” Patroclus would ask when he found them conspiring at such times. 

“You,” Achilles would say honestly, for Patroclus never believed him. He only shook his head and laughed.

They continued on like this, week after week, and soon Achilles’ heart began to grow heavy.

“I must face Hector soon,” He whispered to Briseis one night. “I cannot put it off much longer.”

She only nodded. She likely wanted Hector to die almost as little as Patroclus did. She was Anatolian after all. Achilles knew Hector was loved by his people.

“Will you stay with him… afterward?” Achilles asked. He did not know how long it would be between Hector’s death and his own. There was a time when Achilles felt sure that Briseis would have grinned to hear news of his hastening demise, but her brow only furrowed.

“Stay with him yourself,” she told him. 

I would if I could, he wanted to say, do you think I do not wish the same?

“Return my body to my family,” Hector said when the end was clear. Achilles nodded. The man had not killed Patroclus this time. Achilles did it swiftly. He stayed by the corpse until Hector’s brothers came to collect it. There would be no skirmish over the body or its armor. He could sense the Greeks’ displeasure at his decision but he did not care. What has Hector ever done to me? 

Patroclus wept when he heard what Achilles had done. He did not ask why he’d done it now, why he couldn’t have waited just a little longer. He only clung to Achilles as though he thought he would disappear from the spot.

“Take me with you tomorrow,” he begged when he gathered himself enough to speak.

“You do not like the fighting,” Achilles said.

“I do not care. If something were to happen and I was not there, I could not bear it.” Patroclus buried his face against Achilles' shoulder. Achilles nodded. With Hector gone, there was no one who posed so great a threat that he could not protect Patroclus from it. Better to have him where he could see him than risk Patroclus running headlong after him with no one to guard his back.

The next morning they readied themselves together and spent the day on the field. Achilles would never call those plains ‘peaceful’ but for now they remained predictable. It was as Achilles thought: he kept Patroclus in sight and otherwise waded through their enemies as easily as he might ford a creek. Achilles did not die that day. Nor the next or the next or the next. 

Even Patroclus could not remain at the height of his grief and fear for so long. It was like those first days at Troy, when they had not yet realized the years they could steal. Eventually they had learned to live with the threat of Achilles’ death hanging over them and slowly they began to do so again. Patroclus still followed him out onto the field, but it was becoming a routine. Day after day after day.

Until the smudge of new ships appeared over the horizon.

Chapter Text

“I am Neoptolemus of Scyros, called Pyrrhus, son of Achilles, son of Peleus, son of Aceus, son of Zeus. I have come to bring you victory.”

Achilles bit his cheek hard. He could see his mother’s handiwork in the dazzling effect hanging about Neoptolomus’ person. Achilles was sure that to anyone else watching, Neoptolemus would look young but uncannily ageless - a godling coming into his own. 

To Achilles, however, who’d spent nearly all his life acquainting himself with Thetis’ handiwork, he saw only that the boy’s feet were a bit too big for his body, that there was a pimple that refused to be banished from his chin, that he had a smattering of freckles across his cheeks. Achilles could not help himself. He threw his head back and laughed. 

The gathered crowd turned to gape at him. Pyrrhus himself looked momentarily shocked, but he gathered himself quickly. He strode through the crowd and dropped to one knee before Achilles.

“Father,” he said solemnly, head bowed. Achilles winced. It felt strange to be called as such. 

“Aye. I suppose that would be me,” Achilles grimaced. “What are you doing here?”

“I have come to join you on the battlefield. It is said that you cannot take the city without me.”

“Oh? Is it known?” Achilles could not keep the skepticism from his face. 

“It is known.”

Perhaps it was true, but Achilles had trouble picturing it. Pyrrhus was just a boy. Achilles had been that age once and he too had spoken freely of a grand prophecy, but seeing it reflected back at him was enough to make him cringe. Achilles opened his mouth to say as much only to feel Patroclus’ elbow in his ribs. 

Achilles glanced over his shoulder to find Patroclus looking at him meaningfully, tilting his head ever so slightly in the direction of their tent. Not here , Achilles understood him to say. Achilles sighed but relented easily.

“Let us continue this conversation elsewhere. Somewhere more comfortable.”

Pyrrhus looked odd seated in their tent at the Myrmidon camp. He had sent the men of Scyros on to set up their own camp while he followed Achilles. 

“Have you eaten?” Patroclus asked gently.

“No. A light meal will suffice. Bread, cheese, and wine.” Pyrrhus said without a glance in Patroclus’ direction. 

“Do not order him about like that,” Achilles said sharply. “He is not a slave.”

“Is he not? I was mistaken then.” 

“Apologize properly,” Achilles demanded only for Patroclus to roll his eyes.

“Achilles, it is fine. I was going to fetch us lunch anyway,” he said before departing to do just that. Without Patroclus to act as a buffer, the air grew tense and awkward between them. Achilles could see Pyrrhus sizing him up, no doubt comparing him to whatever tales Thetis had told him. At the same time, Achilles searched the boy's face, trying to see if he really bore any resemblance to him.

Pyrrhus had an unfamiliar upturned nose and an almost delicate chin. Despite this and the fiery red hair, Achilles was forced to admit there was something unmistakably familiar in the shape of his brow and his eyes. Achilles wasn’t sure which would have made him more uncomfortable: that Pyrrhus looked like him even a little or if he’d found no trace of himself at all.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Achilles said finally. 

“That is not for you to decide. It is fated. It is known .” 

“I’m sure it is,” Achilles said with a wave of his hand, “But it will still be true in a few years. War is no place for a boy.”

“I am not a child. I will be thirteen this summer,” Pyrrhus told him imperiously.

“The very fact that you think thirteen is not a child tells me that you most certainly are.”

“I will be Aristos Achaion after you. If you were to die tomorrow, it would fall to me today - man or no.”

“You should be so lucky,” Achilles sighed, rubbing his temple. Surely he had not been like this at this age. At the very least, he’d never been so blatantly disrespectful to Peleus. 

“Father-”

“Please, don’t call me that.” Achilles winced again. He did not see the flicker of disappointment, quickly extinguished.

“Lord Achilles-” Pyrrhus tried again only for Achilles to shake his head violently.

“Gods, no, that is even worse. Achilles. Just call me Achilles.” Pyrrhus made a face of distaste. What son called his own father by his given name?

They were saved from themselves with the arrival of Patroclus and lunch. Pyrrhus seemed surprised when Patroclus sat down to eat alongside them, but he did not object openly. But perhaps this was only because of Achilles’ pointed stare. 

“So, Pyrrhus, I hear you were raised by your grandmother,” Patroclus said easily. Pyrrhus ignored him. Achilles kicked the boy under the table earning himself a startled glare. 

“Answer when you are spoken to.”

“Achilles, he needn’t answer if he does not wish to,” Patroclus said, though he was ignored in favor of a wordless power struggle between father and son. 

“Yes.” Pyrrhus said finally, stiff as a piece of driftwood. “I was raised by my grandmother.”

“I have met her a few times,” Patroclus said. “Did she take you to her home or did she come to you on Scyros?”

Pyrrhus hesitated for another moment, stealing glances at Achilles. “She came to Scyros until I was four. After that we lived with her sisters.”

Four was later than Achilles had thought it would be. His mother made it sound like she intended to pluck the baby straight from its mother’s breast as soon as it was born. Then Achilles tried to picture Thetis caring for an infant with all its squalling and its constant need for food and its foul messes. The image of his composed beautiful mother trying to deal with a baby was almost enough to make him laugh.

“Did you like it there?” Patroclus asked. Pyrrhus seemed truly taken aback by the question. 

“I suppose,” he said after a moment. Patroclus smiled as though he could not hear the disquiet in the boy’s voice. 

“What did you like about it?”

Pyrrhus paused for a long while, frowning. Achilles was interested despite himself. His mother had spoken about taking him away down beneath the waves so many times that he had come to dread it. He’d always pictured it as a dark, cold place, far from the sun and the green earth and  - most importantly - far from Patroclus. 

“Lord Nereus keeps a stable of Hippocampi,” Pyrrhus said slowly, still frowning. Sea horses. “I was taught to ride them.”

“Have you met Xanthus and Balius?” Patroclus asked. Pyrrhus shook his head. “They are your grandfather’s horses. It is said they were given to him as a wedding gift by Poseidon himself.”

Pyrrhus snorted disbelief, but Patroclus did not seem to mind. “They might not compare to a hippocampus, but they are magnificent animals. We shall visit them after lunch.”

Slowly, over the course of the meal, Patroclus coaxed the words from Pyrrhus. He liked horses and riding - at least, he liked the hippocampi. He liked exploring sunken shipwrecks and collecting trinkets from them. He liked music, but he did not know how to play. He only listened to the singing of the nereids. 

After lunch, Patroclus made good on his word and led them to the stables. He hung back to let Pyrrhus examine the horses at his leisure and Achilles fell in beside him.

“What are you doing?” He asked.

“I am trying to get to know your son,” Patroclus chuckled.

“Why?”

Patroclus looked at him as though he’d just asked why one slept at night instead of during the day. 

“Because he is your son , Achilles.” He did not sound recriminating, at least, just amused. “Go. Speak to him.”

Achilles did not particularly want to speak to Pyrrhus, but he wanted to disappoint Patroclus even less. He grudgingly joined Pyrrhus where the boy inspected the horses.

“They are fine horses,” Pyrrhus admitted when Achilles was near enough. “They will be mine as well when you are dead.”

“I suppose,” Achilles shrugged. He wished the boy would stop mentioning his death quite so frequently. It was annoying. They lapsed into awkward silence. Achilles glanced back to where Patroclus still watched, annoyed to find that Patroclus really did seem pleased to watch them interact. He could not just leave yet.

“How is mother?” Achilles asked, stilted. Pyrrhus glanced at him, unimpressed. 

“She is busy.” He said after a moment. Achilles supposed this was his cue to ask what Thetis was busy with, but he found that he did not particularly care. “She said someone had been interfering with you. Something prevented her from seeing you.”

“Is that why she sent you?”

“I do not know.” Pyrrhus said. They returned to their awkward silence. “I will be the next Aristos Achaion after you.”

“It seems likely.”

“Does that mean that I will be better than you are now?”

“I do not know.”

“Grandmother thought that we would never meet.” Pyrrhus said. “So I could never test my skill against yours.”

“They say I am the greatest warrior of my generation.”

“I am not in your generation,” Pyrrhus pointed out, and the realization settled oddly on Achilles’ shoulders. He pondered this for a moment.

“Then come again tomorrow, in the morning. We shall spar.”

That night, Achilles rested his chin on Patroclus’ chest and pouted.

“I still do not understand why you brought him here,” He said.

“Who?”

“Neoptolemus.” 

“Ah, Pyrrhus.” Patroclus had the gall to smile. “I told you. He is your son. I wish to know him.”

“Why?”

“He is partly made up of you. Of course, I wish to know him.” Patroclus said. Achilles frowned.

“I thought you would be angry.”

“I thought I might be too,” Patroclus admitted. He’d certainly been hurt to learn of Daedamia’s pregnancy. “But I am not. I pity him.”

“Pity? He is a prince. He will be the next Aristos Achaion. He will be a hero of the war, if the prophecies may be believed. What is there to pity about him?” Achilles snorted.

“You have not been listening,” Patroclus shook his head fondly. 

“I have!”

“You have been hearing what he said, you have not been listening to all that he did not say.” Patroclus told him.

“What did he not say, then?”

“He has never had a friend before, Achilles.”

“He has. He was raised in Nereus’ palace, he was surrounded by nymphs who must have adored him.”

“Nereids who were essentially his aunts,” Patroclus corrected. “He had no mother, no father, only his grandmother to raise him.”

“You think my mother did something to him? Mistreated him?” Achilles was not offended by the idea. He would not have been surprised, but Patroclus shook his head quickly.

“No, not at all. I think she loves him very much. I think it is only that she does not like or understand humans and Pyrrhus is a human boy.” Patroclus said.

“He has divine blood,” Achilles pointed out. 

“His nearest divine ancestor is Thetis. After that, he must go back four generations to reach another god. He has more mortal blood in him than you do, Achilles.”

“And you think she tried to get rid of it?”

“No. I only think she did not understand things a mortal boy might need. Like sunlight. And companions his own age.” Patroclus said. “Did you not hear it in his voice?”

“Tell me what I did not hear,” Achilles said, curious rather than annoyed for once. 

“He said he was most skilled with a bow, but he carried no quiver and wore no guard. I think he will not wield it, although it is his favorite, because someone has told him that it is a coward’s weapon. Perhaps it was Thetis, perhaps it was someone else. He said he enjoyed music, but he has never learned how to play an instrument. Why? I think it is because he was never allowed the time, or maybe that never dared ask for it. I am sure Thetis made it clear that she wanted to shape him into a warrior. He does not wish to disappoint her. I think he loves her very much. Did you see how he looked at the horses? He must not have seen one since he was a little boy, but he did not run to them. He did not let himself appear too interested. Somewhere along the way, I think he was taught that he ought not to care about the surface world - the world of mortal men. But he is a mortal, Achilles. It is his nature to be a part of this world. He is just a boy. A boy who has never had a friend and never been given the chance to discover what his true nature might be. Perhaps he is crafted only for war, but who knows? Perhaps if he was left alone, he might become a great bard or raise fine horses or craft arrows that fly straight and true each time. I would like to know.”

Achilles lay quiet for a long time after Patroclus had finished speaking. He had looked on Pyrrhus and seen Daedamia pressing her body against his when he did not want it. He had seen the long lonely hours spent cooped up in the women’s quarters on Scyros. He’d seen Patroclus’ heartbroken face when he realized what had happened in his absence. He wondered if Patroclus could be right, or, at the very least, if there could be a boy hidden beneath all those things Achilles wished to forget.

“I invited him to spar with me tomorrow morning,” he said finally. He was rewarded with a smile and a kiss.

“Good. I look forward to it.”

It took nearly an hour for Achilles to defeat Pyrrhus the next day. He was sweating by the time they finished.

Pyrrhus took off his helmet and threw it and his sword to the ground in frustration.

“You did well!” Patroclus said. He carried a bucket of water and a pair of drinking bowls for them.

“I lost ,” Pyrrhus spat. When Patroclus laughed, Pyrrhus looked like he had half a mind to hit him.

“ Everyone loses to Achilles,” Patroclus said. “I have never seen anyone last so long against him. Not even Hector could boast such a time.”

“... Truly?” Pyrrhus asked, suspicious. 

“Truly. And you are young yet. Now drink before you expire.”

Achilles joined them. He drained two bowls before he wiped his mouth and looked at Pyrrhus appraisingly. 

“Three years.” he said. Pyrrhus and Patroclus looked up at him, confused. “I give it three years before you surpass me.”

Pyrrhus looked pleased despite himself. 

“I shall do it in two,” he declared.

“Not if you do not reach your full height, you won’t,” Achilles told him. He ruffled Pyrrhus’ hair without thinking and the boy squawked and hurried to smooth it back into place. Patroclus laughed.

“Come. Eat something before you go.”

They waited for Patroclus to walk on ahead. Pyrrhus turned to Achilles sharply.

“How much for him?” It took Achilles a moment to process the question and when he did, he swatted the back of Pyrrhus’ head.

“He is not for sale. He is not a slave.”

“Really?” Pyrrhus seemed undeterred. “What is he then?”

“He is my therapon.”

“He does not act like one,” Pyrrhus said and Achilles grimaced. It wasn’t entirely true. Patroclus acted like his therapon when they were in public: it was Achilles who could not treat him as anything less than his beloved no matter where they went. 

“He is my philtatos .” Achilles told him. Pyrrhus hummed, considering. 

“Then I shall have him after you are gone,” he decided. Achilles smacked the back of his head again.

“You shall do no such thing.”

“We shall see.”

Outside the Myrmidon’s camp, Pyrrhus remained aloof, confident to the point of arrogance, sharp-eyed and sharper-tongued. Achilles heard the grumbles of the lesser kings: now there were two of them! Gods save them from the scions of Peleus. Achilles did not appreciate being lumped in with the boy even if he was skilled. Despite his trying personality, no one could deny that Neoptolemus had been aptly named.

Inside the Myrmidon camp, however, Pyrrhus changed. 

For one thing, he seemed to always be around now. It felt as though Achilles could not traverse the path between his bed and the latrine without tripping over Pyrrhus. He did not wait to be invited, either, he simply appeared. 

“One of these days, I’m going to trip over that runt and break his scrawny little neck,” Achilles complained once to Briseis. 

“Hush, you. A father should be grateful to have such a son.” She sniffed. Achilles did not have the slightest idea how Pyrrhus had managed to endear himself to Briseis. The first time they’d met, Pyrrhus had ordered her about and tried to pull her onto his lap like a common slave girl. Patroclus had been so upset that, after he’d taken Pyrrhus to task, he retreated with Briseis and had not spoken to Pyrrhus again for the rest of the night.

The boy had never done anything like it again. In fact, it seemed as though Achilles had blinked and suddenly he found Pyrrhus seated in front of Briseis, letting her braid his fiery red hair like she was some favored aunt. 

“But why is he always here?” Achilles whined to Patroclus.

“He loves you, Achilles! Isn’t it natural for a son to want his father’s love?”  Achilles did not reply. He was not convinced that it was his love that Pyrrhus sought. 

Outside the camp, Pyrrhus was known for his cutting words, his skill with a sword. Inside the camp he became a pitiful creature. Poor thing , the women would croon, taken from his mother’s breast so young . Or else, the men would smile at him fondly, what a strapping young lad - he takes after his father. It was no use to try to tell anyone that Pyrrhus was a snot-nosed brat who’d, just this morning, ripped a man’s jaw from his head on the battlefield without a hint of remorse. In the camp, he was suddenly the Myrmidons’ darling. 

One night, when he and Pyrrhus and Patroclus took dinner alone in their tent, Pyrrhus turned to Patroclus. He set down his spoon and looked at him very seriously.

“One day, I will make you my eromenos ,” he stated. 

Achilles choked. He glanced at Patroclus to find the man gaping. For a horrible moment, Achilles feared that he would indulge Pyrrhus in this fantasy as well, but after only a moment he could tell Patroclus was trying desperately not to laugh.

“I- I thought eromenos was usually younger,” Patroclus finally spluttered. Pyrrhus either did not notice Patroclus’ attempt to control his amusement or he did not care. He shrugged.

“I do not think it would suit me.” He said.

“Pyrrhus,” Achilles sighed.

“Yes, father?”

“Go home now.” Pyrrhus shrugged again. He stood without argument.

“Good bye, Patroclus.” He said pleasantly. “Good bye, father.”

“ Go. ”

As soon as he was certain Pyrrhus was out of eavesdropping range, Patroclus dissolved into laughter. He laughed so hard that he nearly slipped from the bench and onto the floor. His eyes were streaming tears and still he seemed nowhere near collecting himself.

“It’s not that funny!” Achilles objected, which only sent Patroclus howling. He pounded his fist on the bench, struggling for breath. 

“It is!” Patroclus crowed. “Imagine the look on his face if he knew we did not even assign such roles!”

“I‘d really rather not.” Achilles huffed. “The nerve of that little prick. Right in front of me, too.”

“Do not tell me you are jealous of a little boy,” Patroclus wheezed.

“I am not,” Achilles said, though he did not sound terrifically convincing even to his own ears.

“You are! Oh, that is rich!” Patroclus fell into fits of laughter all over again. Achilles rolled his eyes and began to clear away the table. When he returned, he found Patroclus mostly collected, wiping his streaming eyes. 

“Are you quite done?” Achilles asked. Patroclus shook his head, a last few chuckles escaping him before Achilles scooped him bodily off the bench and quite literally carried him to bed. 

“You would never truly consider it, would you?” Achilles asked, unable to stop himself. Patroclus seemed to have laughed himself silly and he only managed an odd hitch in his breath in mirth.

“Do not be a fool, Achilles.” He said, running his fingers through Achilles’ hair.

“Because he is just a boy, you know.” Achilles went on. “ I am a man.”

Patroclus failed to suppress a snort. “Oh? Then show me what a man can do for me that a boy can not.”

Achilles did.

“Why do you allow him to fight?” Pyrrhus asked a few days later. He had not spoken of making Patroclus his lover again, but that very well could have been because Achilles had not stopped glaring at him. “I have seen him on the battlefield and he holds no great skill for it. Why summon him to a place that holds only danger and no glory for him?”

“I do not summon him,” Achilles grumbled. “He insists.”

“And you allow it?” Pyrrhus asked. Clearly Pyrrhus had not yet tried to stop Patroclus from doing something that he’d set his mind to.

“It is a long story. Phoenix can explain it better than I.” Achilles said. Pyrrhus had spent little time with Phoenix, uninterested in anything the old man had to say, but he turned expectantly now.

“Well, let us see,” Phoenix stroked his beard. Achilles could have been wrong, but he thought his old teacher seemed pleased to have been asked. “Where to begin…”

“Early in the war, Agamemnon set his eye on the first girl they carried back to camp. She was very beautiful and when the treasure was being divided, your father claimed her before Agamemnon had the chance. There was nothing he could do, but Agamemnon did not forget…”

Phoenix told the story with the same gravity that he used for all the great tales. It stirred something in Achilles’ chest to hear it that way, as though the events had been certain, as though he’d been confident in all his decisions and not silently praying that they’d been the right ones. At least Phoenix spun Agamemnon into the antagonist. That was satisfying.

Finally he reached the part of the story where Achilles lay down his weapons and refused to fight.

“Without him, the Trojans won many battles and many Greeks died.” Phoenix said. “They pushed all the way to the shore. They would have burned all the ships and killed all of the men if not for Patroclus.”

“Patroclus?” Pyrrhus finally interrupted with obvious disbelief.

“Yes. He begged your father to return to the fight for he did not want the men to die. When your father refused, Patroclus ran to join the battle on his own.” Phoenix said. “Now, Patroclus is very brave, but he is not known for his skill with a sword. Your father knew that if he continued to refrain from fighting, the Trojans would kill all the Greeks and they would kill his most beloved companion along with them. So your father donned his armor once more and rode into battle. The Trojans fled from the very sight of him and the ships, the Greeks, and Patroclus were saved.”

“That day your father swore never to forbid Patroclus from battle and Patroclus swore never to join the battle alone.” Phoenix concluded. 

Pyrrhus pondered the tale for a moment before frowning.

“That was very stupid of Patroclus,” he said finally. “Surely, he did not believe he could make a difference in the battle by himself. He would have died for nothing.”

“He did not expect to live,” Achilles cut across. His throat felt tight at the memory of that night. “It was only that he could not bear to sit by and let his fellow men be slaughtered.”

“But they dishonored you!” Pyrrhus reasoned. “Why would he go to the aid of people who disrespected you?”

“Because that’s the sort of person he is,” Achilles snapped. “He is the sort of man who believes in the goodness of everyone - even fools who disrespect their prince, even his enemies, even horrible little boys who barge into camp at all hours of the day sticking their noses where they don’t belong. He cannot sit idly while others suffer. He is the best of the Myrmidons, do you understand?”

Pyrrhus looked taken aback. He sat back and was quiet for a minute.

“What of the girl?” He asked. “What happened to the girl Agamemnon stole?”

“She was returned,” Phoenix said. “Look, she sits by Patroclus now.”

“ Briseis?” Pyrrhus scoffed. “She is beautiful, I suppose, but still… hardly worth all the trouble.”

“It was never about Briseis,” Achilles said darkly. “It was only ever about hubris.”

“Hmph!” Pyrrhus huffed. He glanced back at where Patroclus and Briseis sat together. “I suppose it can’t be helped then. I will help you protect him on the battlefield.”

“No one asked for your help,” Achilles grumbled and the same time that Phoenix smiled.

“I’m sure he will be glad to hear you say so.”

It was different going to war with Pyrrhus alongside them. Achilles was accustomed to being alone in his skill. He remembered countless battles now where he had withstood the onslaught far longer than the ranks of men around him and been left with his own army pushed further and further behind him. 

That did not happen anymore. First, because Achilles only really came to the battlefield to watch over Patroclus (and also for the fun of it) and so he stayed near the bulk of the army. It made no difference to him whether or not they gained ground. Second, even if Achilles had stood his ground, Pyrrhus was here now. 

Until the night of Phoenix’s story, Achilles had rarely seen him. The boy was just a flash of red hair, the glint of light off his sword, and then he’d be gone again into the fray. He began popping up on the battlefield the same way he turned up at the Myrmidon camp. True to his word, Pyrrhus kept the spears away from Patroclus.

However, where Achilles kept a bit of distance, Pyrrhus always seemed to appear right where Patroclus might watch him do whatever feat he was performing at the moment. Achilles swore there was far more twirling of Pyrrhus’ weapons, far more spins and flips, than were ever really called for.

“You’ve got to keep back!” Achilles scolded one evening when he’d finally had enough. He had Pyrrhus’ ear pinched hard between his fingers.

“What for? Let go!” The indignity of the position had Pyrrhus’ face nearly as red as his hair and he looked about ready to claw Achilles’ eyes out if he insisted on keeping him like this. Achilles didn’t care. He shook the boy by the ear.

“You are Neoptolemus of Scyros! You are the son of Achilles! You will be the next Aristos Achaion!”

“Yes, I know.”

“Well, everyone else knows it too.” Achilles said. “You have already gathered fame and enemies for yourself. There are many who would like to test their skill against you, I’m sure.”

Pyrrhus almost looked pleased to hear so, despite being held firmly by the ear still. 

“Fierce fighting will follow you wherever you go,” Achilles told him. “If you stay near him, you will draw that fighting right to him.”

“I could kill them and protect him both,” Pyrrhus grumbled.

“Are you certain?”

“Yes, of course,” Pyrrhus said dismissively.

“Certain enough to stake his life on it?” Achilles demanded. “He only has the one. He is not like you and I who can dream of something more. Men are fragile creatures, you understand? Death finds them easily. If you make a mistake now, I still guard his back, but you know that I am not fated to remain for much longer. What of when I am gone? You are destined for greatness so your actions will have farther ripples than most. You must think of how those ripples will affect those around you.”

Pyrrhus looked as though he wanted to refute him, but now Patroclus was searching for them. Somehow neither of them were particularly keen on explaining their conversation to him. Achilles could not imagine Patroclus appreciating the use of the word ‘fragile’ in connection to him, even as a general statement.

Achilles gave Pyrrhus one final shake and released him. 

Pyrrhus did not stay for dinner that night, but he silently moved a little farther from Patroclus the next day on the battlefield. He never said anything about it to either of them, as far as Achilles could tell, but that was fine. He was young and his pride was sensitive. The fact that any of Achilles’ words might have reached him was enough for now.

And so they continued.

They drew close enough to the city that plans were finally proposed for how to force it open. Achilles listened but did not offer any opinion. Surely if they were this close to cracking Troy, then his own end must be near as well. 

He supposed he should be grateful that neither he nor Patroclus had to climb inside Odysseus’ absurd horse when a plan was finally decided.

Still death refused to come for him and Achilles was witness to something he never thought he’d live to see. The gates of Troy were torn open and the Greek army poured in.

“Stay close to me,” Achilles said. He did not see Patroclus nod, but he sensed him do so.

They were not among the forerunners; during the planning, Achilles had assumed that he would not take part in the siege and so he’d ceded his place to someone else. He couldn’t even remember who’d taken it now. They and the rest of the infantry crashed into the city like a tidal wave.

The city burned around them. The air was full of smoke and flickering light, turning everything into a strange pantomime of shadows. It was difficult to tell who belonged to which side in the chaos.

“Come, this way,” Achilles said. The air was full of screams and the clash of metal and the splintering of wood, but he felt sure Patroclus heard him. 

He did not know what possessed him to run in the direction he did. Perhaps it was only that he did not want to see all that would undoubtedly unfold in the palace. He did not care about seeing Helen returned to her husband. He did not want to watch the line of Priam snuffed out for himself. All he really wanted was some place where he felt certain Patroclus wouldn’t be trampled when Achilles died.

For surely, that was really all that was left.

Achilles sensed Patroclus lagging behind him as they ran and he hesitated only a moment before sheathing his sword and grabbing Patroclus’ hand. It limited his mobility drastically, but it was already limited. The streets were narrow, swarming with soldiers and frightened civilians, half the buildings already ablaze. 

“Achilles- slow down-” Patroclus gasped, tugging at his hand. Achilles did not know how long they’d been running. It must have been for some time for Patroclus to be winded. 

Achilles’ heart ached. He did not want to die. He did not want to leave Patroclus. He wondered how death would find him. It probably would not be especially glorious, given how far they’d run from the majority of the real battle. People still fell around them, but it was not proper fighting. This was pillaging at its finest. In this lowly corner of the city, it seemed that only Patroclus would witness his death. Achilles would have spared him even that if he thought Patroclus would go.

“Achilles- rest- just for a moment- please.”

Achilles threw open a nearby door, checking that the room beyond was empty, before he pulled them in and shut the door behind them. He stayed on his toes while Patroclus doubled over, trying to catch his breath. 

This must have been someone’s house once. The embers still burned in the hearth. The dirty cooking vessel sitting beside it held only the remains of some thin stewed barely. The furniture was sparse and worn. There was nothing of real value, from what Achilles could see. Well, it was as good a place as any to die, he supposed.

“What are we even doing here?” Achilles said to the wall. Suddenly he did not understand why sacking Troy was meant to be so glorious. Perhaps it would have been if he’d been at the palace, but this scene was too pathetic for that. He had taken pleasure in this once. He’d enjoyed sacking the farming villages around Troy. But that had been a long time ago and he’d fought princes and kings and warriors now. This was nothing like that. What honor was there in pulling women and children from their homes after their fathers and brothers and husbands had been killed? 

“The army is sacking the city,” Patroclus wheezed in answer. “ I am following you.”

Achilles paused. “But… I am following you.”

“What do you mean?” Patroclus asked, sinking onto the stool by the hearth. It wobbled as he sat. “You know that I have no love for battle, I am only here so that you are not alone when…”

“But,” Achilles took off his helmet, frowning. “But I do not care who wins the war. I am only here so that you do not get yourself killed. If you had stayed at camp, I would have stayed with you.”

The pair stared at each other until Patroclus began to chuckle and shake his head. “What a pair we make.”

Achilles watched him. He could never pick a favorite image of Patroclus, but he did hold a special affection for this unguarded version of him that rolled his shoulders to loosen stiff muscles, and stretched out his legs before the hearth. It would not be a bad image to die to. 

If his death ever bothered to find him. At this rate, the city would fall before he would and then what?

“Let’s leave.” Achilles said.

“Just one more minute, Achilles-”

“No, let’s leave the city. Let’s leave the army.” Achilles breathed, his eyes alight. 

“That’s desertion.” Patroclus shook his head. “And you are Achilles . You cannot just leave. They need you.”

“No, they don’t. Look around us, Patroclus. The war is already won. And the army has Pyrrhus with them. What else could they ask me to do? I have already killed for them and brought them to their damn city. Let us leave. Now, while no one is looking for us. The way the night is going, death seems to have forgotten me anyway.”

Patroclus hushed him quickly, glancing around as though he expected the fates to suddenly remember their prophecy and snatch Achilles from his hands then and there. “Even if we did that… What about everything else? What about your father?”

“I would miss him,” Achilles admitted. “But I have not seen him in ten years already. And anyway, Patroclus, what do you think would happen if I were to return home?”

“You’d be a hero, I’m sure.”

“If I returned home alive then my mother would renew her quest to make me immortal. And I’ve decided that I do not want to be. I do not wish to be a god.” Achilles said and he found the words to be true even though he had not contemplated them before he’d spoken them. “And if she did not, then I would still be expected to take my father’s throne and I do not wish to be king either. I’ve had a taste of leading men and it is fine, but I do not want to do it for the rest of my life, however long that may be.”

Patroclus stared at Achilles as though he’d grown another head, but Achilles felt sure of himself now. 

“Let’s stay. The prophecy only said that I would not return from Troy. Let us leave the city and stay in Anatolia.”

“And do what?” Patroclus wondered aloud, but it was with curiosity and not derision. 

“Anything we like!” Achilles grabbed both of Patroclus’ hands in his. “Say you’ll come with me.”

Patroclus continued to stare at him but now Achilles could see the hope, sprouting small and tender in Patroclus’ face. Finally, he cracked. He threw his arms around Achilles’ shoulders. 

“Do not be a fool. There is nowhere you could go that I would not follow.” 

Achilles would have kissed him if Patroclus’ helmet were not in the way.

“I can leave my armor here. They all know of the prophecy. They will assume that I have died and that someone has taken it from my body. They will not come looking for us. Here, help me with the straps.”

Patroclus reached for the buckles as he’d done so many times before.

“No, not like that. If someone were sacking my corpse, they would not take the time to bother with buckles. Just cut them.” Achilles said. Patroclus looked dubious, but he found his dagger and obeyed. He winced as the leather fell apart.

“I feel as though I’ve mortally offended whoever crafted this…” 

“It will be fine. Now, how shall I have died?” Achilles wondered aloud. Patroclus winced again. Achilles didn’t want to spill either of their blood to sell the illusion, but he felt fairly sure that if he threw his breastplate into the muck that it would be convincingly bloodied soon enough. If that were the case, then it only felt fitting to die the same as Patroclus had in that very first cycle. “Here, hold this steady for me.”

Patroclus knelt and held the breastplate steady against the floor. Achilles took hold of his spear.

“Are you certain?” Patroclus asked. Achilles drove the spear through the metal. It was easier than he’d thought it would be.

“I am certain,” he said, pulling the spear back. Still, Patroclus looked distraught.

“But- your legacy-”

“Pyrrhus will carry on my legacy. I cannot imagine the boy will ever let anyone forget the name Achilles.” Patroclus nodded slowly. 

“We’ll have to do something about your hair if you won’t be wearing your helmet,” he said after a moment. “It won’t hold up once the sun rises, but I think I can stain your hair with coal from the hearth. The night is dark enough. I don’t think anyone will notice.

Achilles sat in the stool while Patroclus gathered the charcoal that had cooled enough to handle. It was almost like having his hair brushed, the way Patroclus combed the dust into his hair with his hands.

“That will have to do I think,” Patroclus said, stepping back. His hands were pitch black from handling the charcoal. He left dark streaks on his tunic when he wiped his hands on it.

Achilles stood and gathered his broken armor. Together they left. Achilles dropped the pieces of his beautiful armor like a trail of breadcrumbs as they went: first the helmet, then the breastplate, then the greaves… 

They would not remain long enough to see the faceless Greek soldier who picked them up. They would not see Pyrrhus dragging the soldier before him, demanding to know where he’d gotten such a thing. They would not be there for the half-hearted search for their bodies.

Patroclus shed his own armor just outside the city walls. They couldn’t afford anything distinctly Greek now. They headed away from the ocean, beyond Troy and into the hills. The night was cool and dark and Achilles did not know the last time he’d felt so light. They walked for hours until they came to a creek.

Here they paused to drink and for Achilles to wash the coal from his hair. The straps of Patroclus’ sandals had snapped some time ago. He’d thrown them away and gone barefoot. He sat with his feet in the creek now, letting the cool water ease their ache as he watched Achilles wring out his hair.

“Do you think this will be enough?” Patroclus asked. Achilles shook water from his eyes.

“I think so. No one would expect it of us. Achilles and Patroclus have died as far as the world is concerned.”

“Who will we be if not Achilles and Patroclus?” Patroclus asked. Achilles only paused for a moment before he allowed himself to smile.

“I think you would make a fine ‘Agapetos.’” He said. “What about me? Who shall I be?”

“Perhaps… Philemon,” Patroclus said cautiously.

“It is a fine name. I will carry it proudly.” Achilles grinned. 

“And what shall we do now, Achi— Philemon ?”

“I do not know.” Achilles cheeks hurt from how hard he smiled. “We could do anything. If I found a lyre I could become a troubadour and we could travel the land. Or perhaps we could get a herd of goats and live somewhere quiet, far from anyone else. Or we could build you an apothecary and you could continue to practice medicine. Or we could find ourselves a new mountain and teach, like Chiron did. I do not know which it shall be. Does that bother you?”

“No,” Patroclus took his hand and squeezed it. “I think I am the luckiest man in the world that I have the chance to find out.”

EPILOGUE:

Later, after Odysseus’ travels had become well-known tales, after Tisamenus, son of Orestes, son of Agamemnon sat on his throne, after news of Aeneas’ newly established kingdom had spread far and wide - after all of this had come to pass, two old men walked slowly to visit the tomb of Achilles and Patroclus. 

In the shade of the monument, they paused to catch their breath before they stood back to admire it.

“It is rather impressive, isn’t it?” One mused. “I wish we could have said goodbye. Did you hear that he has died?”

“You have already told me thrice. Or did you forget?”

“Ah, I had forgotten.” The first sighed. “It is still a pity.”

“A pity, but not a surprise,” The second shook his head. “They never let you be famous and happy and he was certainly famous in the end.”

“You somehow managed both.”

“I did not! Look at me! I’m but a humble old hermit begging for his supper.” The second protested. “Who is famous? Not I.”

“Don’t be dramatic, we have supper waiting for us in town.” The first cracked his back, attempting to ease out aches that never really went away these days. “Let’s stay a bit longer though. I want a closer look at it since we came all the way here.”

The second leaned closer, squinting. “He needn’t have put so much writing. What else does a tomb need to say besides the names?”

“I think he meant it as an honor.”

“An honor indeed! Ha! Do you see this?”

“What?”

“That little brat put your name before mine!”

Chapter Text

This is NOT an epilogue. This is just a collection of thoughts that never made it into the fic.

First and foremost, I want to acknowledge that this has been me shamelessly transposing modern ethics onto a story I like. Obviously, humility and thoughtfulness were not the values that made Achilles into a legend. That said, I had fun.

As for how Achilles became trapped in his time-loop, it was the Moirae who heard Achilles’ initial lament. They couldn’t do anything about Patroclus’ fate directly because his thread had already been cut, but they were moved by Achilles’ grief and (more importantly) they believed that he was capable of learning. If Achilles had asked for Patroclus back, they would not have done anything for him, but Achilles asked for the power to right things himself and so they unwound Achilles’ thread a little. Each time he repeated a cycle, the fates were ‘re-spinning’ the same portion of the thread. 

Side note - I'm not an expert by any means but as someone who has spun thread before, this would be a pain in the ass. I gotta believe the fates are spinning some kind of plant based fiber for this because animal fibers do NOT want to be un-spun. 

Athena had sided with the Greeks for the Trojan war and she liked what the fates were up to so she kept the other gods out of their business. For the most part, this wasn’t strictly necessary since even Zeus could not convince the fates to spare Sarpedon. Mostly it was to keep Thetis in her lane. Thetis would absolutely have wanted Achilles to have all the chances he could have but she also had her own agenda for what she wanted Achilles’ to do. If she helped him, it would defeat the purpose of Achilles learning for himself. Hence, Thetis was unable to see him while he was trapped in the loops and it probably drove her NUTS with worry.

Athena totally ‘accidentally on purpose’ let something slip to Odysseus at some point, but I don’t think she said what it was. As a result, Odysseus is not surprised that Achilles is acting strange, but he’s veeeerry interested. 

The fates would have given Achilles one years worth of chances. He was able to learn his lesson before then, but if he had not then he would have been stuck with however the final loop ended and been forced to go forward from there.

Also in this we are big on ‘no one is inherently bad they are just doing the best they can with the tools they were given.’ Thetis in this is not an antagonist, she just isn’t human and doesn’t understand human values. No real villains, we die in moral ambiguity! Even Agamemnon, whom I really do despise in pretty much every telling, makes a lot more sense when you realize the sort of childhood he had. 

I have a theory that Pyrrhus in tSoA REALLY wanted to emulate Achilles, but he’d never met him and only had Thetis’ stories to go off of to imagine what he was like. I think if they’d been able to meet and Pyrrhus had been able to see more of what Achilles was really like, that things would have been a little different. Not MASSIVELY different, but enough that he knew that Achilles wasn’t exclusively a heartless killing machine (and thus, did not try to become a heartless killing machine himself). Also I’ve seen some different ages quoted for Pyrrhus but the tSoA version of him is legit just a kid. Kids can be little monsters for sure, but I don’t think they have to stay that way and I don’t think they generally end up like that on their own. So yeah, I do think Pyrrhus had the potential to be less awful if he’d had different circumstances. 

Pyrrhus still kills Priam at Troy and most of his children. He is unable to kill Astyanax, however, since in this Andromache escapes with Aeneas and makes a new life for herself and her son on the Italian peninsula. Pyrrhus thus does not take Andromache captive after the war. He does still sacrifice Polyxenia to Achilles’ ghost, because he’s learned but like. He’s still Pyrrhus. After the war, his story continues largely the same and he is slain by Orestes after the whole Hermione debacle. He DID build the tomb for Patroclus and Achilles before he left Troy though and he ONE THOUSAND PERCENT put Patroclus’ name first because he had a complicated relationship with his dad but he really was quite fond of Patroclus by the end. 

Alternate chapter title for chapter four was: ‘Everything Achilles has will be mine when he dies. The armor? Mine. The horses? Mine. Patroclus? Mine for sure.” - Phyrrus probably.  

I’m not one hundred percent certain that I used the vocab correctly, but eromenos is a reference to the practice of pederasty. Pederasty was a custom where an older man and a younger boy engaged in a sort of student/teacher sexual-romantic relationship (from what I read it seemed like it was somewhat controversial even at the time). The partners were called Erastes and Eromenos (seems to be something like ‘lover and beloved’, ‘desirer and one who is desired’), where Erastes was generally the older partner. Hence, Patroclus’ reaction when this kid is essentially like ‘one day I’m gonna make u my bitch”.

That said, I think it was just a childhood crush sparked by the fact that Patroclus was the first person to really try to understand him coupled with the fact that Pyrrhus still wants to emulate Achilles’ very much. 

For those who are curious, Achilles’ and Patroclus’ new names are very cutesy. Some translations for Agapetos are “beloved,” or “lovable,” and I’ve seen Philemon translated as “loving,” “affectionate,” “one who kisses,”

As for what Achilles and Patroclus spent the rest of their lives doing, it’s a bit of a choose your own adventure. My two favorite is probably the idea that they find a mountain in Anatolia to settle on and emulate Chiron. I think Achilles would teach combat and music and Patroclus would teach medicine and astronomy and they would both teach survival skills as needed. In an unexpected turn of events, Patroclus is the much stricter teacher or the two.

At some point, some little booger is like ‘ugh, why should we even listen to you’ to which they finally say that they fought at Troy in the war with the Greeks (everyone obviously assumes they fought on the side of the Trojans). At first this generates some excitement, like, “wow! Have you killed someone before? Did you see Hector? Did you ever see someone get run over by a chariot? Did you ever see Achilles??” And Achilles, one hundred percent straight-faced, is like “No, I have never met Achilles before.” Patroclus probably says that he has seen Achilles before and the kids are all “what was he like??” And Achilles is just sitting there with a shit eating grin like, “Yeah, Agapetos, what was he like?” Patroclus probably waxes too poetic and the kids lose interest like “get real, I bet he’s never actually seen him, I bet he just heard that in a song!”

Most of the kids would be boys but I think if any girl was able to climb up the mountain that they would take her (there just aren’t many because the families never SEND their daughters there, so the girls basically have to run away to do it). Patroclus definitely has some reservations about teaching her combat skills, but Achilles is like ‘come on, there were amazons and wild horse women at Troy, let’s see if she’s got any talent for it.’ Definitely not an easy path, but technically a path that exists. 

When they finally get old enough to die, Achilles is cracking up like, “oh man, I knew the prophecy said Hector would die first, but I didn’t think it meant that he’d die decades before me!” Their students give them burials under their new names and Pyrrhus has already given them proper funeral rites a long ass time ago so they each show up in the underworld with two coins and no one knows what the hell to do with that.

Pyrrhus’ shade is pissed when they finally show up because he’s finally figured out that they faked their own deaths.