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Chapter Text

There is no joy in this. The feelings of pride and pleasure that normally take hold of Achilles as he works his way across a battlefield are long gone. There is no satisfaction to the burning of his muscles, no sweet release in the sweat that coats his skin, in the adrenaline that runs under it. It has all been replaced by an agony that moves through him, deepening every second he remains in this world without Patroclus, seizing his mind and body and numbing him to all else.

It only feels like going through the motions now, moving on muscle memory alone. He no longer cares for honor or glory as he tears through the ranks of Trojan soldiers, striking them down one by one. All he cares about is finding Hector and ripping him to shreds.

Besting Scamander had been easy. Gods were often forgetful of the fact that they, too, could be wounded, too confident in their own abilities that it made them underestimate everyone else's. Achilles had not even felt a sliver of satisfaction as he watched Scamander slink off into the water, streaked gold with his blood. The old Achilles would have triumphed; now the god was merely a passing thought, another faceless obstacle in his path. He could hardly see anything through the searing rage that blinded him.

“HECTOR!” His voice shakes like thunder, shaking the ground and sending the remaining Trojans quivering before him. He pays them no mind. He seeks only one man now.

He opens his mouth to scream again, to yell out Hector’s name, but his cry is drowned out by the deafening sound of hooves and chariot wheels tearing apart the earth in their haste. 

Achilles can feel the annoyance building in him, the first thing he has felt besides anger and grief since….He cannot bear to think of it again.

He turns, ready to slaughter whomever it was who dared to stop his pursuit of the Trojan prince. He hopes it is Hector himself, the coward, coming to face him at last, to let Achilles be done with it. 

It is not Hector.

Automedon is gripping the reins of a pair of horses like a lifeline, shouting and pushing them faster than horses should be able to run. He catches up to Achilles quickly, though Achilles’ battle with the river god has slowed him considerably.

“Achilles!” Automedon cries, between pants for air. He pulls the chariot in front of Achilles, blocking his path. Achilles' grip tightens on his sword. He feels more animal than man, wild and furious. His need for bloodshed so strong that he can almost taste it.

“Get out of my way,” he growls. “Or I will kill you myself.”

Automedon visibly shrinks.

“Prince Achilles,” he says, voice trembling. “I-”

“Well,” Achilles barks. “What is it? You are wasting my time. Do not think I will not-”

“It’s Patroclus!” He realizes then that he has interrupted his prince, and his hands begin to tremble as he tightens his hold on the horses’ reins. He watches the shift of emotion pass over Achilles’ face. Anger, to fear, then back to anger.

“What of him?” And though his voice is dripping with fury, Automedon can hear the underlying hint of distress within his words.

“He speaks.”

******

Patroclus wakes up alone, or at least, that is what he thinks. It takes him several moments to register the sound of someone softly crying, which is coming from somewhere around him. He tries to sit up, to see where the sound is coming from, but his whole body feels stiff and sore. His limbs as heavy as boulders.

There is golden light streaming through the fabric suspended above him. It falls over his face, white hot and blinding, piercing straight through his skull. Patroclus winces, trying to fight off the roll of pain and confusion that washes over him.

He isn’t sure where he is, but he can feel that he is lying on something soft, a bed maybe? 'Do I live here?' He thinks, and then, 'Where is here?' He shifts uneasily, and the blankets that were pooling around his stomach crinkled with his movement. The crying stops.

A feeling of unease pools in his stomach, and it takes him a moment to recognize the feeling for what it really is: fear. The reason for this feeling is unknown to Patrolcus; his head is pounding to the point that placing reason to reaction feels impossible. But if his body is reacting in such a way, then who is Patroclus to question it? His mind may not be able to recall where he is at the moment, but his body seems to have no trouble recalling its instincts. Patrulcus decides to trust them and lies as still as he can.

“The gods are playing tricks on me.” It is a woman’s voice that speaks, small and thick with tears.

“Oh, Patroclus,” She sobbs, though the words are muffled, as if she is speaking through something.

'That’s me!' Patroclus thinks suddenly, and the thought brings him comfort. He relaxes slightly. If this woman knows his name, he must be among friends, not foe. He tries once again to sit up, to fight through the pain so he can look for the owner of the voice that calls out to him, but it is as if an invisible hand is holding him against the bed.

He opens his mouth to say something to the woman instead, whoever she is, but his throat is raw from disuse and his words sound more like a choked groan than anything else.

Something shatters.

“Oh gods,” comes the voice again. “My wits have left me.”

Patroclus is not sure what she is talking about. 'If only I could gather the strength to sit up and see her.' There is a hurried sound of what Patroclus thinks to be footsteps, and then suddenly, the large, dark brown eyes of a woman are looking down into his own. Black curls fall around her face, which is puffy and streaked with tears.

She is very beautiful, though clearly grief-stricken. Patroclus wonders what it was that had made her so sad. He is on the verge of asking her, but before he can find the words, the woman opens her mouth and releases the most bone-chilling scream he has ever heard in his life.

She stumbles away from the bed and out of Patroclus' line of sight. He hears the sound of her falling to the floor just as the sound of new footsteps approaches.

“What is it?! What’s happened?” A man’s voice this time, one still with an edge of youth to it.

The woman is trying to say something, but her startled cries render her incoherent. Patroclus can only make out bits of what she is trying to say. 'Automedon' and 'Look!'

“I don’t understand what you’re-” the woman must have gestured to Patroclus, for he hears the man run to his side. His expression is just as shocked and horrified as the woman’s. Patroclus smiles sheepishly.

“Are you alright?” he asks, voice coming out much clearer than it had the first time. He is beginning to grow worried that something is wrong with him, for why else would he be receiving such reactions?

The man looks as if he might faint. Patroclus hopes he won’t. He isn’t sure if he can roll out of the way, and he doesn’t like the idea of being crushed by this stranger.

Their cries must have attracted the attention of others because the sound of murmuring voices and hurried movement is steadily growing louder from outside the tent. The man is quick to intercept it, rushing from Patroclus' side.

“Stay out!” he orders. “Someone, fetch Machaon, quickly!”

“Where are you going?” The woman asks. Patroclus can hear the fear and worry etched within her voice.

“To fetch Achilles,” he says. “Stay with Patroclus. I’ll be back soon.”

'Achilles,' Patroclus thinks. The name sparks something in him. 'Who is Achilles? And why did the man need to fetch him?' His head is beginning to swim from all the commotion and the names he can’t quite seem to latch onto. The pain is getting worse behind his eyes, and he would shut them if it were not for the woman coming back to his side again.

“Tell me you are real,” she pleads, cupping his cheeks in her calloused palms and forcing his face to look at her. “That this is not a dream.”

“You’re not dreaming,” Patroclus says, uncertainly. He is not sure if that was true. He still could not figure out where he was, and it could very well be within a dream. His head did feel a little fuzzy.

The woman lets out a sound of pure joy and flings her arms around him, or as well as she can, considering Patroclus is still lying on his back. She clings to him, tears wetting Patroclus’ neck. It takes him considerable effort to lift his arms and wrap them around her waist. This only seems to make her sob harder.

“I cannot believe it. You were dead, you-” she hiccups, letting out a shaky breath. She pulls away from him, cupping his cheeks once more, beaming at him like nothing else in the world could bring her greater joy. Patroclus finds it all a little unsettling. He wants to ask about what she meant by ‘being dead,' however, he isn’t certain that he should bring it up, lest she begin to cry again.

“Let me help you,” she says. “Make you more comfortable.” She moves away from him and comes back with arms full of cushions in a range of richly colored fabrics. She helps him to sit up, being surprisingly much stronger than she looks, and props the cushions behind him.

“There you are.” Patroclus can see all of his surroundings now. He is definitely lying in a bed. There is a table laden with numerous fine things in the corner. Piles of beautiful trinkets sit in chests resting on top of intricately woven carpets. There is cloth, jewels, finely crafted accessories, armor, and spears.

'Where am I?'

“Patroclus?” He turns, the woman's voice pulling him from his thoughts. Her brow is lined with worry.

He smiles at her, trying his best to mask the fear that is steadily growing more prominent the longer he is awake.

“You’re very kind,” he says, and a smile returns to the woman’s face. He thinks that he rather likes her smile. It is comforting. He tries to think of some sort of conversation he could start, something to distract both of them.

“I feel at a disadvantage here,” he admits. “You seem to already know my name, but I do not know yours. I feel that’s hardly fair.” The smile slips from the woman’s face as quickly as water slides from between one's fingers. But Patroclus doesn’t have time to ask what he has said wrong, or try to amend whatever mistake he has made, before someone bursts in through the flap in the tent.

A man stands at the tent's entrance. His hair is as bright as sunlight around his roots, but grows damp and darkened with blood the further down it goes. It clings unpleasantly to his neck and shoulders. He is drenched in it. Blood splattered across his cheeks and finely shaped face, dripping onto the beautiful carpets under his feet. Something about him seems almost familiar, and the sight of him has Patroclus’ stomach doing flips, though he is sure he has never seen this man before.

He stares at Patroclus, mouth agape, with a look that Patroclus could only describe as utter devotion. He is not sure he has ever been looked at in such a way in all his life. He is just as unsure of what he has done to deserve it.

“Patroclus,” the man says, voice hardly above a whisper. And then, to Patroclus’ horror, the man advances on him.

Chapter Text

All the woman’s work of propping Patroclus up is ruined when the bloodied stranger tackles him down onto the bed. He is heavy and smells strongly of iron, and Patroclus is left desperately trying to catch his breath.

“Patroclus,” he sobbs. The man who had just been standing so menacingly at the tent’s entrance is now reduced to a mess of tears. He clings to Patroclus like a child, pressing his lips under Patroclus’ chin and murmuring words into his skin.

“I’m so sorry. It was all my fault. I never should of- I didn’t mean for- Oh, Patroclus.” He lets out another heartbreaking wail, and though Patroclus is vaguely confused and very uncomfortable, he can not help but pat the man’s head gently, overcome with the desire to soothe him somehow. Possibly only for the sake of getting him to cease his crying and get off him.

He lets the man lay there for a couple more minutes before the smell and the weight of him become too much, and Patroclus begins to push at the man’s shoulders with a desperate need for escape. Achilles reluctantly rises off of him. 

He keeps his eyes trained on Patroclus' face, searching for something. He must be unable to find it because his frown begins to grow deeper and his brow more furrowed the longer he looks Patroclus over.

“I’m sorry,” Patroclus said, troubledly. “But do I know you?”

“That’s not funny,” the man says quickly, but it sounds more like a plea than anything near scolding. “You can not mean that.” He clutches at Patroclus' hands, clasping them and holding them to his chest, over his heart.

“Patroclus, I know I did not act like myself, that I was cruel. I deserve your hatred, I know, but please do not pretend not to know me. I do not think I could bear it.”

This man did seem a little cruel; he was soaked in blood after all, blood that Patroclus was now conscious of being all over his skin as well. Or had that been there before? He wasn’t sure. ‘Has this man done something to me?’ Patroclus is now more aware than ever of the gaps in his memory. He tries to remember the day before, where he was, how he had come to be here, but he can not think of anything. Nor anything from the day before that. His mind feels entirely blank.

His heart begins to race, his breath catching in his throat.

“Get away from me.” The panic was beginning to rise in him again. His skin feels too tight on his bones, and he is all too aware of the faces looking at him, faces he does not recognize. The man springs back like he has been slapped.

“What is this?” he asks, turning frantically to the other two people in the room with them.

“Alright, move. Out of my way!” The tent flap is pushed aside once again, and a much older man shuffles in. Several heads are peaking around the opening, trying to get a glimpse of what is happening inside. They do not get to see much before the tent flap is thrown back in front of their faces.

“Prince Achilles? What has happened? I thought that you were out – by the gods!” The old man rubs at his eyes as if trying to banish the remnants of a sleep-deprived hallucination. He looks back at Patroclus, his eyes growing as wide as dinner plates.

Patroclus has little time to linger on the fact that he has just had a prince kneeling for him before more men begin to push their way into the tent, all dressed in extravagant fabrics. A dark-haired man with an equally dark beard, skin warmly tanned. A pink scar wraps its way around his calf. He is followed by a much larger, heavily muscled man. Then a man with hair as bright as a flame.

Several others pile in after them and gather behind the old man, stopping in their tracks when they catch sight of Patroclus. Patroclus is starting to feel like he is reliving the same moment over and over again with the appearance of every new startled face.

“Well,” says the first man, running his fingers through his dark beard. “And just when I had thought I’d seen it all.”

They all turn to look at Achilles as if they expect him to provide some kind of answer to their unspoken question. He does not see them, still refusing to take his eyes from Patroclus. He is hovering just a few feet away from him. His features are twisted as if he is in pain, like even this small distance away from Patroclus is too much.

“Your mother is a goddess,” says the bright-haired man.

‘A goddess?’ Patroclus swallows. He looks the man over again; the dark bruises of sleeplessness under his eyes and drooping hair do little to diminish his beauty. ‘That would explain it,’ Patroclus thinks, then wonders how someone with divine blood flowing in their veins would seem so eager to be in his presence, or anywhere near him at all. ‘A prince, a warrior, and divine, who was this man?’

“Would she have-”

“No,” Achilles cuts in quickly. “She can do many things, but this is not one of them. She would not.”

“Briseis found him,” says the young man from earlier, words soft and hesitant. Everyone looks at the woman, and she seems to shrink back a little, clearly not used to such attention as this. Patroclus feels a wave of protectiveness overcome him, and he watches the men as they watch her.

“Dear Briseis,” the first man says, voice as smooth as silk. “How was it that you came about our Patroclus?”

Patroclus watches him warily. Something about this man unsettles him, but he does not know why. Instinct maybe? Intuition?

“He just woke suddenly. I do not know how it happened.”

“No one came to visit you before? It was just the two of you in this tent?”

“Yes.”

He hums to himself, a low sound in the back of his throat.

He gestures for the other men to follow him, and everyone gathers in the corner of the tent farthest from Patroclus. They begin to whisper amongst themselves so Patroclus can not hear them. Occasionally, they cast horrified and awed looks at him from over their shoulders.

All except the woman with the dark curls, who has not once left his bedside, as well as the bloodied man, Achilles. He is staring at Patroclus like he might cry, lower lip trembling.

It bothers Patroclus that they are talking about him as if he were not here. For some unknown reason, everyone seems to be ignoring him and refuses to explain any part of what is going on. Irritation is bubbling up within him, threatening to spill over. It is not until one of the men casts him a particularly entranced look that he finally loses it.

“CAN SOMEBODY PLEASE TELL ME WHAT IS GOING ON!?”

Every head in the room turns to him in unison, all shocked faces. Patroclus can feel the flush creeping up his neck, but gathers what courage he can muster and pushes on.

“I don’t know where I am,” he says. “I don’t know who any of you people are. I don’t even know how you all seem to know my name. I am tired. I am sore. And I just want to know what the fuck is going on. Is that too much to ask?”

No one says anything, and Patroclus is beginning to regret speaking up at all when the man with a scar around his leg steps forward.

“Our apologies, Patroclus.” He says, and the whole room falls silent to listen to him speak, almost as if they are just as curious as Patroclus himself of what the man will say.

“We didn’t mean to keep you in the dark. However, we seem to be as confused as you are at the moment, on account of you having been dead just this morning.”

Chapter Text

‘Dead?’ He does not feel like someone who had been dead only hours ago, or maybe he does. He does not know what being dead feels like exactly. He had not realized he was beginning to spiral until he feels a soothing hand against his back.

“Deep breaths.”

He can feel his face growing warm with embarrassment. There are so many eyes pinned on him, all of them watching him as he spirals into panic.

Somehow, the man called Achilles must have been able to read his mind, because he suddenly turns on the others in the room.

“Enough of this,” he says. “Everyone out! You are not needed here.” He begins to herd them all towards the tent's entrance.

“Except Machaon,” he says suddenly. Machaon, the old man who had come in first, nods his head briefly.

“Of course, Prince Achilles,” he says lightly. The rest of the men shuffle out the door, looking very displeased.

“Briseis-”

“I’m staying here,” the woman next to Patroclus says sharply, sitting up straighter and setting her shoulders. Her mouth is pulled in a taunt line, and her gaze is firmly fixed on Achilles, as if challenging him to tell her otherwise. She is nowhere near a match for him, but Achilles must have thought better of it or simply did not care enough, for he sighs deeply and drops the matter, turning swiftly back to Machaon.

“Can you-” he stops, looking between the two of them, suddenly unsure of what to say. Machaon nods knowingly and takes a seat on the bed next to Patroclus.

“I’m just going to check for some less obvious injuries.”

‘Less Obvious?’

Machaon’s hands are warm, and they are roaming across Patroclus' skin before he can even register what is happening. Lines of age have settled in along Machaon’s skin, winding across it like rivers along a map. He feels around the back of Patroclus’ head.

“I hadn’t checked you before because, well….It hadn’t appeared necessary given the circumstances.” He hums, shifting through the curls against Patroclus’ scalp.

“Nothing serious, no major cuts.” He prods a tender spot on the back of his head, and Patroclus winces, jerking away from Machaon’s fingers.

“Bit of a bump here, you definitely hit your head. Could explain the poor memory.” He pulls away, settling back beside him.

“He said he does not remember me,” Achilles says, rushing through the words. His composure has dropped now that the other men are out of the tent. His fingers are buried in his hair, pulling at the strands. 

“I’m getting to that,” Machaon says. “You know your name, yes?”

“Patroclus,” Patroclus answers easily.

“Right. Do you know who I am?”

Patroclus looks the man over, trying to see if he can pull anything to the surface of his mind, a spark of familiarity. He comes up empty. He shakes his head, forlorn.

“Should I?”

“That’s alright.” Machaon is trying his best to be nonchalant, but Patroclus can see the cracks in his composure; the evidence of worry in his eyes, marked between his brow, within his smile. He gestures to Briseis.

“And her? When did you meet?”

“When I woke up, however long ago that was,” Patroclus says, confused. He makes a point not to look at Achilles, who is beginning to pace back and forth frantically. 

“Where were you born?” Machaon continues. That one should be easy, but when Patroclus thinks about it, he is shocked to find that he comes up blank.

“I- I don’t know.”

“What was your father’s name? Your mothers?”

“I don’t know.”

“How old are you?”

Each question leaves Patroclus searching desperately for something, some sort of answer that should have come to him as simply as breathing, but he can not think of a thing. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.’ He can hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, his lungs burning from how fast he is pulling in air. Patroclus knows that everyone in here knows his name, must know who he is, but he cannot for the life of him figure out why he does not remember them in return.

‘I have no memories.’

“Stop it!” Briseis cries. “Both of you! Can’t you see you’re frightening him?”

Machaon presses his lips together, thinning them.

“There is no guarantee that all your memories are gone,” he says lightly, though he hardly sounds certain. “You do remember your name after all.”

‘Yes,’ Patroclus thinks bitterly. ‘My name and nothing else.’

“It might not be forever. All we can do is give it time, but you’re very lucky to be here, I'll say.” He gets up from the bed, his joints cracking from the effort.

“I’m getting old,” he laughs to himself. “But every second is a blessing.” He turns back to Patroclus, “Now get some rest, young man, it will do you well. Prince Achilles, might I have a word with you?”

Reluctantly, Achilles turns and follows Machaon out of the tent.

“Lie back,” Briseis says, placing a hand on his shoulder and guiding him back against the cushions. She seems to relax a bit now that the tent is empty of all but the two of them. Her hand is warm on his bare skin. That is all it takes for Patroclus to realize just how cold he is.

Briseis procures a damp cloth from somewhere and uses it to remove the specks of blood that had been left on his skin by Achilles. Patroclus shivers.

It is then that he realizes something else: he is not wearing any clothing. He had been too preoccupied with the shock of waking up somewhere so unknown to notice.

Patroclus is quick to snatch Briseis’ hand and move it aside. With his other hand, he reaches down to better pull up the blanket already covering part of him, unsure of how he should feel about being so bare in front of this strange woman. That is when he notices the scar. A long, thin line raised off his skin, splitting his abdomen in two. He forgets all about his lack of clothing.

Briseis catches him looking and takes Patroclus' distraction as a chance to pull herself free from him. She takes hold of the blanket herself and yanks it up to his chin. 

“Lie back,” she says again, much firmer this time.

“What happened?” The mark does not hurt him; he had not even felt it was there, but its presence is still enough to trouble him.

“You’ve had enough excitement for today. Do not let it trouble you. You’re alright now. I’ll make sure of it.”

“But-”

“Tomorrow. For now, you need to rest.” She moves from the bed and begins to rummage through one of the chests in the far corner of the tent, pulling out a bundle of cloth. She brings it over to the bed. She helps Patrolcus to sit up, then with one finger she tilts his chin up.

“Don’t look.” She yanks the blood spotted blanket from him as Patrolcus keeps his eyes pinned above him. 

“Could you move over?’ she asks. “To your left?” Patroclus does his best to scoot to the other end of the bed. A strong bout of vertigo over takes him, and before he knows it, he’s swaying.

“Easy, easy,” Briseis says. Her nails dig into Patroclus' arm from the effort at which is holding it. “I need to get you something clean to lie on. I am almost finished.” 

Patroclus tries his best to keep himself steady, shutting his eyes against the nausea that moves through him as Briseis changes the blankets. He is too heavy for Bresis to even consider moving him, so he does most of the work himself. By the time she is finished, he is covered in sweat and everything aches.

Briseis tosses a blanket back over him and guides him to lie back down on the bed. “You need rest.”

“I’m not tired.” She ignores him in favor of rearranging the bedding. He really was not tired. He feels as if he has just woken up from the longest sleep of his life and is anything but eager to fall back into slumber again.

‘What if I fall asleep and then wake up without remembering any of this?’ He must have said that out loud because Briseis quickly chimes in with reassurance.

“That won’t happen, but if it did, I’d tell it all to you again, don’t you worry.” An overwhelming feeling of fondness suddenly overcomes him.

“Thank you,” he says. He can not remember someone ever caring for him so thoroughly. He is unsure if that is because he can not remember much of anything, or if he has never before had such a tender exchange.

“How do you know me?” he asks, finally settling back into the cushions. They were almost too soft to be real, cradling his body the way waves hold a ship.

“You’re my closest friend,” she says simply, running her fingers through his hair. “And I am so glad to have you well, so you must rest, for me.”

“Alright,” Patroclus caves. “I will try.”

Achilles comes back into the tent alone, the cloth over the entrance parting for him dramatically. He stands frozen for several seconds as if debating what he should do.

“Is this your dwelling?” Patroclus asks abruptly. He is sure it must be, for who else would have such fine things gathered in their living quarters? Achilles hesitates, his face crestfallen.

“Our dwelling,” he corrects. “You’ve lived here for years.”

“With you?” This shocks him. He can not see himself residing in such close proximity with such a man, certainly not for years.

“Yes,” Achilles says, gritting his teeth. “You’ve lived with me long before Troy, since we were both boys. Are you telling me you do not remember?” 'Troy? Was that what this place was called, wherever he was?'

“I do not.”

Achilles only stares. Briseis’s gaze shifts nervously between the two of them.

“Are we close?” Patroclus wonders aloud. “We must be if we have known each other for so long. I am sorry that I do not remember you.”

He really is sorry. Achilles is both terrifying and unworldly beautiful, but there must be something buried deep underneath his intimidating exterior that cares for Patroclus if only a little. Why else would he have kept him around for so long otherwise? It is a strange thought that everyone knows of a life that Patroclus does not. He feels like an outsider in his own body.

Achilles lets out a sound like a wounded animal, a cry of grief and frustration, and storms from the tent.

“Where are you going?” Briseis calls after him.

“To speak with my mother!” And then he is gone.

“He frightens me a little,” Patroclus says, staring at the empty space where Achilles had just been.

“In that, we are in agreement.” He turns to face her, shifting his body on the pallet for a better angle.

“Will he be okay?” he asks, looking up at her face. “He looked troubled.”

“Oh, Patroclus.” Briseis sighs heavily. “I fear every version of you is doomed to think too much of others.”

Chapter Text

It does not take Achilles long to find his mother. She practically comes to him. 

“Achilles.” Her voice is a harsh sound against the soft murmur of the waves, like the sharp edges of sea cliffs. The beaches are empty, the fighting momentarily at a cease now that Achilles has suddenly vanished again. The Trojans and their allies have moved back inside the walls, eager to have a few moments to assess the damage that had befallen them in such a short time.

“Did you know of this?” He has long since stopped greeting her. She rarely needed an introduction to what was weighing on his mind. Some days, the fear he had carried as a child, that she could see every thought in his mind, resurfaces. 

“I’d heard rumor.” 

“Just rumor? So it really wasn’t your doing?”

Thetis scoffs. 

“No, I do not possess such power, and if I had it, I wouldn’t be using it on the likes of him. Not when he’s finally been done away with.” Achilles’ grip on the hem of his tunic is so tight he is in danger of tearing it. 

“No,” she says. “If I had such power, you’d needn’t prolong Hector’s end.”

Achilles clenches his jaw so hard he hears it pop.

“Then who,” he spits through gritted teeth, “Do I blame for stealing his memory?” 

“I thought you would be happy,” Thetis says, lips pursed. “Though maybe it is my fault for never teaching you gratitude.” His mother is not often so short with him. Her attitude is almost jarring. But her reason is prevalent on her face as she looks Achilles over. Disappointment. And Achilles knows that the things his mother hates the most are mortals and the brutal sting of disappointment.

Achilles digs his heels into the sand, resisting the urge to throw himself down on the beach and scream. 

“It appears someone talked to Hades, though, who, I’m not quite sure. Aphrodite, Ares, Apollo, even. There was talk. The gods on Troy’s side are not quite ready for its walls to crumble. They think that maybe if you are distracted …..appeased, you might cease your rampage and allow Troy enough time to repair the damage you managed to inflict. That you’ll run off with your mortal and leave Troy for home.” 

The thought interests him, though he does not say as much to his mother. 

“If they were meaning to appease me, then why didn’t they return Patroclus to me in full!” he demands. Thetis looks down at her son from where he is standing on the beach, arms crossed and huffing like a spoiled child. ‘Oh, where did I go wrong with you?’ She thinks. ‘Every great thing I have put before you, you’ve all but kicked aside.’

“Just because they are trying to appease you does not mean that they are happy with you.” She laughs, a raspy sound like she is choking on water. “You have angered many gods, Achilles. You would be a fool to think they would let you go unpunished. Him being changed might be the point.” 

Achilles let out a roar, kicking up sand. 

“What do I do? How do I fix it?”

“You don’t,” Thetis said, roughly. “You live with it or wait for him to die again. Which won’t be long, mortals are like that, and he’s as good as a child now.” A wave rolls up the beach, and Thetis moves with it, leaning closer to her son. “You could still fix this, Achilles. Abandon the boy. He is nothing now. Let me make you a god.” 

Achilles lurches from her.

“A life without Patrolcus is no life at all. I’d rather sever myself on my own blade than abandon him, memories or not. It makes no difference to me.

“Even when he is a hollowed-out shell, he still takes priority over me.” Thetis hisses. The water around her feet is churning as it would before a storm. 

“He will never love you, not when he is to only know you as this. You forget how easily frightened humans are. You are part divine, Achilles. You were never meant for this world. They do not understand you; they cannot.” She reaches again for her son, but Achilles has grown too quick for even her to catch. 

“You’re no help.” He spits. No one else would have been able to catch the tremor in his voice, the fear that lingers there. But she knew. “He does love me. He just needs time.”

“Mortals do not have time. You refuse to believe the things you do not want to hear is all.” She slips back into the water, the waves devouring more and more of her until it is lapping at her sternum. Her dark hair floats around her like clumps of seaweed. 

“Goodbye, Achilles.” He does not watch her leave, instead curling up on the sand and heaving out a sob that shakes the whole of him.

Patroclus would love him again; he had to. He could not imagine a world where he was not on the receiving end of Patroclus’ boundless affection. The thought was unbearable. It was a blade to the heart to have the only person he truly cared for and wished to never let go of, look at him so impassively and want to be free from his grasp. 

He would do better, spend every second he has reminding Patroclus of the life that they had had together, rekindling the flame of love he had once had for Achilles. His mother is wrong; Patroclus would love him again. He would remember, he had to. Achilles would make sure of it.

******

Achilles' plans are quickly pushed off course when he is met with Briseis at the front of the tent, barring his way. 

“This is my tent!” he shouts. 

“He is resting. He doesn’t need you smothering him and pressing him with questions.” Her hair is tied up out of her face, and there is sweat beading on her brow like she has been working.

“He is my companion, my philtatos, and this is my home! You should be the one to leave!”

“He needs someone to care for him,” she counters. Placing her hands firmly on her hips. Achilles towers above her small frame, the picture of intimidation, but she does not back down. She no longer cowered like she had before. Achilles had a mind to shove her out of the way or toss her into the sea. He could do it. But he has promised himself he would start on the right foot with Patroclus, and Patroclus had liked her once, even if he does not remember her now. He knows she hates him, and he does not need her whispering bits of her loathing into Patroclus’ ear. It would undo everything he has planned before he even gets a chance to begin. 

He shoves her aside, gently. She is not much of an obstacle, and he makes his way around her easily. 

“I can care for him on my own. I did it for years, long before he even knew of your existence.”

“Yes, and you did such a great job the last time.” Achilles whips around, stalking towards her where she is still standing in front of the tent’s entrance. 

“Don’t-”

“I say nothing that isn’t true. For as long as I have known you, you have put your own needs above his. He needs rest far more than you need his attention.”

“You say that because you are with him now! You know nothing about us. He would want me near him, you cannot deprive me after-you have no right-” he stumbles over his own words, a thing he did not often do, but the frustration that is building inside him gave him little room for thinking. 

“Fine,” Briseis snarls, “go to him. But do not think for a second that I will let you harm him.”

“You threaten me? And with such a foolish insult? I have learned my lesson; I need not learn it again. No harm will come to him, that is certain.” He points a slender finger at her, scowling. “I do not need you to make sure of that.”

He turns his back on her and goes into the tent. He had picked her off the dais for the sake of Patroclus, not so he could have a second mother. 

“That was rather quick for– Oh. It’s you.” Patroclus is sitting upright, drowning in a heap of cushions and blankets. He is swaddled like a small child; the look is almost comical. For a moment, he thinks to joke with Patroclus about it, but he pulls back at the sight of Patroclus' impassive face. Achilles doubts he would appreciate it now. It pulls at his insides a little to see Patroclus looking so unbothered by the sight of him, when before he would have been running up to greet him. 

“Patroclus,” he said softly, moving towards him as one would a wounded, frightened animal.

“Um, yes?” Patroclus says, hesitantly, raising his eyebrows in question. Achilles could look at his face all day. Once again, he is filled with an overwhelming sense of longing. His hands itch to reach for Patroclus, run his fingers over his skin, and mark every place he can feel a pulse. But the way Patroclus had acted last time has Achilles staying put.

“I-,” he lets out a long sigh. ‘Normalcy,’ he tells himself. ‘Do not frighten him.’ “Are you alright?”  

“Oh,” Patroclus says, as though he had not expected the question. “Yes, I am alright. Though I would prefer it if I didn’t have to lie here all day. Briseis insists, but I really am fine, just a bit confused. But it seems that I am not the only one.”

Achilles says nothing; he feels as though he has lost all words. Patroclus pats the blankets next to him.

“Sit.” He is looking up at Achilles expectantly, his features soft. Achilles scrambles over to him. He will not refuse him anything ever again. It takes more strength than he has to not let himself fall against Patroclus as soon as he is near him. 

“You look tired,” he says, smoothing his thumb over one of the dark circles under Achilles' eyes. “I think you need this bed more than I do.”

His touch is brief, but Achilles leans into it while he has it. He is unable to suppress the dissatisfied huff of breath that leaves him when Patroclus slowly pulls his hand back. Achilles' resolve crumbles, and he catches Patroclus’ hand swiftly, just to feel his skin. He presses his thumb over his pulse, which beats just below his palm, quick and steady. It's Achilles' favorite rhythm. There is no music that is sweeter, no song.

His skin, though flushed with life, is still slightly chilled. Patroclus looks at him, startled. 

“I am not tired.” He is afraid to shut his eyes for even a moment, lest this all be a dream and Patroclus is swept from him again. Even blinking is frightening.

“Well,” Patroclus mumbles, his cheeks slightly flushed. “Then the least you could do is keep me company if I am doomed to sit here all day.” 

He moves over so that there is more space beside him, lifting the edge of the blanket for Achilles. It takes no convincing for Achilles to lie down next to him. He is not as close as he would like, but it is better than nothing. Achilles is still slightly damp from bathing in the sea, but Patroclus says nothing of it. He only stares off at the ceiling, still propped up on his mountain of cushions, deep in thought.

Achilles wants to ask him what he is thinking. He has so many things he wants to say to Patroclus. But it has been so long since he last slept. The bed is soft, and the sound of Patroclus' even breathing from above him is the most comforting sound in the world. Achilles is drifting off before he can stop himself.

Chapter Text

The bed is empty when Achilles wakes. The pallet has long gone cold, as if the spot beside him has been abandoned for a while. Achilles shoots up, panic flooding through him. The tent is empty as well. He can feel a soft breeze coming in through the tent flap that hangs loose at the entrance, giving him a clear view of the night sky and the camp beyond.

He hurries out of bed. The sluggishness that often comes in the midst of wakefulness does not touch him. He moves quickly from the tent, searching frantically in every direction for any sign of…..

“Patroclus!”

Patroclus is sitting only a little ways off from the tent, in front of a fire that is burning low, an empty cooking pot still settled above it. He turns his head sharply at the sound of his name. He sees Achilles and waves to him. The gesture seems friendly, but Achilles can see that his shoulders are tense, wary. His face is cast in shadow, the light of the fire too weak to reach it.

“You slept for a while,” he says, his voice a soothing balm over Achilles’ ears. “You must have needed it.”

Achilles shuffles awkwardly near the flames, close enough to be in reach of its light but not its warmth. Patroclus ushers him over to sit next to him. The familiarity of the motion leaves an ache in Achilles' chest.

They sit in silence, the sounds of the night filling the air around them. The waves breaking against the shore in the distance, the humming and buzzing of the night’s insects. Patroclus has one of the hounds nestled at his feet. It must have sought Patroclus out, hoping for some scraps.

There are too many dogs in the camp for Achilles to keep up with them all. He squints at it. It looked almost familiar, but its name did not come to mind. Achilles does not feel too bad about it. Patroclus probably didn’t remember its name either. He had never been as partial to animals as Patrolcus had been. 

“I did not realize how vast this place was,” Patroclus says suddenly, looking out to the rest of the camp that stretched before them. Achilles makes a sound in acknowledgment, his eyes still trained on Patroclus, who does not even notice him. The breeze blowing past them ruffles Patroclus’ hair, shifting through his loose curls that the fire’s light had made luminous. Achilles aches.

“How many people are settled here?” He asks, and Achilles had to gather himself before he can speak.

“Too many to count,” he answers. The camp has changed considerably over the years, with new deaths and new lives continuously shifting and changing their population.

He had never cared to pay attention; the faces of the men all fusing together for him. He is no longer sure of the number of his own soldiers. 'Patroclus would know,' he thinks. He looks at him imploringly, begging him to remember something. 'You were always the one who was good at these sorts of things.'

“Why are you all here?” Patroclus asks. “Surely this is not so grand a place for people to permanently settle. You seem wealthy enough that you could have a more stable home, something of stone even.”

“We’re at war,” Achilles says simply. It is odd to have to explain this to Patroclus. "Have been for nearly a decade."

There is a spark of recognition in Patroclus’ eyes, but it fades as quickly as it appears. It leaves Achilles uncertain on if he had only imagined it. If it was just a shift of the flames reflecting in his eyes.

“That is a long time for a war,” Patroclus muses. “You must be facing a difficult foe to still be on this beach after so long. What’s keeping you all here?”

“Us,” Achilles corrects. “You’re one of us, but it doesn’t matter. Some battles are just more difficult than others. It is nothing to dwell upon.”

“Is it embarrassing?”

“What?” Achilles asks.

“The reason you-we’re- all still here. Is it something shameful, so you can’t talk about it?” Patrolus says teasingly.

“No,” Achilles says curtly to end the conversation. “It’s just nothing worth talking about. Wars are difficult, that’s all.”

“Well,” Patrolcus says after a long moment of silence. “I had thought that you might have been a soldier. Guess I was right. You have that look about you.”

“What look?” Achilles asks. Of course, he knew he looked like a warrior, frightening enough to send any man running. He has seen the effects he has on people over the many years he has been on the beaches of Anatolia.

He wonders how he looks from Patroclus’ eyes. If now he only sees just another soldier when he looks at him, a terrible, monstrous thing. Maybe that was all he had ever seen, and now that he does not seem to hold any affection for Achilles, he is able to admit it. Now that he is no longer biased by past memories.

 He expects Patroclus to say something along the lines of Brutal, ugly, and monstrous.

“Haunted,” Patroclus says instead, jabbing a stick into the fire and shifting the wood. Several sparks are knocked free and fly up into the wind like fireflies.

“Haunted?”

“What, is that not something you hear often?”

“No,” Achilles admits, watching the way the flames spark and twist. “I am usually described as cruel or terrifying.”

Patrolcus turns and looks him over, studying him for a long moment. The scrutiny makes Achilles' skin crawl. 

“I can see it. You did look terrifying enough when you’re covered in blood. I’m sure you frighten many.”

Achilles catches his wrist, and Patroclus drops the stick, a startled breath slipping from him. His eyes were dark and shadowed when they looked into Achilles’ own, so achingly familiar and yet missing something. His skin is still cold, even after sitting near a fire for who knows how long.

“And are you?” Achilles asks. Their faces were closer now, just a breath apart.

“Hmm?”

“Frightened of me? Are you?”

“Should I be?”

'Yes.' Achilles thinks. 'You should be. I have ruined you, and I am bound to ruin you again.' But his throat has closed up, and he could not speak.

“Am I a soldier as well?” Patroclus asks, changing topics when Achilles continues to give him no answer.

“Yes,” he utters, voice as dry as sand. “Though it was not a role you strived for.”

“Was I a poor fighter?”

“No,” Achilles says quickly. “Far from it. I’ve never met anyone able to keep up with me in the way you can. You just held other tasks above it. You never sought accomplishment in battle in the way others do.”

Patroclus sits silently with Achilles' words for a moment. The crackling of the flames fills the empty space between them. He lets go of Patroclus, clamping his eyes shut and moving back to lounge against the ground, to block his face from view. He would not let Patroclus see him cry.

“Are you cold?” Achilles asks, just for the sake of having something to say. He wants to hear Patroclus’ voice again. Needs it. Patroclus looks down at his fingers, turning his hands over in the light of the fire.

“I don’t think so,” he says eventually, words slow as molasses. He moves his fingers dangerously close to the flames, and Achiies sucks in a breath. “I was, but now I don’t think I can feel much of anything.” He watches as the slight breeze picks up dust from the ground and swirls it. “Not even the wind.”

He does not sound sad, like one normally would when discussing a loss, merely thoughtful.

“It will come back to you,” Achilles insists. “Give it a day or so. I’ll keep you warm in the meantime.”

“Briseis said I loved you,” Patroclus says this so suddenly, so impassioned that it has Achilles reeling. “That I followed you here even though I was not fit for a place like this.”

Achilles can feel the tears building, threatening to spill over like an overflowing chalice in a drunkard's hand. 'Loved.' It is an arrow straight through his chest. 

“I do love you,” Achilles says. “More than anything.” Patroclus regards him as one would a foreign, docile creature. With a strangeness wrapped in pity.

“I have a whole life that I do not remember, but everyone around me knows every piece of it,” Patroclus continues, none the wiser to Achilles breaking apart beside him. “You say you love me and yet I feel as if I’ve only just learned your name.”

“I think I had longed for you far before you had even uttered yours,” Achilles muses. 

Patrolcus scrunches his features in distaste. “You are a strange man, Achilles,” he laughs.

“Strange for loving you?”

“No, I had already deemed you strange before I knew of such a thing.” 

Achilles thinks of asking Patroclus if he thinks he could ever love Achilles back. If he told him of their life together, if Patroclus would believe him. Achilles fears the answer, so he does not ask. 

Patroclus stares at him for a moment before speaking again. His eyes are moving over Achilles as if he, too, is in search of something.

“It is stranger yet to think I have built a whole life around you,” he whispers. “I don't even know you, but then you speak to me in such a way, look at me like you are now, and I begin to think…." He trails off, the words getting lost before they can reach his tongue. "Oh, never mind. I've forgotten where I was going.”

Achilles' heart sinks.

Patroclus goes back to poking at the fire, unconcerned at having lost whatever he was about to say.

“I hope I did not ruin your night. My lack of memories seems to pain you as much as they pain me.”

“You’ve ruined nothing.”

Patroclus smiles softly at him, and Achilles is reminded of every instance where he was on the receiving end of such a look, and it cracks through his grief a little. 'He is here, and he is looking at me fondly, and if I can have nothing else in this world, I will be satisfied with just this.'   

Patroclus’ mouth stretches open in a yawn. He rubs at his eyes.

“I think I will head to bed if that’s alright?” He waits, uncertain, looking at Achilles for an answer, perhaps permission. Achilles nods, wishing Patroclus were not so stiff with him. Closed off. It almost reminds him of when they first met, but then he has to stop thinking about it because it hurts too much.

“Of course.”

Patroclus gets to his feet, turning to look down at Achilles one last time. There are stars scattered above his head.

“Good night, Achilles,” He says, and Achilles wants to reach up and pull him down with him, beg to be allowed to follow him, but instead he only says:

“Good night, Patroclus.”

Patroclus turns his back on him and disappears into the tent. Achilles throws himself down on the ground, staring up at the vastness of the sky above him. He feels hollowed out, like someone has scraped out his insides and sent them off with Patroclus, leaving him with nothing.

He is left wondering if Patroclus would have been better off without him. He should have listened when he was told he was good for nothing but destruction.

As much as it pains him to admit it, maybe Briseis was right. What had he done for Patroclus in the last several years that had not caused him misery? He had not worked at all to stop himself from becoming the monster that Patroclus feared he would become. A killer.

Patroclus deserves more, and Achilles would be damned if this time around he did not give it to him. He had a second chance, and he would prove himself to be better. He'd fix all the past failures with Patroclus, take advantage of this clean slate. If the only thing tying them together was a past that they no longer had, it would be all the easier to lose him again. Patroclus had not fallen in love with Achilles as this. If he could just remind Patroclus of only the good times they had together, if he could show him how utterly devoted he is, Patroclus will have no choice but to fall for him again.

He stays, spread out on the ground, running these thoughts through his mind until the fire goes out and dawn bleeds up through the sky.

Chapter Text

Achilles finds Automedon that morning, pulling a comb through a horse’s mane. 

“I need to speak with you,” he says. Automoden drops the brush immediately. 

“My Lord!” he stumbles into a bow before Achilles. 

“I am not upset with you,” Achilles reassures. “I only wish to speak with you.” Automedon shoots up straight again.

“Anything, my Lord.” The horse that he has been brushing stomps its feet impatiently, nudging at Automedon's shoulder to encourage him to comb through its hair again. Autooden gives Achilles an uncertain look. Achilles waves dismissively in approval, and Automedon takes up the brush again, resuming his work. 

“How would you feel about sailing back to Pythia?” 

Automoden all but drops the brush again. “Me?!” His eyes widen in a look Achilles knows to be fear. He has seen it enough before. “My Lord,” Autodomen halts all brushing, turning fully away from the horse to bow at Achilles once more. “Have I done something to upset you? In fetching you from the battlefield, I thought only to do what you might have wanted. If I assumed wrong, I-”

“You are not being punished, Automedon. I am pleased with all you have done for me. I was talking more of sending the whole army back to Pythia, in which you are included.”

“The whole army?” Automedon asks uncertainly. The horse Automoden had been brushing, slamming its nose into his back, huffing in frustration. Automoden just barely catches himself before he stumbles into Achilles' arms. He turns back to the horse, hissing something vulgar, and gets back to picking at a knot in the horse’s mane. 

“I’m not sure I understand, My lord. Are you proposing we leave Troy in the middle of a war?”

Achilles thinks of lying, of taking it back and saying it was just a test, or some other stupid excuse. Instead, he settles for the truth. “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m proposing.”

“Have you told anyone else of these plans?”

“No, just you.” 

Achilles swears that it is flattery that makes its way across Automedon's face. “Do you think it is unwise?” he asks.

“You’re asking me for advice?” Automedon says, bewhealded. “Surely Phoenix is better suited to advise you on these matters.”

“If I wanted his advice, I would have sought him out instead,” Achilles snaps. He, of course, would take such a matter to Phoenix before making any decisions, but Automedon is a soldier, like the many that fight under him. He sleeps next to these men; he would be the one to know how his men would react to such a decision. He knew them all far more than Achilles or even Phoenix would, the other kingdoms’ men as well. 

“I bid you to speak truthfully on the matter. You you feel a decision such as this would be unwise?”

“It will tarnish your reputation,” Automedon says meekly.

“It is already tarnished.”

“People are upset about all that has happened in the past several days. I do not think they will appreciate you leaving them here in Troy. They want you to slay Hector. The kings and their armies would likely burn your ships before you could even get them off the beach.” 

Achilles curses to himself. Automedon is likely right. 

“You’re leaving Troy?” Briseis comes around from the other side of the stables, clay pitcher in hand. 

“Were you spying?” Achilles accuses. 

“Not everyone is on the hunt for you, Lord Achilles,” she scoffs. “I have other business here. But if you are asking around for opinions, I’d gladly give mine.”

Achilles grinds his teeth. “Do you think it is a poor idea as well, then?” he grits. “I thought you, of all people, would be overjoyed at the prospect of us leaving this beach.”

“It would bring me great happiness,” Briseis bites back, “but I do not think it would be the best for Patroclus at the moment.”

“Of course it would be best for him,” Achilles counters. “He’d be far from danger, what could be better than that?” It is the whole reason Achilles had considered this idea in the first place: to keep Patroclus safe.

“He’s confused. To take him from one strange place to another would only stress him further. You can not just drag him around like some plaything. He does not need to be crammed in a ship for months. He cannot possibly rest in conditions as that.”

“Pythia is his home.”

“And how long has it been since he has even laid eyes on that place? He will not remember it. He told me just this morning that he found some things here familiar; you can not take that away from him.” Briseis' chest is rising and falling rapidly with the force of her words. 

“Alright,” Achilles surrenders, “we will wait until Patroclus is better, then not a moment longer.” He turns back to Automedon, who has been watching the whole exchange. “Do not speak a word of this.”

“Of course not, my Lord.”

Achilles turns back to Briseis, pitcher still poised on her hip. “You never speak with anyone besides Patrolcus, so I’m not worried about you.”

Automedon speaks up. “How is Patrolcus?”

“Resting,” Briseis says. She dips her head to Automoden. “Good day.” She pushes past Achilles, making an effort to bump him as she goes and heads back in the direction of Achilles’ tent. 

******

Achilles had not been lying when he said they were at war. It is the first time Patroclus has left the tent in daylight, and he could see the signs of it everywhere. The weapons, the chariots left next to the tents. The men who limped around the camp, nursing wounds or cradling bandaged limbs. The thick smell of day-old blood and sweat clings to the air, more prevalent under the heat of the sun. It is a sickening sight.

He had only meant to be gone for a moment. Feigning sleep as Brises slipped out from the tent to fetch something. He just wanted a peek at the camp in daylight. But there was so much to see, and the sight of it all had enthralled him, pulling him further and further from the tent. By the time he had decided to turn around and head back, the tent was no longer in sight. Now he was lost in an unfamiliar place full of unfamiliar people. He had lied to Brisies when she had asked if he had been able to piece anything together. He just couldn’t bear to look at the disappointment in her face any longer. 

It was wrong, he knew that, but it had made her happy in the moment.

Whatever part of the camp he has ended up in is full of mourners. Faces shadowed in grief, eyes wet with tears. Patroclus did not expect things to be so still. He had thought war was a quick and violent thing. Loud and messy. No one is wearing any armor any carrying any weapons as they move through the city of tents. Their shoulders are heavy from sorrow alone. He scans the forlorn faces for any traces of familiarity, but finds none. 

Several people stop in their tracks when they catch sight of him. The same looks came to all of their faces: confusion, awe, fear. Some have tried to make their way toward him to speak, but Patroclus has been quick to duck away. It is surely one of the reasons he has gotten himself so turned around. All his sharp turns have made him lose what little sense of direction he possesses. Not everyone had been eager to approach him, however. Some make signs to ward off evil when they catch sight of him; others just flee. He is far more comfortable with the latter.

He does not know these people the way they know him, and the thought of facing so many strangers all at once has bile rising up his throat. All of these new and unfamiliar sights are making his head spin. Why he had thought it was a good idea to venture from the tent, he was not sure, but he definitely regrets it now. It had not awakened anything in him as he had expected, but merely added to the confusion.

Patroclus ducks behind a barrel to keep out of the line of sight of those milling about the camp. He needs a moment to gather his thoughts and not descend into a panic. He is in the middle of debating wth himself over whether he could possibly camp out here until nightfall so that he could retrace his steps with the camp empty, when he is startled by a voice from above him.

“This is painfully familiar.”

Achilles is standing over him. His golden hair hangs loosely around his shoulders. He is both beautiful and terrifying all at once, and Patroclus swears he feels his stomach drop.

“I’ve been looking for you.” He continues. 

“Have you?” Patroclus asks and cringes at the slight uneasiness prevalent in his voice. 

“You’re supposed to be in our tent. I hope you know you’ve given Brisies a good scare. You’re lucky I found you first.”

“Oh,” Patrroclus says, dread seeping through him.

“No one is upset with you!” Achilles hurriedly reassures. “Just worried. We figured you might have gotten lost.”

“I’m not lost,” Patroclus says indignantly, setting back his shoulders and staring up at Achilles defiantly from where he is wedged between barrels. Achilles stands with his arms crossed, an easy smile on his face,

“Ah, so you were looking for these wine stores specifically?” Achilles teases. “I never took you for a drunkard but…” he trails off. Patroclus’ face grows hot.

“I was resting, that’s all. I know where I’m going.”

“Do you mind if I join you then? It is better to travel with company, as they say.”

“I don’t need your help.”

Achilles kicks up a tuft of dirt with the toe of his sandal. “I wasn’t offering help,” he says casually. “Just company.”

Patroclus is still not sure how he should feel about Achilles. Everything about him makes Patroclus want to flee, but something deep within himself, something frightening and unknown, wants to keep him near. Briseis' words from the night before are stuck with him. She had come into the tent to find Achilles asleep next to Patroclus, shocked to see him at rest. “You have pulled him back from the edge of madness,” she had said. “He loves you."

Patroclus had frozen. "Loves me?"

" Yes, and you loved him back for some foolish reason."

Maybe whatever had once been between them is what keeps him still under Achilles' gaze. Keeps him spitting at Achilles' feet and storming off.

Hesitation crosses over Achilles' face, though brief, but eventually, he extends his hand out to Patroclus.

“I am sorry. I did not mean to offend. I’m usually much better at this.”

Patroclus takes Achilles' hand and lets Achilles pull him up. “Better at what?”

“Making you smile.” Patroclus takes to brushing the dirt off the end of his tunic to avoid looking at Achilles. 

“Oh.”

“So where are you heading?” 

Patrolcus looks up at the never ending stretch of tents. He turns in the direction Achilles had come from. The tent was probably that way. He gestures vaguely in his chosen direction, then takes off walking before AChilies can ask him anything else. His stides are purposeful, and he moves with an air of confidence that he does not possess.

Achilles keeps up with him easily, and soon their steps are in time, both of them moving together in one fluid motion. When Patroclus speeds up his pace, Achilles matches it effortlessly. When he slows, Achilles does as well without even a moment of hesitation. The oddest part is, Achilles does not even seem to notice he is doing it.

They walk aimlessly for some time, Patrolcus having yet to see anything worth claiming he was in search of.  

It does not take long for Achilles to call him out on it.

“You have no idea where you’re going, do you?”

“Why would you think that?” Patroclus asks.

“Because we have walked past this tent four times.” 

Patroclus stops dead in his tracks. None of this looks familiar.

“You lied to Briseis?”

Patroclus shrugs, refusing to meet Achilles' eyes. “I might have,” he says evenly.

“Why?”

Patroclus sighs. “She just looked so devastated. And I thought maybe if I could convince her, then I could convince myself as well, and things might start coming back to me.”

“Interesting theory.”

“It didn’t work,” Patroclus says through a bitter laugh. “I have no idea what any of this is.” He gestures widely to the camp around him. “All these tents in your camp look the same.”

“Our camp,” Achilles corrects. 

Patroclus rolls his eyes. “Right.”

“How about I give you a tour?” Achilles suggests. “Maybe something will spark if you know what it is you’re looking at. No one should expect you to recall anything when you have nothing to work with.”

He’s giving Patroclus that look. The same one from last night, the one that means everything and nothing all at once. It’s sickeningly sweet and oh so confusing, and it makes Patroclus want to throw up just a little. “Lead the way then.”

Their camp is at the very edge of the Achaean settlement, closest to the woods. There are other camps that belong to different armies that bleed off from the main camp in the center of it all. Achilles takes him around his camp first, to the places he has not yet stumbled across himself. He shows him the women’s tents, where Patroclus had supposedly spent many days. Briseis had lived here before she became a permanent attachment to Patroclus’ side. Achilles' voice is bitter as he says so.

“Do you not like Briseis?” He asks, voice light, though his gaze is piercing as he looks Achilles over.

“I like her well enough.”

“Well enough?” Patroclus echos.

“Yes, she reminds me of you sometimes,” Achilles says, voice soft. Patroclus raises an eyebrow.

“Really?”

Achilles laughs faintly. “You’re both horribly stubborn. Neither of you ever backs down, or know how to leave well enough alone.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you sound almost fond. Are you sure you do not like a bit of stubbornness?” Patroclus is not sure where this boldness comes from, the comfortability. But he finds the longer he speaks with Achilles, the easier it becomes. They lock eyes. Achilles' gaze is piercing, earnest.

“I like everything about you.”

They’re supposed to be sweet words, he knows this, but they make his stomach sink all the same. He does not feel like the same person everyone seems to have once known. It is like he is inhabiting someone else's body, thrust into the middle of a life they were already living. Like he has stolen something.

He opens his mouth to say something back, but the right words do not come to him. It all either feels like a lie or something bound to disappoint Achilles. He doesn’t want to kill the delicate thing beginning to bloom between them with his sour words. ‘You love a lost version of me,’ sits waiting in his throat, but he does not utter it.

Instead, he runs.

Runs far ahead of Achilles and his stupid words of devotion. His blinding beauty and praise. It’s all too overwhelming.

He does not stop until he reaches a large white tent that sits all but deserted. The feeling of nostalgia crashes into Patroclus like a wave. Achilles is on him in an instant.

“Are you alright?”

“I know this place.” The heavy smell of herbs that clings to the air around it burns his nose. It just barely masks the smell of blood.

“Do you?”

“Yes. it feels…familiar.”

“It’s the medical tent,” Achilles says.

There is a pull to this place that Patrolcus can not describe. He is filled with a longing to move towards it. It is a feeling of peace and dread and recognition all at once. Patroclus takes a deep breath, gathering his strength to ask the next question. “Did I-” He takes another breath. Achilles watches, patient. “Did I die here?” The air around them grows somber.

“No,” Achilles shakes his head. “You died on the battlefield, then you were brought to me.”

“Then why-”

“You worked there as a medic, every day for hours. You’re a skilled healer. Earned quite the reputation for yourself in the camp.” He tries to imagine it, tending to the sick and wounded with enough grace and skill to be remembered for it. To think of doing such a thing now overwhelms him. How would he remember what to do with his hands, the right herbs to mix to cure an ailment, how to soothe those long past hope? It all seems so unlikely, so impossible. 

“That does not seem likely.”

“You always had a nasty habit of doubting yourself.” Achilles tisks.

Patroclus thinks of the scar that splits his abdomen. He resists the urge to raise his hands to his stomach to feel it. He’s been doing it since he found it, running his fingers over the jagged line that raises from his skin like a sort of nervous tic. He wonders whose hands moved to tend his wounds. 

“If I were dead, as everyone claims, how was it then that I died?” Achilles turns his head from him.

“I don’t want to talk about this.”

“I do,” Patroclus says firmly. How can he be expected to remember these things if no one will talk to him about them? How can he learn the truth about himself and how he came to be like this if people keep him in the dark? “Was it painful?” His voice is neutral, bored even, when he asks this, as if he is inquiring about the weather instead of details on his own end.

“Stop it.”

“Who killed me? Had I angered someone? Is that why I am here now, unnaturally?” 

Patroclus is met with only silence.

“Why do you not answer me?”

“Patroclus.” It is sharp, the way Achilles says his name, like a dagger, like a final blow. Achilles' eyes are wet. Patroclus closes his mouth. 

“I was not there to see it,” Achilles says finally. “If I had been there, it would not have happened. You would still be- Never mind.”

Patroclus finishes for him. “The same as you remembered me to be? Without missing pieces?”

Achilles takes hold of his hand, quick to correct him.

“I do not know why you are here, or what I could have done to deserve such a gift. But I am not mourning you, Patrolcus, I’ve had enough of that for a whole lifetime. If you are changed, it does not matter. I will take you as you are. I do not wish for anything else. I did not mean it like that.” Achilles takes a shuddering breath. 

“You would still be unharmed,” he finishes. “It’s your safety that I care for, your spirit. Not if you can remember all those stupid, silly things about me. That doesn’t matter.”

Patrolcus can feel the tears building. In sharp, hot pinpricks behind his eyes, in the tightness of his throat.

“It was a stab wound,” Achilles says out of nowhere. “Since you’re so set on knowing, though I’m sure you would have guessed that. It was from a very skilled soldier, but his quarrel did not lie with you. It was an accident.” His voice trembles as he speaks. Patroclus pretends not to notice. 

“Thank you for telling me.”

“Do not thank me, please. I owe you so much that I have still not given you.” He turns his back on the tent. “Let us leave this place, and speak no more of it.”

“Wait,” he says, and Achilles does. “Can I go inside for a moment?” he gestures at the medical tent. “It's just that this is the first place that I’ve felt anything close to remembrance. I thought maybe if I went inside, looked around, it might spark something.”

“You do not need to-”

“But I want to.” He looks at Achilles imploringly. “Please.”

“Alright,” Achilles resigns

“Will you come with me?”

“I’ll follow you anywhere. You do not have to ask, never again.” Patroclus swears that there is a hint of guilt lingering in Achilles’ expression, but he does not dwell on it.

Achilles takes his hand; his hold is loose, allowing Patroclus to pull away if he chooses. Patroclus doesn't. 

Chapter Text

Machaon moves about the tent with a kind of tranquility that seems foreign to a war camp, and in a place for the wounded and dying no less.

The place is nearly deserted. Only a few people remain resting in corners or on benches, dipping their calloused fingers into jars of salve to smooth over their scrapes and sores. Some are busy choking down cups of foul-smelling liquids. They all look up at the sound of an approaching pair of footsteps. Patrolcus is greeted with a dozen wide eyed gazes.

Patroclus can feel the flush spreading across his cheeks from their attention. 

“With you in a moment,” Machaon says as if he could sense the newcomers. His back is still turned to both of them. 

He moves around his workbench, collecting ingredients that he begins to grind into a fine powder within one of the many small, wooden bowls that sat near him. Once he has done this, he separates it into cups of warm water, which he stirs for some time. Only when he finishes does he look up from his work and face Achilles and Patroclus, who are still hovering near the entryway. 

His nonchalant attitude completely slips from him at the sight of Patroclus. He hurries towards them, still carrying cups and uttering something frantic under his breath as he goes. 

“Is something wrong?” He asks, giving Patroclus’ frame a once over, scanning for some sort of obvious injury. If his hands had not been full, Patroclus was sure he would have started to poke and prod at him with his scarred fingers.

“Oh no, no,” Patroclus says, words rushing from his mouth. He raised his hands in front of himself to block the medics' eyes from where they are roaming over Patroclus’ abdomen and the scar they both knew lay under his tunic. Patroclus takes a couple of hurried steps back, walking right into Achilles’ front. 

Strong hands clasps his hips to steady him faster than Patroclus can pull out a breath. The movement alone startled him so much that he almost sprang forward into Machaon. 

“I’m fine,” Patroclus chokes out. “We’re both fine.”

“Are you sure?” Machaon asks. “You look a little-”

Achilles interrupts, coming to Patroclus’ rescue. He lowered his voice, conscious of the other men in the tent with them, all silently hoping for any bit of their conversation they could spread about the camp. “We only wondered if we could walk around here a minute.”

“Walk around? Whatever for?”

“Just refamiliarizing himself with the area,” Achilles supplies.

“Of course,” Machaon says, a little too enthusiastic for being asked such a simple request. “It might do him some good to remind himself of old places.” He raised his hands, which still held the cups. “Take all the time you need. I'll just be distributing these.” He gives them a slight nod in goodbye and then is off, resuming his routine duties of checking in on the men in his care, passing out drinks, and inspecting wounds that are still in the process of healing. 

“Is there any particular place you would like to start?” Achilles asks. Patroclus shakes his head.

“I don’t think so. Nothing feels familiar to me yet. I think I just need to walk around for a little bit.” Achilles nods in understanding. Patroclus makes his way around the tent, trying to ignore the eyes he feels on the back of his neck.

It’s a rather large tent. Much larger than any room Patroclus can remember being in before. He wanders off to an empty corner, brushing past deserted cots and moving his fingers over the table tops that are covered with bandage cloth, medical tools, and a variety of herbs that sit waiting to be brewed into tea or broken down into a paste. 

He can almost imagine this room filled to the brim with soldiers, their cheeks streaked with dirt and blood, bits of scraped armor thrown haphazardly off to their side. The smells and sounds of war fill every vacant space. 

He shuts his eyes, and suddenly he’s not imagining it. 

He can see his own hands wrapping around the handle of a knife, sawing at the end of an arrow that is lodged in some faceless man's shoulder. The panic that must have risen in him then comes to him now. He can feel it coiled tight in his chest, the same way it must have felt at that moment. He feels the same joy as he slides the arrow free, fingers sticky and blood-soaked. He can see his hands smoothing over bandages and damp foreheads. 

Then he is no longer in the tent, and there is a hand on his back and a deep, gentle voice in his ear telling him how to splint a wound, guiding his gaze to surgical tools that hang from a cave wall that's flushed as pink petals. The voice guides him, explaining the purpose of each tool with a sort of tender patience. 

A sense of calm overcomes him then, of safety, of home. Patroclus can feel the burn of tears building behind his eyes. He suddenly cannot seem to fill his lungs with enough air.

“Do you wish to learn medicine?” a voice asks. Then it’s calling out his name in a way he has only ever heard one other voice speak it before.

“Patroclus.”

“Patroclus!”

He does not realize he has fallen back towards the table full of sharp cutting instruments until he feels someone’s hands on him, firm, yet surprisingly gentle. One catches the back of his head before he can smash it into the tabletop.

“Breathe,” Achilles says to him. “Are you alright? What happened? One minute you were standing there, and then you just-” Patroclus locks eyes with Achilles. Their faces are so close that Patroclus can feel the ends of Achilles' golden hair brushing against his cheeks. 'It’s as soft as it looks,'  Patroclus thinks. 

“I’m fine,” he reassures Achilles. His voice sounds breathless even to his own ears, but he attributes that to almost fainting. He waits for Achilles to pull him upright and take back his hands, but he does not. Patroclus’ lower back is still braced against the table, Achilles' hand there to separate the rough wood from his tunic. His head and shoulders hover just above disaster. 

Achilles’ gaze flickers down his face before coming back to meet his eyes again. Patroclus had never noticed how green they were, but now that he has, he can’t stop staring. They’re as deep a green as moss, as dark as a bed of ferns. 

“I saw something,” Patroclus whispers. He’s not sure why he lowers his voice, but it feels right with the position they are in, like he’s about to share a secret meant for Achilles' ears only, and maybe he is. 

Those green eyes widen with question. “What do you mean?”

“It was a vision of sorts, or maybe a memory. I’m not quite sure.” 

“Tell me,” Achilles says.”

He tells him of the wounds he saw himself treat, the tent around them that had been full of pained cries, soldiers calling out in terror and need. He tells him of the cave, of the man who spoke to him yet whose face he did not see. He does not mention to Achilles the comfort that comes from that memory, nor the sorrow that follows it. 

He watches every shift of Achilles’ features. His breath catches at Patroclus’ mention of the cave and the man’s voice.

“Chiron,” Achilles says, voice full of the same emotion that Patroclus had felt when he heard the voice. 

“Chiron?” Patroclus parrots, rolling the name on his tongue. The name itself sparks nothing for him. Its sound is still strange in his mouth. 

“We lived with him for many years, while we were much younger. He was a teacher of ours. A friend. Does that not sound familiar at all?”

“I just saw his surgical tools, like the ones on the table here, heard his voice,” Patroclus looks over his shoulder to glance at them. “Nothing else.” 

Something in Achilles' face shifts. He is deep in thought for a moment.

“Are you sure you have not had any other visions today, had anything spark something within you at all?

“I haven't, I swear it. This was the first.” 

Achilles pulls Patroclus upright again, moving him away from the table. He takes his hands back but does not step away. Their faces are still impossibly close. 

“You’ll tell me,” Achilles asks, his voice flat. More pensive than excited, as Patroclus had expected. “If you see anything else, you’ll tell me?” 

A bitterness fills Patroclus suddenly. “Don’t get all hopeful on me,” he bites. “It doesn’t matter anyway, I hardly saw anything. I doubt the next time will be any grander.” It comes out a little harsher than Achilles deserves, but Patroclus can’t help it. He turns his back to Achilles, staring down at the tools on the table with determination as if he can will them to reveal more secrets for him. 

“I’m not expecting anything from you,” 

Patroclus is defenseless against the wave of uncertainty that has begun to build up within him.“If I don’t remember anything else. If I can’t-” he swallows. “If I can’t ever remember anything from before, what then?”

“I already told you that it wouldn’t matter,” Achilles says, completely misjudging what Patroclus wants of him.

“You say that so callously.” There is an anger rising in Patroclus now, mixed with the bitterness and fear coiling in his gut. “How do you not care? I feel like a stranger in my own body and you say it does not matter.”

“It makes no difference to me.” 

Patroclus whips around to face Achilles, eyes dark. “It does to me,” he hisses. “Have you considered that at all? I’m allowed to be frustrated. I’m allowed to grieve. Don’t say it would not matter.” Patroclus can feel wetness collecting on his cheeks. He brushes the back of his hand harshly against them. “You could at least give me some kind of reassurance, not just a dismissal.” He pushes past Achilles. 

“Patroclus?” Achilles' voice is a broken, sorrowful thing. 

“I need a moment,” Patroclus chokes out, his chest heaving. 

“I’m sorry-” He can hear Achilles move closer, almost feel the heat of his body behind him. They’re almost touching again.

“Please,” He begs. He needs Achilles gone, needs to be alone. He does not want an audience for his disappointment. “I just need some time.”

“Alright,” Achilles agrees, reluctantly. “Whatever you need.” Patroclus nods his head, too afraid to speak again. His strides are long and purposeful, face pointed down towards his feet to hide the tears still lingering on his face. 

He’s not sure where he’s going as he hurries away from the tent and the faint sound of voices; he just knows he needs to be alone.

Chapter Text

Achilles is not sure where to go once he leaves the Medical tent. He rarely feels like this, knocked off his feet, uncertain. The unsteadiness that comes to him now is unnerving. He rarely ever feels anything but self-assured, blazingly confident. The times he does not, as few and far between as they are, have always led him into the circle of Patroclus' arms. The words of praise and comfort that followed would always work to mend that small, doubtful part of himself that had begun to develop in the past few years. Patroclus had always cleared the storms in Achilles’ head. Now, he’s not sure if Patroclus ever would again. 

Achilles thinks he’s going to be sick. 

He would go to his tent, but he’s afraid Bresis would be there. He does not want to see her now. He doesn’t want to see anyone if he can’t see Patroclus. 

He wants to give Patroclus a place to escape to as well. He’s not sure he really feels safe anywhere else in the camp right now, and he probably needs some sense of familiarity to run to. If one can even become familiar with a place after only a day. 

He drops clumsily to his knees, where he had found Patroclus just this morning. Not too far from his own tent, but hidden behind enough barrels and forgotten supplies that he’s slightly obscure from view if anyone were to come by. 

He brings his knees to his chest and runs his fingers through his hair again, a habit he picked up recently when Patroclus had been gone and he had no other means to soothe himself. 

Bits of his hair are already loosened with all the pulling he has done on his scalp in the last few days, so when he tugs at his hair again in that insistent, grounding way that makes his scalp burn, it takes little effort for the loose strands to come free and gather between his fingers. 

He thought things would be better, that having a second chance with Patroclus would allow him to mend things. But he’s still getting everything wrong. He used to be able to decipher Patroclus like a well work puzzle, sense his words, read his mind. But for some reason, he has not been able to get anything right in ages.

He thought it would be reassuring for Patroclus to know Achilles’ feelings were unmovable. That memory or not, he would still be wanted. Apparently not. 

It was like he was slipping through his fingers all over again. It was like the nights before Patroclus' death, where they would spend hours awake after dark, cross with one another.  He wasn’t sure how to fix it, but he needed to, desperately.

All he wanted to do was take hold of Patrcolculs and never let him go. To show him all the love he had thoughtlessly depleted him of in the last several months. He wanted to repent. But he could hardly get near Patroclus without him flinching away, regarding him as some overly concerned stranger. 

Achilles had told Patroclus he loved him, but he had yet to make him feel it. It was where he had gone wrong all those weeks ago. It would take more than just words to rekindle that flame.  

“Do you mind if I sit here?” 

Achilles jerks his head up from where it was pressed in between his knees. He is shocked to see Phoenix lowering himself down onto a crate near Achilles. 

He says nothing of the position he found Achilles in, no look of disgust at Achilles' hunched over and pitiful position. Instead, he simply says:

“I was wondering when I’d finally come across you.”

Achilles gathers his voice. “I should have come to you sooner. I apologize.” Phoenix waves his hand dismissively but not cruelly.

“We are far past apologies now, Achilles. It is alright. I know you’ve been preoccupied as of late.”

Achilles curls in on himself a little. 

“What troubles you?”

“I do not deserve your sympathy,” Achilles says. “Nor do I need it.”

“It is not sympathy I bring, Achilles, only an ear to listen if you need it. I’ve listened to many of your troubles in the years I’ve known you. I’d say I’m quite the expert now.” Phoenix’s voice is soft, nowhere near scolding, but Achilles feels his stomach sink all the same.

“But I have not listened to you,” he says, voice bitter as he recounts his follies. “You tried to warn me, and I did not heed your advice. I’m so sorry.”

“I thought I said that we were beyond apologies, young prince.” This, he says firmly.

“I would think you would be done with giving me advice now, after last time.”

Phoenix sighs, the same way he used to when Achilles was being particularly difficult as a young boy. “I raised you like my own, Achilles. One should recognize the faults in their children, yes, but they should not discard them so easily for having these faults. Only fools expect perfection. I’m old enough to have learned that a guiding hand is best. You were not ready to listen then. Are you ready to listen now?” Phoenix looks down at Achilles from where he rests near his feet, his eyes full of nothing but care. Achilles swallows around the lump in his throat.

“Yes,” He says.

“Then I will be here to advise you. Now tell me, what troubles you?”

It is like a dam is broken, and every thought in Achilles’ head begins to spill from his mouth. 

He tells him of the distance that stretches between him and Patroclus, which feels as wide as an ocean, impossible to reach across. How he has flinched away from every attempt Achilles had made at comfort. 

Then the trip to the medical tent and the fleeting glimpses of past memories that had come to Patroclus. How Achilles had spoken the wrong words, and Patroclus had run off. Again.

“I don’t understand,” Achilles says. “I tried to comfort him, but he just pushed me away. It’s never been that way before, and I don’t think I can handle it. I want to help him, I just don’t know how. Everything I do seems to be the wrong move.” He buries his head in his hands. “I’ve always known how. I knew him better than I knew myself, or at least I thought I did, but now….now I don’t know anymore. Every interaction feels like another failure, another way I’ve wronged him.”

Phoenix gives him a look that suggests if Achilles had been younger, he would have throttled him.  

“You’re going on your own terms when you should be doing things on his. Isn’t that how you lost him in the first place?”

“Don’t remind me.” Achilles scowls.

“I will remind you. You must take accountability. You should apologize to him. Preferably before he remembers it all, because if it is as you say and things are already coming back to him, he will find out about it soon. Better you address it first.”

The thought of it all coming back to Patroclus makes him shudder. He remembers the fiery hate he saw in Patroclus' eyes as they had argued, his air of indifference towards Achilles after Achilles had ignored each of his desperate pleas. 

He’d do whatever he had to do to keep Patroclus from regarding him in such a way ever again. 

How could Achilles hope to redeem himself if Patroclus remembered all of his flaws? He would never look good in Patroclus’ eyes again.

“I trust you to do what is right, Achilles.”

“I wouldn't,” Achilles says evenly. “I’ve let others down enough to show otherwise.” 

“You’re a smart man,” Phoenix says. “You have been given a second chance and would be foolish to squander it, and you are no fool. I should know, I taught you.”

This gets a small smile from Achilles. He looks up into Phoenix's eyes, trying to convey his gratitude and apologies all in one glance. He doesn’t have to say it, Phoenix knows. He always does.

“I won’t fail him again,” Achilles says instead. 

Phoenix merely nods his head. It is a while before he finally speaks again.

“Agamemnon is hosting a banquet for all of the Greek camps tonight. I think they mean to ask you about rejoining the war effort.”

Achilles scoffs. “Was this what you had been waiting to tell me all along?” If they ask him publicly, it will be all the harder for him to say no. It’s a good tactic. He would do the same, so he cannot grumble about it too much.

Phoenix ignores his comment. “You should be present.”

“I do not care to make pleasantries with men I hate or celebrate an honor I care nothing for.  If I return to the fight, it is because that was what Patroclus would have wanted…when he wanted things from me,” he adds bitterly. “Not for any of those fools.”

“It would be beneficial for the Myrmidons to see their leader in good spirits again,” Phoenix tries.

“You old men and your ulterior motives.” Achilles huffs, but there’s a hint of fondness that seeps through his voice. 

He cannot find it in himself to be annoyed at Phoenix. He owes him too much. However, that does not mean he cannot make him work for his win.  

“Alright,” Achilles relents, after some time of silence on his part. “I’ll be there.”

****** 

Patroclus collapses in a heap at the edge of the woods near the Myrmidons' camp. It is blissfully quiet here. The only sound that can be heard is his own labored breathing. He tries to gather himself, pulling deep mouthfuls of air into his lungs. 

He’s not quite sure why he had gotten so upset. He had been waiting since he had woken up for things to come to him, wanted so badly to see the pleased expressions on people’s faces when he told them of his memories that were no longer lost.

Now, however, he feels nothing like he expected. Only disappointment. Disappointment that it was not enough, disappointment that it did not draw out the excitement he had expected from Achilles.  

He still feels like a stranger, even with the new information he has gained over the past day. He doesn’t know who he’s supposed to be, and it makes him feel more than a little empty. Like some hollowed out shell. 

He thought that empty feeling would start to fade once he remembered something, but it hasn’t. And then there was the matter of Achilles. 

This devotion he held for Patroclus was overwhelming. He was not sure this man had ever done anything casually or without his full heart in all his life. He had never felt more full yet more terrified than when he was in his presence. It was hard to swallow so much care.

But at the same time, he could be so callous. Blind to Patroclus’ feelings. How was it possible to feel so supported and disregarded by someone at the same time?

It was all too confusing.

He tenses when he hears the telltale sound of footsteps approaching him. He’s put at ease, however, when he hears the voice that calls out to him.

“What are you doing out here all by yourself?” Briseis says, accent curling over the words. 

“I’m not a child,” Patroclus says dully. He does not move to face her nor to greet her, yet Briseis comes to him anyway. 

“That is not what I meant,” Briseis says smoothly, taking a seat in the grass next to Patroclus. It seems it would take much more than Patroclus’ sour mood to deter her. 

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“Nothing.”

“I know the look of a heavy burden when I see one, especially when it is worn on your face.” She brushes one of her own stray curls behind her ears. “What ails you?” Her expression oozes comfort and reassurance. It’s the kind of gaze he has been hoping to receive from Achilles back in the medical tent. It has him crumbling immediately. 

Patrolcus droops, caving in on himself as if his spin had been pulled from him. He rests his cheek against his bicep, arms cradling his sinking chest. He looks out at the sparse trees that make up the start of the woods.

“Does it not frustrate you that I’m not the person I once was?” 

Briseis sighs. He can hear the soft rustling of the fabric of her dress as she shifts to move closer to him, resting her temple against his shoulder. Her face now pressed closely to his so that her next words land right near his ear, impossible to miss.

“But you are,” She says earnestly. “Memories or not, you are still the same person, the same man I love. You might not have the same experiences, but the things that make you up, deep down, are still in there. You don’t have to have these old memories to be complete. Would it be better if you had them, of course, but that does not mean you cannot go on without them and still not be whole.”

Briseis wraps her arms around his shoulders, and he leans into her embrace. She continues, “I only cherish our memories together because you are a part of them. I no longer need them when I have you here with me again. That is more valuable to me. Just because your memories are lost does not mean you are. You can still discover who you are. That’s not something anyone just knows," she says. "People spend their whole lives figuring that out.”

“But I want them?” Patroclus says weakly. “My memories. Even if I don’t need them to be me, as you say. Is it wrong to still wish I had them? To not believe I can be whole otherwise.” His hand moves to rest against his sternum. “There is just something inside of me that feels so …so empty. I just want it fixed.”

“That is alright too,” Briseis reassures. “It's normal to want things from your past. There are many things that were taken from me that I still long for. But sometimes you have to learn to let that want go, because that empty feeling, it kills.”

Patroclus shudders.

“I will help you all that I can. You have made a horrible situation easier for me to bear; let me do the same for you. You need only to ask."

Patroclus takes in a shaky breath, wiping at his eyes with the hand not supporting their weight. “Thank you.” He sits up, and Briseis moves with him.

“For what?” she asks, genuine confusion prevalent in her words. 

“For all you’ve done for me. I hope I was as good to you once as you have been to me.” He takes her hand, just to hold it, to feel the warmth of her skin against his chilled fingers.

“You do not need to thank me for being your friend.” Her eyes are dark as they look up into his, a brown as rich as tilled soil. The ache within him lessens just enough for his breath to come a little easier.

“Let me do it anyway.” He holds her close. He tries not to let the want consume him, but even so, it is all he can think about. Good for him or not, Patroclus wants to discover these missing pieces of himself, even if it kills him again. He doesn’t think he can be truly satisfied without them.

Chapter Text

Achilles was no stranger to self indulgence. He’s lived around it for years, sharing his space with the men who gorged themselves on glory and pleasure. He had been one of those men once. However, now, as he watches the men shove at each other, spilling their drinks all over the ground and groping at the women who serve them, it all seems so unappealing. 

The empty place beside him doesn’t help much either. 

He regrets letting Phoenix talk him into this.

Speaking of Phoenix, the man had been suspiciously scarce all evening. He should be here, suffering alongside Achilles. It would only be fair.

The kings around the table pass monetary glances at Achilles. He can tell they are all building up the nerve to speak with him, minds turning over what to say, the best ways they can phrase their requests. 

Odysseus conjures up his words first, because of course he does. Achilles leans back in his chair as Odysseus leans forward, elbows up on the table, fingers laced together. His face is the picture of calm, collectedness.

“Achilles,” Odysseus says smoothly. The eyes of all the kings around the table linger on the two of them, their expressions a mix of interest and terror. The fear of Achilles' temper and Agamemnon's, who is seated at the far end, a long stretch away from Achilles. Though the camp is in the midst of feasting, tensions still run high. Achilles can feel it in the air, at every hatred glazed stare that passes over him. It’s present in the way the men’s drunken howls of laughter slip into quiet, mournful sobs at the reminder of the empty places next to them. Everyone’s composure is a breath away from snapping, and the kings know it.  So Odysseus does the talking. 

The tent is still loud with the drunk cries of soldiers who amble about, but Odyseus' voice seems to rise above it all so that the men still seated around the table need not strain to hear him speak.

 “Troy has yet to make a retaliation, but we cannot sit stagnant in our camp while the Trojans draft plans for our slaughter. They have tended to their dead, as have we, but the body piles are burning low and Troy is eager to stake their claim on our camp, finish the job with our ships.” Odysseus takes a sip of his wine, swirls the cup between scarred, slender fingers.

“Our men will ride tomorrow at sunrise, Achilles. Was your duel with Scamander and pursuit of the Trojan prince your way of declaring your reentry to the cause, or was that merely just a tease? We want to know where you stand, now that you have your precious Patroclus back as well as your Briseis. We see no reason why you should remain on the sidelines, unless, of course, you have another reason which we are unaware of. If so, please do share it.”

Achilles reddens. It reminds Achilles of how Odysseus once spoke to him of Skyros. The scolding of a child, a speech meant to gut him and fill up the gaping wounds with humiliation. 

Achilles can see a few crooked smiles among the men at such a scolding, while others shift uneasily, waiting for the pin to drop and for Achilles’ rage to come, for him to strike Odysseus with a swiftness only seen in Zeus’ lightning.  

“It is truly a miracle,” Menelaus interrupts, soothing the building tension like a balm over a burn. “What has happened with Patroclus. I am glad to hear of it.”

“Yes, truly.” Diomedes agrees, grinning like a wolf. “Someone must favor you so as to heap upon you such blessings. It would be good of you to share the gods’ graces.” 

“Odysseus is right,” Agamemnon says suddenly. Achilles stills, and so do the other kings. Agamemnon does not notice the sudden shift in the air between them all. The look Achilles casts to Agamemnon is as sharp as a stone cutter's blade.  “You have no reason not to continue to fight. I can assure you that your honor will be restored. You have performed great deeds already with Scamander.” All eyes fall on Agamemnon. 

“I know we had some….disagreements in the past,” each word is spoken through clenched teeth as if the words have to force themselves from his mouth. Agamemnon puts on a tight smile, far from genuine. “But it would be best for all of us, the whole of Hellas, if we put these things behind us and came together again as comrades against our true enemy, Troy, not one another.”

It’s not an apology, nothing near one. The Achilles from a few days before would have spit at him for it, bared his teeth, raised his hand. Now, all he can do is sigh. He doesn’t think of Agamemnon or his hatred for these men. He thinks of Patroclus, his dark lashes clumped with tears. His face as he begged Achilles to join the fight, the look he gave him when Achilles refused.

He thinks of Patroclus'  lifeless body, another victim of the horrors of war. He would not be fighting for glory now, no, he would be fighting to end this war and send Patroclus home. Patroclus, who had not even wanted to come, but had followed Achilles, who was driven by his own passions. There are many things he can never repay Patroclus for, but he can get him back to Pythia.

He shuts his eyes and draws in a breath so deep it makes his chest tighten. He does not think of the men at the table when he opens his mouth to speak. He does not even think of himself. He thinks only of Patroclus and how he can do right by him, how he should have long before now.

“I will stay in the fight,” he says. “I will help you see Troy to its ruin.”

Achilles gets up from his seat at the table, waving off a hand that moves to offer him a drink, to put more food on his untouched plate. His appetite has yet to reappear. 

The kings grin and laugh and jostle each other in celebration of just how easy a task that had been. 

“We should have done this the first time around,” one sings.

“You’ve finally managed to tame the great Achilles,” Diomedes nudged at Odysseus. 

Achilles takes long and hurried strides from their table, before his composure crumbles and he jumps back to strangle every one of them.

Most of the men who are gathered here are busy talking amongst themselves or spinning to the music and do not pay any attention to Achilles as he slips away from the crowd.

There are many men who still despise him for withdrawing from the war effort. It is hard to be too upset when one is full of good food and drink and the promise of victory is loud in their ears, but still, there are a few whose faces remain sour when Achilles crosses their path. However, none of them is foolish enough to do anything about their ire.

Achilles thinks about slipping off and turning in for the night. He has been here for a couple of songs and given the kings what they had wanted; no one would protest his absence. 

But then, his luck has been poor as of late. 

“Pelides!” The great, thunderous boom of Ajax’s voice drowns out all other sounds around Achilles. He snaps his head up just in time to see his cousin come stumbling towards him, face flushed as bright as Menalus’ hair. His hands are free of chalice, but the evidence of his unrestrained drinking is stained across his lips. 

“I didn’t think I’d see you here.” He claps a large hand down on Achilles' shoulder, palm damp. Any other man would have buckled under the weight, but Achilles is not any other man. He bears Ajax’s touch with poorly concealed irritation. 

“Son of Telamon.”

“Oh, don’t be that way. I thought you had put all that brooding behind you. You are rejoining the war effort, aren’t you?”

“I am.” 

“Good man!” Ajax declares. His eyes roam over the space around Achilles before falling back down to meet his cousin’s face. 

“When I heard the rumor of your therapon’s miraculous return, I had thought surely you’d bring him around. However, your side seems unusually empty. Was it just rumor then?”

“No,” Achilles says stiffly. “He lives. I simply did not think he would want to be subjected to the debauchery and chaos these things bring about.” Or force him to endure the presence of these kings, Achilles finishes in his head. Ajax laughs.

“You speak as if he were some delicate maiden. If I am not mistaken, both of you indulged equally in the feasts of the past. He can handle his own.”

“Those were different times.”

“So it seems.” Ajax moves his hand off Achilles’ shoulder, crossing his arms over his chest. “Don’t look so sullen. It appears you still have the favor of some god. Don’t take it for granted. Celebrate. Be merry! And when you have finally killed Hector, we can celebrate once more!” He gives Achilles a particularly harsh pat on the back before stumbling off to find someone who would be more suitable for his entertainment.

Achilles scowls, watching him leave and disappear into a swarm of bodies. When he turns his head, he spots Patroclus standing just paces away. It takes a moment for Achilles to shake off the shock.

Patroclus seems to have already spotted him long before Achilles had turned his head. He has a strange look on his face as he watches Ajax leave. 

Patroclus is dressed in one of Achilles' finer tunics, and the sight has heat rising in Achilles' gut. He looks almost out of place amongst the men with his neat appearance and stiff posture. Achilles had left him in the tent and had assumed he would be long asleep by the time he returned. Though maybe it had been foolish to think Patroclus would not know about any festivities if Achilles kept it from him, sound travels after all. 

Achilles is walking in his direction before he even realizes he’s doing it. There is no thinking when it comes to Patroclus. The action is merely instinct.

“What are you doing here?” Achilles asks. The slight smile that had been gracing Patroclus’ face slips slightly, and Achilles scrambles to get it back. “I’m happy to see you,” he amends hurriedly. "I was just surprised.”

“Phoenix says you must have forgotten to invite me?” Patroclus says flatly. “How foolish of you.” 

“It must have slipped my mind,” Achilles lies. Patroclus' eyes move to scan the crowd. His face remains expressionless to the point where not even Achilles, who knows him better than anyone, can guess at what he is thinking. Just as Achilles is beginning to think he has messed it all up again, Patroclus dives in to save the moment, like always. 

“And here I thought that was my line,” Patroclus muses. The corner of his lips tilt upwards, and he watches Achilles from the corner of one eye.

Achilles smiles too. 

“I’ve become a thief as of late.”

Patrolcus laughs quietly. His curls shift with the small shakes of his head, and Achilles is acutely aware of their closeness. The exposed skin of Patroclus’ arm nearly brushed his own. His eyes moved to trail down the length of it, ending at Patroclus’ empty hand. 

“Are they always like this?” Patroclus asked suddenly, desperate to keep the conversation going. His eyes are hungry as they move across the room, taking it all in, swallowing up what he can. He’s moved closer to Achilles to whisper the words to him, unwilling to get caught gossiping about the men around him within their earshot. 

His face is so near Achilles' that it has his heart thumping as quickly as the hooves of a racehorse. The room was too loud for anyone to hear them, and there was little need to whisper, but Achilles dares not mention as much. 

“Worse,” Achilles says. When Patroclus looks at him, confused, Achilles does not elaborate. He amends himself. “I forget that you do not remember them.” He points out Agamemnon, sitting at the head of the room’s largest table, making him easy to spot.

“That’s Agamemnon,” Achilles explains, venom oozing from his words. He glowers at the man. “King of Mycenae. He’s claimed himself as our leader, but he’s nothing more than a self-serving bastard. He wouldn’t know loyalty if it bit him on the ass.”

Patroclus follows Achilles’ gaze, stifling a laugh. “He looks the type.”

Achilles smiles, pleased. “You always had good judgment.” Agamemnon’s brother is sitting nearest to him, so Achilles points him out next.

“And that’s Menelaus, king of Sparta. Agamemnon’s brother, and the reason we’re on this gods’ forsaken beach.”

“He brought us to war?” Hearing all these questions from Patroclus' mouth feels like a strange dream. He cannot pretend things are normal in moments like these, when Patroclus makes it apparent how little he remembers. 

“His wife, technically,” Achilles says. It feels like he is speaking to a stranger. “Paris, one of the many Trojan princes, stole her from her bed chamber as she slept. Or so everyone says.”

“All these people,” Patroclus gestures to the men around them. “They just dropped what they were doing to come to the king of Sparta’s aid then?”

“Not exactly.” Patroclus turns back to Achilles, entranced in his story. Achilles thinks of the nights the two of them had sat together at his father’s hearth, listening to his tales of war and glory. They had been so young then, and Achilles gets a glance of the boy Patroclus once was, the one that he knows is still in there, in the way Patroclus looks upon him eagerly to finish his tale. His own life is but an untold story to him now, Achilles thinks. Gods help this pain not to kill me.

“They all signed an oath,” he continues. “Most of these men were once suitors to Helen before she was married to Menelaus. They all made a pact before her groom was chosen that they would defend her from any force that tried to tear her from her husband. To keep a war from breaking out.”

“You were a suitor of her’s then?” 

This makes Achilles laugh, and he forgets all the bitterness that had just been swirling within him. He watches Patroclus’ face closely as he breaks the news. “No, but you were.”

Patroclus balks, his doe eyes widening. Achilles wants to kiss him. 

“Me?”

Achilles throws his head back and laughs much louder this time. “Yes, you. Don’t look so surprised. Helen would have considered herself lucky. You were surely shaped by Aphrodite’s hand.” Patroclus’ dark skin flushes. 

“I did not think I was royalty,” He says, shifting the topic away from his beauty. Achilles allows it, but just barely. 

“You were once,” Achilles says. He almost tells him that he is better off far from his father’s hands, but he stops himself. Everything Patroclus had ever told him about the time spent in his father’s house was nothing to reminisce over. Better to keep it from him and spare Patroculus’ peace.

Patroclus does not ask what happened to his royal title, and Achilles is glad, for he does not have to come up with some lie to offer up. 

“That’s the man who spoke to me in your tent.”

“Our tent,” Achilles corrects, then follows Patroclus’ finger over to Odyssus, who sits nursing a full cup.

“Odysseus, King of Ithaca. I wouldn’t heed a thing he says. He can twist his words as well as he can speak them. It’s best to keep that one in your sights.”

“Duly noted.”

Achilles finds Diomedes next. “That’s the king of Argos, Diomedes. He’s a good fighter, but he needs better company. He’s around Odysseus far too much for his own good. It’s said they both have the eye of Athena.”

Achilles points out his cousin, great Ajax, son of Telemon and Prince of Salamis. His hulking frame is easy to spot. Next is little Ajax, prince of Locris. Then, Idomeneus, King of Crete. 

“That’s Nester, King of Pylos,” Achilles finishes at last. He beats Patroclus to the question he knows he’s about to ask. “His skills lie more as an orator than a soldier now, but he was great once. That's how the story goes for all old men, isn't it?” 

“Will that one day be your fate?” Patroclus muses. “Doomed to sit on the sidelines and reminisce over your past greatness.” Achilles stills. 

“What?” Patroclus says, his voice is affectionate, teasing. “You don’t think you’d make a good wise elder?” He looks Achilles up and down as if he is imagining it. “I could see you surrounded by young men eager to hear of your past victories. You’ve done well enough recounting old stories to me. I’m sure you would make a fine teacher.”

Achilles does his best to keep his face expressionless. “I’ve never thought much about it.”

“Never? Surely you don’t plan to live on this beach for eternity. There is more to life than war, Achilles. Nothing lasts forever; there is always an ‘after’”

“I suppose.” 

Patroclus places a hand on Achilles' arm, and though his skin is no longer frigid from death’s touch, it has yet to return to its original warmth. That too remains missing. “I heard you speaking with Ajax,” He confesses. “That you’re returning to the war. You should think about it. Don’t let the Hubris of these men enthrall you. Be around to tell your stories, Achilles.”

Achilles opens his mouth to say something, to ask him just how much of his talk with Ajax he had heard, but it is at that moment that Odysseus spots them and raises himself from his seat to silence the room. Those who see him immediately quiet down, and the rest of the room soon follows. 

“I’d like to propose a toast,” Odysseus announces, raising his chalice. His voice is impeccably composed for someone who has had his mouth on the rim of a cup all evening. Achilles winces, preparing for what is coming.

“To Prince Achilles,” he gestures to him with his cup. “Who has graciously agreed to rejoin our war effort?” A few men cheer and take a drink. “With his help, we will be back on the path to success, and Troy will soon fall by our hands.” Achilles tilts his head in acknowledgment of Odysseus’ gesture but does no more. His words do not feel as friendly as they do calculated. Achilles is not sure of his motive, but there must be one. Odysseus never speaks kindly of anyone but his wife unless it will work in his favor. 

“And to our honored guest,” He turns to Patroclus now, eyes shining in the torchlight. The whole room follows his gaze. “Who has defied all odds to join us. Patroclus, we are glad to have you here.” Another cheer goes up, but one much smaller than what Achilles had received. 

Patroclus waves away the praise. The attention has him shifting uncomfortably.

"To Greece!" someone shouts, and a chorus of cheers follows.

Once the men have moved on, Patroclus turns towards Achilles. 

“Is there somewhere we could go that’s less-”

“Loud?” Achilles finishes. Patroclus shoots him a relieved smile.

“Yes,” he says. “Less of everything.”

“Follow me.” Achilles leads him out of the tent and into the cool night. They can still hear the sounds of voices and music, even from their more secluded spot, but it is doubtful that there will be any place truly quiet in all of the Achaean camp as long as the banquet rages on.

There are a few people still staggering about, huddled around cookfires, several soldiers who patrol the camp, preparing to alert the Greeks to any sighs of danger that could be lurking in the night. They all pay the pair of them little attention. 

They make it to the beach, and the breeze coming off the water licks against their faces. Achilles almost takes a seat on the sand, but the sound of Patroclus’ stomach growling stops him. 

“Are you hungry?” Patroclus had not been around for the meal and had not taken a thing from the passing plates after he had arrived. Achilles should have asked earlier.

“Maybe a little,” Patroclus replies sheepishly.

“You should have said something!” Achilles steps back towards the banquet tent. “Give me a moment.”

“I’m alright, really,” Patroclus starts, attempting to pacify. “I wanted to speak with you-” Achilles is already off. 

“That is a problem I can easily fix,” he calls over his shoulder. “Wait here for me.”

Patroclus’ resigned sigh fades behind him.

Chapter Text

Patroclus is sprawled out like a starfish when Achilles returns, long limbs stretching along the sand. He can hear Achilles’ sandals first and the sounds they make against the small bits of weathered rock. He sits up and watches as the dark shape of Achilles approaches. 

“I’ve got something good for you,” Achilles calls, his voice a sing-song melody. This man hardly seems like the one Patroclus had met when he had first awoke, manic and blood soaked. He’s soft in ways Patroclus would never have imagined at first glance. His easy steps help to soothe some of the bitterness in his stomach. It is hard to feel as if Achilles is out to do any harm when he looks at Patroclus in such a way.

And Patroclus almost forgets all he has been building up to say to Achilles when that strange, delicate feeling strikes him. It’s as swift as a spear the way it moves through him. It has Patrolcus’ lips pulling at the edges as he calls out:

“What is it?”. Achilles is holding something dark, fingers splayed in an attempt to keep the objects safely in his hand. When he gets closer, he tosses one of the small objects at Patroclus with a softly muttered, “Catch.”

Patroclus reaches up his hands and catches it swiftly, cradling it in his cupped palm. 

He runs a thumb over the deep purple skin of what looks like a fig. 

Achilles is close enough now for Patroclus to see his face without strain. His expression is bright with wonder, suddenly boyish in its glee. His face is softer, then suddenly, his hair is shorter, eyes full of innocence. He does not look like himself. But then, Patroclus begins to not feel like himself either. 

Everything feels bigger than it had before, or maybe he feels smaller.

The night sky and solid earth around him fall away, and he’s in a dining hall of white marble. The sunlight from the open windows warms his skin. 

It is no longer just the two of them. A flood of young boys surrounds Achilles, pushing themselves closer to his small body with an eagerness Patroclus has only seen in dogs. Even in his youth, Achilles shines strong, otherworldly, beautiful.

This Achilles, with his handful of fruit, for it is Achilles there is no mistaking him, gives Patroclus a look full of daring. His eyes are hungry for something, though for what Patroclus isn’t sure. His small hands hold a fig that mirrors Patroclus’ own.

Patroclus brings the fig to his lips and takes a bite. The bright lights and milk white walls of the strange hall fade away, and the world around him comes rushing back into focus.

Patroclus falls back onto the ground, lips sticky with juice. That had to have been a memory. He wouldn’t have conjured up a thought like that on his own.

“Is it that good?” Achilles laughs. “I knew you’d like it.” He flops down on the ground next to Patroclus.“There is plenty more where that comes from, don’t worry.” 

When Patroclus does not respond, Achilles nudges him with his elbow. “What is it?” He asks voice turned soft. Patroclus debates on what he should say. His eyes trained on the stars above them. He tries to recall the names of the constellations. He cannot. 

“What’s that one called again?” Patroclus says instead. He lifts his hand and trails his fingertip along the sky. “It’s on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t quite seem to remember.”

“Heracles.” 

Patroclus thinks the name over. It means nothing to him. “Who?”

“He was a son of Zeus and a man of immense strength. There is no one who could surpass him even now. He was placed in the sky as a tribute for all he had done.”

“He sounds like quite the hero,” Patroclus says. Achilles turns on his side, elbow digging into the ground so he can rest his cheek in his hand and look down at Patroclus.

“Are you going to tell me what is actually bothering you, or are you going to pretend that nothing is wrong and have me list constellations for you?”

“What’s that one?” Patroclus says, peering up at Achilles innocently and not even bothering to look at where he is pointing.

“If you want me to name every star, we’ll be here all night.”

“That’s fine.”

“Talk to me,” Achilles pleads. 

 “I am.” 

Achilles groans, frustrated, and leans over Patroclus to block the sky from his view. His golden hair falls down around his face like a sunlit waterfall, caging their faces from the rest of the world. 

“I keep forgetting how well you know me.” Patroclus rolls his eyes. “It’s infuriating.”

Achilles grins like a predator. 

“If I am to be great at one thing, it will be this.”

“So I’ve noticed.” He shoves at Achilles’ shoulders. “Move off.”

“Why should I?”

“If you want me to tell you what is on my mind, you will do as I say.” 

Achilles moves back with little protest. “Go on then.”

“I saw you, just now.”

Achilles laughs. “Of course you did. I’m right here.”

“No, no. I saw you as a boy, in a white marbled hall. You had figs in your hand.” Patroclus lifts the one he is holding. His fingers are stained from its inside. “They looked just like this.”

“My father’s house,” Achilles says. 

“There were other boys too.”

“Fosters sons of my father,” Achilles explains. “He had many. You included.” That did explain how Patroclus had ended up inside Achilles’ halls of all places. He was a charity case. That part did sound believable. 

“You looked so young,” Patroclus says, a little in awe. 

“We were young, once.”

“That must have been ages ago.” Patroclus takes another bite of the fig, trying not to choke on it in his position. He chews for a moment, then clears his throat and speaks again. “How long have we known each other?”

“All my life,” Achilles answers simply.

Now it is Patroclus’ turn to laugh. “No, but really, how long? You said I used to live in my father’s house before I came to be with you, and we appear close in age. You’re confusing me; both cannot be true. We were not infants together.”

“My life did not truly start until you were in it. It does not matter how old I was. Everything that came before that was irrelevant.”

Patroclus lets out a startled breath at his confession. 

“You don’t mean that.” He is pinned under Achilles’ gaze, which is sharp and unrelenting. 

“I’ve never meant anything more.”

The fluttering feeling within him is squandered at the reminder of the startled, panicked expression that had been on Achilles' face when he had seen Patroclus at the banquet. The banquet Achilles had kept from him. 

Achilles tenses, as if he can feel the shift in Patroclus. 

“There is something else on your mind, isn’t there? Did you see something else?” His voice has a nervous edge to it, and it is what pushes Patrolcus to speak.

“I can’t help but feel like you’re keeping secrets from me.”

“Secrets?” Achilles says, as if the accusation has no truth to it at all.

Patroclus sits up. 

“The baquet,” he starts. “You told me nothing about it. I heard you talking with Ajax about how you did not think I would care to be there, that it wasn’t worth inviting me.”

“You heard that?” Achilles asks, lifting himself up from the sand that that he is once again face to face with Patroclus, there is a line of worry pressed into his skin, between his brows.

“You didn’t even ask me. And the way you shut me down at the medical tent. Achilles, how can I not think you’re keeping secrets from me when you keep me in the dark about everything?”

“I don’t keep you in the dark!” Achilles' voice is sharp, not exactly cruel, but a great shift from the bestowed tone he’d displayed moments before. “I told you things just now.”

“You tell me what you want to tell me, Achilles, nothing more. It makes it hard for me to discern your true feelings, and I can’t help but wonder sometimes about the things you tell me, about how much truth they have.”

“You think I’m a liar?” Achilles accuses. “There is nothing I love more than you, Patrolcus. You confuse protection with cruelty. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”

“Then you’ll talk to me? Answer my questions with honesty?”

“Of course.”

“Then why are we still at war? You’ve told me enough about how we got here, but not why it has taken ten years to rescue a stolen Queen. Why do you refuse to talk about it? Or my death? Why is there a hint of fear in your eyes when I speak of remembering, like there is something you would rather I not know? You were upset when you heard Phoenix spoke with me, why?”

Achilles grimaces. He bows his head like he is readying himself for a blow, like he knows what he is about to say is not what Patroclus wants to hear.

“Don’t you dare say it doesn’t matter,” Patrolcus hisses lowly, words coming out like splinters between his clenched teeth. 

“I’ll answer anything else, any other question. But not these, Patrolcus, I-”

Achilles' words seem to be the spark that lights the fire, because Patroclus rises then, face like stone, hardened and unreachable. His soft expressions and calm demeanor are gone in an instant. Like smoke in the wind. He glowers down at Achilles.

“I’m sick of you treating me like I’m some fragile piece of pottery. You act as if I’ll shatter at any moment. The doting mother routine is getting old, Achilles. I’m not some child that can’t handle the truth.”

“I never said you were fragile!” Achilles protests, coming to his own defense, hoping he can soothe the fire that rages in Patroclus before it swallows him up like wood in a pyre. Rarely had Achilles been subjected to Patroclus' anger; he can count the amount of times on one hand,  but the rarity does not make these moments any less memorable. No, when Patroclus burns, he burns bright. 

“You do not need to speak of such things for me to know how you feel. It’s present in how you treat me, Achilles, in how you pull away. Dodge my questions.”  Patroclus pulls a breath from the still air.

“Who’s Hector then?”

Achilles is silent.

“Why do you shiver at the mere mention of his name? Why do the men look at you when they speak of him? And why do you keep the reason from me?”

“Just a problem that I must figure out how to deal with; it does not concern you.”

Patroclus scoffs. “Does anything concern me, or am I merely meant to float alongside you as if I were a ghost, closed lipped and silent until you bid me to speak. Until you decide you feel ready to share just a sliver of my own life with me. You can’t hold me hostage, Achilles, not my memory nor my body. You have no right!” Patrulcus' chest heaves with exertion. He stands, towering above Achilles like some dark, unmovable force. A shadow with a distorted, unrecognizable face. Achilles strains his eyes through the dark to see Patroclus' face, but his features are unreachable, clouded by darkness and disdain.

“I would have stayed in that tent all night if Phonix hadn’t come to me and invited me here tonight on your behalf. I would have stayed holed up exactly where you wanted me in that damned tent for your own pleasure.” Patrulcus hisses through clenched teeth. “I am not a keepsake, Achilles. I am a man.”

Achilles gets to his feet now, too. He can’t think of anything good to say with Patroclus looking down at him the way he is. He’s dizzy with emotion, and he sways as he comes to meet Patrolcus fae to face.

“I’m not hoarding you for pleasure,” Achilles says, twisting the word uttered from Patroclus’ own lips into something sharp and cruel. “Is it a crime to want to protect the things I hold dear to me? I can’t endure your death a second time, and forgive me if I don't wish to fight you of all people in order to keep you alive.”

“You think you know what’s best for me?!” Patrolcus laughs, the sound bitter and without humor.

“I do.”

Patroclus' words cut like a dagger through Achilles' chest. “You’re suffocating me. Stop holding it over my head that you know more about me than I do! Of what’s good for me, you won’t tell me anything. It doesn’t feel like it’s from a position of care; it feels like you want the upper hand. Like you think I’m weak. That’s why you keep dodging my questions.”

“You only say that because you don’t know the things I know, Patrolcus. I promised not to fail you again, and I intend to keep my word, even if I have to tie you up myself. I’ll be banished to Tartarus if I were to let myself lose you again, and you, of all people, will not fight me on this.”

“I think you’re just selfish.” Patroclus pushes back, his sandals crunch against broken bits of stone as Patroclus turns away.

“Where are you going?” Achilles asks, voice high and uncertain.

This time, it is Patroclus who says nothing, and it only makes the panicked knot in Achilles' stomach twist and tighten. 

“Patroclus!” Achilles cries,  “Patroclus, answer me, damn it!”

He keeps walking, and Achilles can only stand there are watch it happen. Patroclus would fight him if he tried, nothing playful, but like the past as they had as young boys, all broken nails and teeth. Achilles would win, even now, but he still lets him go. He can not bear to fight with Patrolcus, not if it’s serious, not if they don’t get to make up at the end of it, press their lips to each other's scratches, and soothe each other's reddened skin with gentle touches.

Patroclus is gone, and Achilles kicks up dirt. Curses and howls and curses again. 

The rounded shape of the moon hangs high above him, watching his display like some mocking eye. Its judgmental gaze lingers on his back as he drags himself to his tent, his fingers tangle in his hair, nails rough against his scalp, teeth barred like a beast’s. Shame is something that rarely ever visits him, and even now it keeps its distance, making room for the low, hot burn of frustration that fills him up instead. 

He throws himself down on his pallet and vows he will not wait up for Patroclus. He’ll shake off that ever-present ache of yearning that clings to him like a scorned lover and tells himself that he will not cry. He won’t.

Achilles folds as soon as he hears the telltale sound of shuffling outside of the tent, the shift of weight he knows oh so well, footfalls that he could recognize even in dreams. He’s on his feet in an instant. 

Patroclus is crouched before a fire in the pit, so close that the light from the flames licks up his skin and renders it golden.

“You’re back,” Achilles says flatly, careful that his words do not betray the newfound fluttering in his stomach, the lightness in his chest at just the sight of Patroclus. 

Patroclus makes a noncommunal noise, the barest hint of acknowledgement.

“Don’t sit so close,” Achilles says, taking small, hesitant steps forward like he’s approaching a cyclops, not a man he loves. “You’re practically in the flames.”

Patroclus shifts closer to the fire in defiance, and Achilles' throat tightened. 

“I can’t get warm.”

“You came back,” he says again. He didn’t think Patroclus would. There are a few men who can match Achilles’ stubbornness, and Patroclus is one of them. He’s expected to see Patroclus wondering about the camp at sunrise when he was to ride out against Troy, and not a moment before.

“I’m here, am I not?”

“Why?”

Air hisses in the back of Patroclus' throat, pushing past his teeth in a sound that has Patroclus’ eyes rolling to follow it. There is a tension in Patroclus' shoulders that does not dissipate, no matter how hard Achilles looks at it and wills it gone. 

“Do you not want me here?” Patroclus asks, voice high and accusatory. “Had a sudden change of heart?”

“No, of course not.” Achilles moves to sit down, waiting for Patroclus to voice some objection. When he does not, Achilles meekly shuffles closer. “I want you everywhere I am.”

The tension is slowly seeping out from Patroclus, and he no longer looks so high-strung, merely exhausted. His eyes are tired

“I don’t want to fight,” Patroclus says resolutely.  “I hate it. I felt so horrible after I left, which makes no sense because you deserved to hear all I said, but it all just felt unnatural for some reason, to run from you like that. But I’m not just here because of that. I got a cold, and I also wanted to ask you a question.”

“About?”

Patroclus takes a breath as if to steal himself. 

“What happened to those ships?” he asks bluntly, at the end of the beach from our camp. The shattered ones that are washed up to shore, with the burnt and crumbling wood.”

Bile rises in Achilles' throat as memories flash through his mind of Patroclus’ pleading face. The faces of the men who were buried under broken wood and flame. “Those things just happen in war,” Achilles says dismissively.

“So the enemy came and burned a few ships in the night and then left? I may not know much, Achilles, but even a man who knows nothing would know that that does not seem likely. If they were close enough to take the ships, why not the whole camp? Why stop at a few? Unless you mean to tell me it was a work done by the hands of the camp's own men?”

He thinks of telling it all to him for a moment, about the ships and his own failure to act. But reminding Patroclus of the disappointment and pain caused by his own hand feels like a death sentence, like some gory public execution he cannot bear to face. So he drags his feet on the way to his own chopping block and says instead: “It’s a resolved matter. Nothing to trouble yourself over. You’re safe here, no enemy of mine would dare touch you.”

The face Patrolcus makes is a twisted, ugly thing. “Why do I bother?” He kicks up dirt into the fire as he moves to get to his feet. “Keep your secrets. If you don’t want to speak with me, then I will find someone who will.”

Achilles seizes him. The terror of Patroclus finally deciding to leave him for good is mixed with the terror of someone else slipping things into Patroclus's ears and sparking memories Achilles is sure Patroclus should do without, for both of their sakes. 

“I’m sorry,” Achilles pleads. “It is not that I think you could not handle the knowledge, but that I cannot. It can be better to keep some things in the dark. Some memories can be too painful to relive, Patrolcus. Please do not make me.”

“Just because things are painful does not mean we should not face them.”

“Not tonight,” Achilles implores. “I’m sorry, but not tonight, please.” He’s clutching at Patrolcus so that he cannot move, the both of them frozen in place, just the meager distance of a breath between the two of them. Patrolcus is looking at him like some foreign entity, like he has taken the shape of some insurmountable riddle. 

The fire crackles and sputters between them. It has begun to make Achilles sweat, this combination of fire and emotion, blazing flames and bitter terror.  Patroclus continues to shiver despite the blinding heat around them, and he moves ever so slightly nearer to Achilles, leaching the heat off him. 

His eyes glow gold with the spark of the flames, and maybe something else that Achilles is too slow to name. His mind can only think of how to anchor Patrolcus to him and nothing else; he is looking but not seeing, and misses the way Patrolcus's features seem to shift.

“I am sorry too,” Patroclus says, and the words, slow and carefully spoken, are enough to draw Achilles out from the tangle of his own thoughts. He is not sure why Patroclus is apologizing. For threatening to leave, perhaps? Achilles is equally as guilty for lashing out, so Patroclus’s own outburst does not seem reason enough.

“For what?” He manages finally. 

The only answer he receives is the cold press of lips against his own. 

Achilles gasps, and Patroclus takes quick advantage of the opening.

Achilles hardly moves. Patrroclus' lips are cold and wet against his own, soft as sea foam.

“For that, I think,” Patrolcus says once he pulls away. His gaze is steady on Achilles. Waiting for his judgment. 

It happens all at once. Achilles is pulling him in, hands against his face, dragging him back against himself, like the quick and relentless pull of the tide. 

They bump teeth before they touch lips, but Patroclus does not voice protest at Achilles' rapid enthusiasm. He welcomes it, grabbing handfuls of Achilles’ chiton to steady the two of them, moving his lips in a practiced rhythm that not even death seems to have taken from him. 

“Don’t be,” Achilles says between panting breaths. The sound is harsh in his ears, and he wonders how he sounds to Patrolcus. Breathless and desperate, maybe? It matters little. He feels the furthest thing from shame. “Please, don’t be.”

“I’m so tired of feeling nothing.” Patroclus is mouthing at his jaw now, chilled fingers sliding up his arms. “I’m tired of this cold. I want a turn at being selfish.”

Achilles rushes in to kiss him again. 

“Then let me take you to bed and warm you,” He says against Patroclus’ mouth. “I’ll take care of you.”

Patroclus nods the best he can with his mouth still pressed against Achilles’ own.

It’s everything Achilles has been longing for for days, yet the victory feels strangely hollow. It’s less like the joyous reunion he had been imagining and more of a surrender. The wrong emotions, the wrong atmosphere. All wrong.

Achilles knows he should stop this, should ease Patroclus off him with a muttered ‘later. Not now but later.’ But Patroclus has always been right; Achilles is selfish. He is a taker. He has always gotten everything he has ever wanted and then more. 

So he says nothing, just pulls Patroclus up to his feet. Then he takes and takes and takes until they’re both breathless, and Patroclus’ skin feels almost warm enough to call him living.

Chapter Text

Achilles wakes up before Helos has a chance to pull his chariot across the sky. The tent is still dark, and he can hear each exhale of Patroclus’ sleeping breath from behind him. He’s not sure how long he was asleep, but it could not have been for long. His eyes still have that heavy, sore feeling that comes with restlessness. He’s felt the same all consuming exhaustion for days. He fears he's stuck with it now.

It’s cold without the press of another body against him. Patroclus has moved away from him in his sleep. All Achilles can see is the wide expanse of his tanned back, rising and falling with each breath. He’s lying on his stomach, and Achilles is glad for it. He’s not sure he ever wants to see Patrolcus lying on his back motionless, ever again. He’d look too dead. It’s a sight Achilles sees enough in dreams.

He thinks about reaching out and running his fingers along each protruding bump that makes up his spine.

Instead, he only pulls the blanket up higher to cover the knawled line of scar tissues at Patrolcus’ mid back and climbs out of bed.

The shifting of Achilles' weight must be enough to wake Patroclus, because he stirs, murmuring a slurred sound against the bicep that cushions his cheek. Something that sounds all too close to Achilles' own name.

He lifts his head sluggishly, blinking those dark, round eyes like a babe. He turns over and stretches his arm out over the empty place where Achilles had lain moments earlier. He looks up through dark lashes, they flutter gently as he pulls in a breath, holds it, then lets it out. 

When Patroclus does not open his mouth to speak and lets his eyes fall shut, Achilles assumes that it is the end of whatever foolish and fleeting moment they had been locked in last night. He moves to get dressed. 

He’s fastening his sandals when Patroclus finally speaks. 

“You’re leaving.” It’s more of a statement than a question. His voice is still rough with sleep, and his eyes are closed. He’s dancing along the seam of sleep and wakefulness. Toeing the line just long enough to let say a few words to Achilles, but not much else.

 Achilles wishes he would look at him. Give him a smile, something to carry into battle with him like old times' sake. Instead, he stays as still and uninterested as a snake against hot stones. 

“Yes.”

Patroclus hums, but that is all. He is asleep again soon after. There is no declaration of love on his tongue, no promise to be waiting for Achilles’ return. Achilles knows it is not deserved, but he wishes for it regardless. 

When he opens the tent flap, the sun is just barely peeking up over the horizon. The dusky blue of the sky bleeds into the gold of early morning sunlight. The stars are still bright pinpricks above him. 

He stops in his tracks when he sees Briseis cooking maza on hot stones. She’s sitting on her legs, dress hiked up, and knees pressed into the ground and spread apart for balance so she can bend over the remnants of a fire.

He considers turning around and retreating back into the tent, but Briseis chooses this moment to look up and stretch her neck, rolling her shoulders to fight off the strain. She catches him then, watching her, and her face hardens. Achilles doesn’t expect her to say anything, but she does. 

She pulls a few pieces of maza from the heat and gathers them onto a plate in her other hand. 

“Are you hungry?” she asks, sitting back away from the fire and pulling her dress back down over her legs.

Achilles shakes his head. “No.”

“Come,” she waves him over. “Have some anyway.” Achilles sits. She hands some maza to him, which Achilles takes reluctantly. She takes one for herself and chews it slowly.

“You eat it plain?”

“I didn’t feel like making cheese.” Achilles rips pieces off his own food but does not eat them, collecting the torn bits in his hand instead. 

“I have honey in my tent,” Achilles offers.

“I’m alright.”

The silence between them is tense, and Achilles regrets coming over. He shouldn’t have let Briseis call him over. They are rarely ever alone like this. Every time they have been, it was never pleasant. 

Briseis goes back to flipping over the bread, making sure it cooks evenly. Her dark curls fall around her face, but she makes no move to brush them aside. Achilles is unsure how she can properly see what she is doing.

“You are going to fight?” She asks, not bothering to look up at Achilles. Her accent curls thickly around the words.

“Yes,” Achilles says simply. Briseis hums in acknowledgment, not bothering to say anything more. “You will watch over him while I am gone?”

“I thought you did not need my help,” Briseis says bitterly.

“I’ve changed my mind.”

Briseis scoffs. “Yes, I will watch over him. You need not ask.”

They lapse back into silence. Briseis' distaste for him is evident and has been since Patroclus’ death, though he is sure she had felt it from the moment she laid eyes on him. He almost commends her for her boldness in hating him so openly now.

He knows she is justified in her hatred of him. He had never really known loss before Patroclus was taken from him, and even that had been brief. He cannot imagine all that Briseis must feel. All that she has lost, all the pain caused by Achilles' hand. 

Briseis stands, gathering up the food and brushing stray bits of Earth from her dress.

“Briseis,” He says quickly before she can make off. “I am sorry. For everything. Truly.” 

Briseis’ face shows no emotion. Stoic in her indifference. “You are foolish if you think simple words will mend the things you’ve broken. You owe me far more than just an apology.”

“Could I ever make it up to you?” She levels Achilles with a look, and he knows what she’s about to say before the words leave her mouth.

“No,” she says evenly. “You could not.” Then she leaves him. 

When Automedon brings the chariot around much later, he is shocked to see Achilles so bare. Achilles wears only a tunic, his hair tied back and secured out of his face.

“My Prince,” Automedon says, voice hesitant and unsure. “Will you not don any armor? I’m sure one of the kings would gladly lend you a set until a new one is sent to replace your old attire.”

“I do not need armor,” Achilles says simply. “It was only for show anyway.” He climbs onto the chariot behind Automedon. “Let us go.”

Automedon tugs at the reins, and the horses take off. 

The Myrmidons are lined up waiting for their leader. When they see Achilles coming near, they all stand at attention. Automedon steers the chariot in front of the formation of Myrmidon men and leads them out to meet the rest of the Greek army.  

A rumble of anticipation that moves through the men. Achilles can hear it in the murmur of voices, see it in the way they bounce and shift on their feet like horses before a race. The Greeks had not been together as one army for a while, and with the arrival of Achilles’ soldiers to make up for those that were lost in Achilles' absence, along with Achilles himself, the men were eager to gain footing once more.

Odysseus is the first to greet him, and as the army starts its march towards the field of battle, Achilles can feel Odysseus's eyes pinned on him. It’s as if he fears Achilles will change his mind and turn around if he dares look anywhere else. 

The thought is annoying at first, but it quickly shifts to a pleasant feeling the more Achilles thinks about it. He likes that he can make Odysseus fear in this way, have the man dependent on something only Achilles can offer, and could just as easily take away. With as much pain as Odysseus has caused both him and Patroclus over the years, he relishes being able to at least be a small thorn in the man’s side.

As they draw closer to the battlefield, Achilles can see the faint line of Trojan soldiers lined in front of the city’s impenetrable wall. The silhouette of archers standing around the top, bodies hallowed by the steadily rising sun behind them. They approach the field at a lightning pace, and the adrenaline rises in Achilles like laughter, quick and light.

Achilles takes one of the spears from where they rest near his hip. He hefts it and prepares to throw.

******

Patroclus isn’t stupid. He knows Achilles is hiding something from him, can tell when attempts to throw him off a trail are being made. He can tell what words are full of truth and which are spoken to pacify, to silence.

Achilles is more stone than egg, unbreakable, no matter how hard you bash it against the bowl. He had almost hoped that Achilles would let something slip last night, if he asked the right questions, if his tongue was loose enough. But that too was a fruitless endeavor. 

If Achilles has walls around his secrets, they were surely built by the finest craftsmen.

So here Patrolcus is, working through this labyrinth blind. 

If Achilles will not answer his questions, then fine, he can keep his secrets, but that does not mean Patroclus is going to sit patiently and submissively until Achilles finally decides to throw him a bone. No, he’ll know his own bone from the animal himself. 

He does not need Achilles' help, and he is a fool if he thinks Patroclus is not going to try and take it on his own. 

He can deny Patroclus all he wants, but he will not deny him the things that are rightfully his, Patroclus’ own mind. He cannot.

He begins a list in his mind. One to help him gather his thoughts, to help him determine the gaps in his memory.

We are at war because of a husband’s desperate attempt to reclaim his wife, to show his own power, to make history.

I was once a suitor to the stolen woman. Patroclus scoffs as he thinks this. Ridiculous. 

I was once royalty until I wasn’t. 

I was raised as one of the many foster sons in the house of Achilles’ father.

Achilles is a prince. His mother is a goddess. 

I was a soldier.

I was a better medic.

I was good at helping people. I liked to do so.

I was taught by Chiron. Patroclus still did not remember who that really was, besides Achilles' vague answer of “a friend,” but he adds it anyway.

I was killed in battle from a stab wound.  He touches the place on his stomach absentmindedly. 

Briseis is one of my dearest friends.

Achilles loves you. 

I loved Achilles. 

Patroclus lets the notion sit for a moment. Something about it doesn’t sit quite right with him.

He conjures the thought, I love Achilles to take its place. But that feels strange, too.

Achilles still means something to him. His place just feels more uncertain now. Not quite a lover but not quite a friend, but more than nothing. He definitely isn’t nothing. 

I care for Achilles. He thinks, frustrated, drawing his fingers idly across the sand.

He makes a second list in his mind. What I don’t know. The first item on the list is obvious.

What is Achilles hiding? Why does he hide it? 

‘It makes some sense why he does not talk about my death,’ Patroclus thinks.’ It is upsetting for one you love to die so suddenly and brutally, but the guilt that surrounds it is confusing. He was not my killer, surely, so why does the mere mention of it make him flinch like it was his hand that ran me through?’

The reluctance to speak on the moment of Patroclus' death can be excused, but the dodging of simple questions cannot be so easily explained. He writes those down too.

Why are we still at war?

What happened to the ships he found last night?

Who is Hector, and why does a man like Achilles seem to fear him?

How am I still living?

Why are my memories gone?

Will I ever get them back?

How did I lose the title of prince?

What happened to my parents? 

'Who was the man who killed me?' Achilles had said he was a skilled soldier, but maybe he was only that. No one notable, nothing Patroclus should dedicate too many thoughts to. 'People die all the time in war. It surely wasn’t personal .’

How did I come to love Achilles?

It is a truth that Achilles is a very frustrating man, a man Patroclus is not sure he can really understand. It is also a truth that Patroclus can see himself having loved him before. For all his hard-edged stubbornness, there is also a gentle quality to him. He cares for Patrolcus, which has been made apparent. 

Between those moments where Achilles makes things insufferably difficult, to the point that Patroclus wants to grab him by the neck, he has also brought Patroclus to laughter, shown him some comfort, and been a light to push back the shadow of fear that moves up to consume him. 

He thinks of how Achilles had held him the night before, had kissed him. It makes him want to be forgiving. To be hopeful and think on to a future where he could fall back into the pattern of his ‘old’ life, as easily as nothing. 

It is a truth that maybe Patroclus could love him again, if, of course, Achilles learns not to shut him out. But not now, not yet. He won’t let Achilles stand in his way, Patroclus knows that for sure. If Achilles stays set on blocking Patroclus’ path, then he will have no other choice but to step around him. 

He can focus on love later on if it comes to that.

The list grows longer and longer, and the more things he adds to his mental picture of loss, the more dread begins to overcome him. 'If only he knew of someone he could trust for certain, someone to turn to now that Achilles has his back to him. Someone who knew him well enough to-'

“What are you doing all the way out here by yourself?” He had been so transfixed on making his list that he did not hear Briseis sneaking up on him. 

“I’m thinking,” Patroclus says. “Trying to gather my thoughts.” 

“What has you so stuck in your head?”

“It’s Nothing important.” 

“You know I’m always here for you,” she says. “For anything.”

It dawns on him then. Who else besides Achilles does he know who cares for him, who has known him for years? Who but Briseis has shown him nothing but kindness, has never turned a cold shoulder to him.

“Briseis!” he says, a little too urgently because Briseis startles. He takes her by the hands, eyes wide and imploring. It only startles her more.

“What is it?” 

“You know me well, yes?” 

She speaks slowly, words laced with confusion. “I would hope so. I have already spoken of how I’ve spent years with you as my only true company. My only friend.”

“And you have lived here for years, haven’t you?”

Briseis makes a sound of distaste. “Yes, far longer than I would like.”

“Then you would know all that goes on in this camp, has gone on, for the past several years.”

Briseis nods slowly, still confused, still several paces behind Patroclus' racing thoughts. Unaware of the gift she has just unknowingly handed him.

“You could tell me then, of my life before. I know you would not keep secrets.” He feels almost giddy about how easy this could be. Of all the answers to questions that are just a breath away. Why hadn’t he thought of this earlier? Doing things the natural way, playing the long game, how absurd. Why had he even gone along with that?

I would tell you anything you wish to know,” she says. “If that is what you want.”  She wouldn’t be able to answer all of his questions. The ones about his childhood, for certain, but she could definitely answer some of them, the more pressing ones.

The first question out of his mouth surprises Briseis as much as it does him. 

“Who is Hector?” he asks. “And why is Achilles so afraid of him?”

Briseis’ eyebrows climb up her forehead as she regards Patroclus as if a second head had just sprouted from his neck. Her silence makes Patroclus panic a little, like maybe he had mistyped in his judgment of Briseis, that she won’t help him, that she had not meant what she had said the other day after he had left Macheon’s tent.

“You told me that you would help me,” Patrolcus insists. “The other day, if I were to ask. I’m asking now, Briseis. Please.”

“What do you mean, who is Hector?”

“I mean that I do not know, and that I wish you to tell me. I’ve heard his name thrown around, not just by the kings, but by the men. Everyone speaks of him, but I have yet to meet him. Achilles shudders at the name. I wish to know why. Do not keep things from me, too, Briseis. I beg of you.”

Briseis pulls away from him, and her face hardens. At first, Patroclus thinks that he has upset her, until she spits a name out between her teeth, sharp and cruel. 

“Achilles,” she hisses. He has never heard her speak in this way before. It frightens him a little. 

“You mean that he has not told you? All this time, I thought you already knew. When you told me you could still not remember much, I had thought you at least had a foundation to work off of,” she rages. Her voice is so low and whispered that Patrolcus has to strain to hear her. “He’s left you as clueless as an infant this whole time! I should have known. Oh! I should have- never mind.”

The look she levels Patrolcus with is hard and determined. Her face is pink with the heated emotions building under her skin, churning within her.

“Hector is the man who killed you, Patroclus.” The words knock the breath from him. Briseis reaches out for him. It would do nothing to steady him if he were to fall, but he appreciates the sentiment all the same. 

“It is said that only Achilles himself has the skill to kill him,” she continues. “I, for one, hope Hector gets him first.” She says the last part under her breath. It is not meant for Patroclus to hear, but he hears it all the same.

Briseis moves to speak again. “What else has he-” She freezes, staring in wide-eyed shock at something over Patroclus’ shoulder. 

He turns to find Achilles moving towards them. He’s bloodied and was headed towards the ocean until he stops them, then he makes a detor down the side of the beach to where Patroclus and Briseis stand.

Achilles is on them faster than Patroclus had thought possible from the distance away he had just been. He’s faster than Patrolcus had realized. 

“What are you doing out here?” He tries to sound jovial, curious, but the statement falls flat and suspicious after the first few words are out of his mouth.

“We were just enjoying the ocean,” Briseis says casually, turning her head towards the waves that come nowhere near to reaching them. She looks up over her shoulder at him. Her legs are crossed one over the other and stretched out against the warm sand, one arm out to stabilize her weight. She is the picture of collected, while Patroclus can do nothing but fidget with the hem of his chiton.

“Yeah,” Patroclus agrees. “Just passing the time, that’s all.”

“Patroclus,” Briseis says, tone light. “There’s a stew I was thinking about making tonight, but I’m out of thyme. Fetch some for me, won’t you?”

Achilles scoffs. “I’m sure whatever you need can wait-” Briseis snaps her eyes back to Achilles.

“Who are you to tell me what I need?” Briseis bites back. “Patrolcus, if you would.”

“Right, sure,” he stands up from his place on the sand.

It is not until Patroclus' figure has long disappeared by the beach that Briseis opens her mouth to speak again, only now her words hold no kindness. They are the jagged edges of a pot that has been slammed to the ground one too many times. Shaped by careless cruelty. Forged to fight back.

“Let us speak, Achilles.”

Chapter Text

It reminds Achilles of his mother in a way, how Briseis looks at him. Achilles can picture himself several years younger, staring up into his mother’s face as he tells her that he won’t be coming to join her under the waves, because his father said so. Of telling her that: ‘yes, mother, Patroclus will be a permanent fixture in my life, whether you approve or not.’ He’s sixteen years old again and running off to war, leaving the stone-cold face of his mother and a life of emptiness and anonymity behind him.

He thinks of Patroclus, too, for a moment. 

It is betrayal, and distaste, and the rest of those deep, ugly feelings bundled into one nasty look. And gods, is he sick of being on the receiving end of it.

“Speak then,” he says.

“You’re a liar, Achilles. You’re a cruel and horrible man.” Achilles turns to leave. 

“We’ve already had this discussion.” 

Briseis shoots up to snatch hold of him, but Achilles flicks her away as easily as a fly.

“Is that your idea of care? To leave him in the dark. Do you think you’re doing him some kind of service?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Achilles says. He’s stopped walking only because he knows Briseis is far from done speaking, and he knows that she’ll trail him like a hungry dog until she gets all the word she want to say out of her. He doesn’t want to bring her and her ramblings anywhere near prying ears. Patrolcus specifically.

“It’s not your place to keep these secrets from him, Achilles. He deserves to know what happened to him. What you did. These half-truths and silence will get you nowhere.” She spits fire. Achilles turns to spit it right back.

“It is not your place to tell him,” he snails, and then: “What have you told him. Is that what the two of you were doing while I was gone, plotting against me?”

“Nothing that he didn’t already have a right to know. I need not do a thing to turn him from you. You do a fine job on your own. You’re still doing a fine job. You’re like a child, you never learn!” 

Achilles grabs her by the shoulders, not enough to hurt her but enough to keep her still. “You’ve always wanted him,” Achilles accuses. “Do you think you can undermine me now, take what you want? Take what is mine.”

“You think everything belongs to you. You men are all the same. You take. You gorge on suffering. Your greed knows no bounds, and until you learn you do not own the world, that it is not a thing that you alone can conquer, you will have to spend the rest of your life chasing things that only want to be free of you. You cannot conquer love, you cannot cage it and keep secrets and-”

“I want you out of this camp,” Achilles speaks through gritted teeth. Words that do not sound like words, but the bashings of bone. Rattled and unnerving. The anger is all the more frightening when you remember that it is laced with divinity. That this kind of rage is terrifying because of the hands and teeth that cling to it, and the power they have to crush you. 

“This will come back to bite you, Achilles.”

“I want you out of this camp, and I don’t want you to ever speak to him.” The familiar sensation of rage feels him, it comes quick and easy, pulled up from the depths of his stomach and through is throat, where it pools behind his teeth and coats the words that fall from his mouth like poison on the edge of a blade. It’s like greeting an old friend, a well known comfort.

It has made Briseis tremble before, but she does not tremble now.

“You’ll have to kill me then. That’s what it will take for you to separate me from him. But killing me wouldn’t make you right. You only care for yourself, and you prove it again and again. No matter how many chances you get, you always choose wrong.” 

Her accent has grown thicker in her rush to speak, her tongue tripping clumsily over the foreign shape of the words it was never meant to know. It reminds Achilles of her first year at the camp, when Patroclus was feeding her vocabulary in bite sized pieces that she’d struggled to swallow.  

“I’ll be damned if I sit by and watch you ruin him again,” she says with a fiereceness that, if one did not know her, they would think that her anger, too, was laced with something divine as well. That in her anger, she might make a worthy opponent of Achilles. A snarling match between lions.

“I should have never taken you off that dias,” he hisses. “I should have left you to burn.”

Achilles storms off then, thinking that if he lets this go on any longer, he might kill her, and gods, what a mess that would be.

He doesn’t need to worry about her right now. He needs to worry about Patrolcus and if he can undo whatever damage Briesis has done. If he can figure out what threads of his delicately woven tapestry she had taken her fingers to and unraveled behind his back, figure out if there is any possible way that they could still be repaired.

Oh, he could kill her for it. But maybe he can still fix this before those seeds of hatred have been planted.

The drag of the sand against his feet does nothing to slow him as he makes his way off the beach. 

It is like he turns his back on one sea and is faced with another. The men move about each other in an organized swarm, in a practised, well worn dance. Automedon is pulling his chariot around when Achilles finally makes it back to the tent through the sea of men who strip away at their armour between each step in an eagerness to rub at their sores. 

Achilles had run off the chariot a little way before they had entered the camps, so that he could go straight back to Patroclus first instead of all the way to the stables when Automedon was leading the horses. 

It had brought up terrible memories, all the fighting and the screams of fallen men that snuck in between the cracks of the loud bashing of speartips of shields and bronze, or swords and hoof beats.

There had been moments where that unfamiliar touch of fear had brushed against him as he pushed through the ranks of Trojan men, a fear that when he returned to camp, Patroclus would be gone. Every fallen man he stepped over had him looking down, something he had never bothered doing before, to run a desperate gaze over all of their faces for any traces of familiarity. 

Like maybe Patroclus would betray him once again and find a way back into the center of the fighting. Like maybe he had never come back to him at all.

Maybe this was Achilles' torment, his punishment from the gods for not doing enough, or maybe doing too much. His Patroclus was back, but the ghost of him was destined to haunt Achilles all the same. That he would have to spend the rest of his life chasing a thing that only wanted to run from him. 

He had to find Patroclus.

He waves Automoden down. He still has the chariot, oddly enough.

“I saw Patrolcus,” he says in way of greeting, like he knows what Achilles is about to ask, what he’s looking for. “He went towards the woods. I called out to him, but he didn’t stop.” he points over in the direction Patrolcus had headed in. 

“Thank you,” Achilles says. “Do something with those horses.” He stalks off towards the forest.

If I could just have a little more time, He pleads to whoever might be listening, to whoever gave him this blessing in the first place. He pleads like he is a child again, resting at his mother’s knee. Don’t let me lose it all now. Let him hear me, let him understand. He is not ready for Patroclus to know the things Achilles does not yet want him to. He has yet to figure out a way to keep Patrolcus from hating him when he does know. He’s not sure that Patrolcus likes him much at all, even without the knowledge from before. If he hasn’t been able to win him over yet, he is not sure he ever will once Patroclus knows that Achilles dragged him off to war just to leave him to die. 

It doesn’t bode well for him. 

When he comes up on the forest, Achilles only hopes that he might still have a chance to steer things back on course. Make up with Patrolcus, make up with Briesis for Patrolcus' sake, which feels as likely as growing wings, and then give himself a chance to figure out where to go from here. Maybe he can just get the fuck out of here. 

Damn the fates and the prophecies and everyone trying to mess up the perfect plan he has cultivated. Damn them all to Tartarus.

Hopefully, whatever damage Briesis has done can be an easy fix. If he can keep her away for just a little longer, keep everyone away, then maybe he can salvage this. But first, he just has to figure out where exactly Patroclus has run off to.