Chapter Text
Society is based on a balance between the powerful and the powerless, the strong and the weak. Patroclus knew this, had experienced some of the harder parts of their society, and witnessed others. He knew there was always someone who benefitted and one who was impeded.
In his current circumstances the gods would be the ones benefitted, while Patroclus and Achilles would be the ones impeded. As is the way and nature of a sacrifice. "Where there's sacrifice, there's someone collecting the sacrificial offerings. Where there's service, there is someone being served.”
(Gonna give credit to the quote, it was written by a woman named Ayn Rand.)
The complexity of this way of life never failed to occupy his mind, and now standing in his tent, getting his hair tousled and combed for the ceremony that will inevitably end with his death, it truly sank into him the premise of such a society.
Here he is stuck at the whims of the gods forced to sacrifice his life and future, so that they may get what they wish, while his beloved would be forced to lose everything he held dear. Well not everything, perhaps his pride was close to his heart as well, but Patroclus liked to believe that should it come down to it, Achilles would do whatever it is Patroclus needed.
With a jerk to his hair he broke from his thoughts grimacing slightly. A woman, Breseis, was trying to pull the comb through his hair, finding resistance in the thick curls that sat like an unruly crown upon his head.
When the comb got caught once again he groaned, closing his eyes and placing his hands over them. Breseis simply sighed, pulling his head up and facing straight, from where it had begun to fall, pushing his hair back into her hands, she began to comb it once more.
“Come now, you don't want to look barbaric on that altar, Apollo might not accept your sacrifice for what it is and leave your Achilles forever in his hands. Might as well look the part of piety for him, you are after all helping with the sacrifice in his name. I wonder who the poor soul who volunteered for this could be?”
Leaning over him, she grabbed the vial of oil and started to massage it into the tips of his hair, fluffing and combing as she went.
Patroclus could only close his eyes, trying to hide the misery held within his gaze.
She did not know. The men did not know. No one knew who had been chosen, only that a sacrifice had been chosen. The old kings had decided that to not cause any resistance or grief within the army, they would keep it a secret. By the old kings, Patroclus means Agamemnon had convinced them all of his decision to keep it hidden.
To help it run along smoothly, they designated Odysseus and Diomedes to dress up as well, making it seem less weird that Patroclus would be covered in lavish jewelry and ceremonial attire, most men did not know what sacrificial wear was anyways.
It would not seem weird to the men, to have a healer standing upon the pyre out of respect for Apollo's medical connotations courtesy of his steady handed son, Asclepius.
The Greeks did not do human sacrifices often, only happening when in absolute need or for a specific cause. Just as Iphingenia was sacrificed for the war effort to continue, Patroclus would be sacrificed in the name of saving the army and the great Aristos Achaion, and as much as he wished to be alone, he could not request such.
No sacrifice was dressed alone, they had to be helped. Their skin was to be rubbed smooth and covered in wonderful smelling perfumes. Their hair must be presentable and gold added to help with value. Their souls must be cleansed through sage and ritual herbs, and their ceremonial garbs would not be possible to put on without help, due to the weight and complexity of such items.
He needed the help, and sadly that was considered a woman's job, hence his dear friend Briseis doing it for him. He could not choose much for the ceremony himself, but he was able to choose who helped him dress. He would never choose someone different.
Over the years of her being Achilles prize won through bloodshed, they had very quickly formed a bond, similar to that of siblings. Patroclus had promised her years ago that once they left Troy, he would ensure Achilles married her. That way she would not be brought straight back into slavery and into the harsh hands of men like Agamemnon whose lustful hunger was spoken about as if it were legend.
He wishes he could keep that promise to her, but alas it was not what the fates had decided he should be able to do, all he could give her was these last memories, these last moments together for her to hold on and remember for afterwards, when he falls to the sacrificial blade.
Her hands small and smooth grabbed his head and turned it over, his face laying sideways towards the tent wall. Her breath hit his neck soft and warm, as she sighed, running her hand over the smooth skin at the base of his head.
“Patroclus, I do not know what it is that is wrong with you, but you do not seem alright today. Is the sacrifice weighing on your soul poorly?”
Patroclus pulled his head from her hand still laying in his hair and looked at his hands in his lap, his fingers shaking slightly as he clenched them into fists. With a deep breath he looked up at her. Her eyes were big with curiosity and worry, her hair frizzy, almost as if she had yet to brush it since she woke this morning. Seeing as they had been preparing and dressing him since dawn this morning, that very well could be the truth.
Reaching forwards, he grabbed her hand and squeezed slightly, laying it on his heart and letting her feel the pulse of life within him. He does not know why he felt that this was important for him to do, but he knew in his gut she would appreciate this show of life, if not now then later when she is left alone with only the comfort of Achilles, who was passive at best with her.
Reaching his other hand forward he pushed a stray strand of hair from her face, his smile held firmly in place despite the turmoil in his gut.
“Do not worry for me Briseis, I simply miss my Achilles. You already know of the baggage left on my heart since I found out of his capture yesterday, it is simply weighing on me harshly today.”
Briseis looked in his eyes, breathing out softly she pulled his head into her soft chest squeezing his shoulders slightly, bringing a comfort only she could manage. When she pulled away her frown had turned into a soft relieved smile.
Patroclus could feel his heart drop at the relief in her eyes, it hurt him much to leave her in the dark about something that very well would inevitably affect her, but he could not do anything about it. She need not know what is to happen until it does, he wished to save her from the grief for as long as possible.
Briseis had stepped away for a moment after she let go of him, reaching for herbs and oils to lay upon his skin, his hair already tousled and combed with gold flakes and a laurel band laying within it. Reaching down she grabbed his foot and began to massage, the oil softening the soles of his feet nicely and causing his ankles to shine pleasantly in the lamplight of the tent.
She continued to do so over his entire body, apologizing when she messaged a truly painful spot, each time causing him to flinch. He did not blame her, only one person knew his body well enough not to do so, and Achilles was not here for him to help the process along.
Achilles.
Patroclus had thought of him constantly since the prior night and yet not at all, the thoughts always too painful to entertain for long. And yet no matter how many times he would push the thoughts of the golden man away, they would always come back.
It was like Patroclus was only made to live, breathe and love Achilles. Perhaps he was.
It would make sense, the way his life had gone on starting from his horrid father, to Clitonymus’ death and eventually his exile to the small noble island of Pythia, inevitably meeting Achilles and falling into his light like a moth to flame.
If the fates were to come before him right now and tell him he was created by their very hands to serve the great Achilles, body, heart and mind, he wouldn’t hesitate to believe them. Amongst other things in his life, there has always been one constant and it was always Achilles, and where there was Achilles, Patroclus would ensure he was not too far behind.
It is why as much as he has grief for the circumstance, he does not regret agreeing. He regrets many things such as knowing the grief it will cause to his beloved when he dies, and knowing the issues that will arise for the army when Achilles finds out of the sacrifice. And yet, even then, knowing he was to die for Achilles, to bring him back to the army into the safe arms of the brothers they made during this godsforsaken war, he could not help but not feel any regret for dying.
He was doing what he believed necessary to protect his golden prince, just as he swore to his father, Peleus many years ago under blood oath. He still had the scar on his palm, matching the one he obtained on his left palm upon reaching King Tyndareus’ halls and opting for the wonderful Helen’ hand in marriage.
Looking at his palm, he traced the scar sitting on his skin letting the memories wash over him in some twisted kind of comfort as Briseis finished massaging the oil into his skin. Gently pulling away from him, she grabbed from the small pile of cloth, sifting through before humming loudly as she picked up a white piece. One by one, she continued to pull out the pieces of clothing,laying them out in order of which they must be put on.
Just as she grabbed his chiton clasp to unbuckle the cloth wrapping his body he stopped her by grabbing her hand as it sat on the clasp. She made a noise of confusion and turned to look at his expression.
Patroclus looked to her, his face blank as he pushed her hand away.
“Ive got it Briseis, you should go get ready for the ceremony yourself.”
She gave him a confused and concerned look, asking if he needed help with the clothes, to which he responded he could figure it out. He wanted to be alone. He did not want to spend some of his last moments being pampered by those around him, he wished to gather his thoughts one last time.
He did not want anyone but Achilles to help him dress, for what would be his last time.
Reaching forward, she squeezed his shoulder and turned to leave, the tent flap moving in the wind as she left.
Patroclus stood there quietly for a moment, just staring at the sand floor of the tent, his feelings roiling in his gut.
Gently and with care, he grabbed the cloth and began to dress himself slowly, feeling the weight of the many embellished pieces settle over him like a person's body laying over his shoulders. It brought him a strange simple comfort, one he would have loved to tell Achilles about.
He struggled for a bit when it came to the golden cuffs and collar but eventually he was able to get them on with much fiddling. Settling the last of the jewelry on his neck, he turned and strode to the mirror in the corner of the room, taking in his overly dressed appearance.
He could not help the slight gasp he let out when seeing himself. Turning slightly, Patroclus stepped back slightly mouth agape, staring hard into the reflection.
Patroclus almost did not recognize the man in the mirror. Gold shimmered above his eyes and cheeks, bringing out the warm colors of his skin and eyes, complimented by the gold jewelry that sat in his hair and on his neck. His clothes are mixtures of reds, whites, purples, and golds symbolising him as a man of importance that he has never had the pleasure of being able to be, unless gifted to him by the hands of his golden boy. His arms were littered with gold bracelets and jewels, so much so his dark skin seemed to reflect the gold color of the jewelry more than it showed his natural skin tone. In his hair laid purple and gold beads, woven intricately into his waves and complimenting the golden laurel crown on his head.
To say he looked like royalty would be an understatement, he looked as though he was a minor god being worshiped by the people with all the attention the look would bring to him. It had been quite some time since he would have been allowed to wear such colors to show his rank. He hadn’t worn anything similar since he had been a prince, when he was just a boy still and his hands did not hold the tainted stain of blood within them.
Turning this way and that, Patroclus admired himself, noting the aspects of the outfit and the things he liked and disliked about it. What else was he meant to do? Sit and wallow longer? No, Patroclus has had enough of the wallowing, he can not change his fate nor does he wish to at this point in time. If changing his fate would leave Achilles to the gods, he would gladly suffer his fate for the rest of eternity.
And at least Patroclus can find solace in the thought that one day, he would see Achilles again in the afterlife, because surely Achilles would make it to Elysium, and with Patroclus sacrificing himself for the Greek army, or as they say he is doing, he should be allowed access to the fields. Surely he has atoned enough after Clitonymus’ death with all the lives he has saved working in the healers quarters day in and day out. But alas, he has no control over the afterlife and does not wish to dwell on it much, no matter how close it is to Patroclus being able to personally see it.
He was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of the tent flap moving, and upon turning around was met with an overly dressed Odysseus.
His hair had been fluffed up, the normal light brown curls much more pronounced and framing his jawline nicely. In his hair sat a silver laurel, accented by a simple braid across his head. His clothes were simple, a red chiton with gold accents complimented by a simple purple cloak with lyres and laurels stitched into the fabric. He was dressed how Patroclus would expect a priest to dress, though perhaps with the way that Patroclus is dressed, it was the only way to possibly blend in. Or perhaps, it was just simply a way to show piety and a plea for mercy to the God Apollon.
Turning fully, Patroclus nodded to Odysseus, allowing him to come inside completely. He did not speak, only nodded and walked over to the table, his eyes scanning the papers messily laid on the surface.
His eyes drifted over each paper, catching at key words but never seeming to catch his entire attention, he was not surprised, Patroclus did not think there was anything interesting to see anyway. At least, Patroclus thought that before Odysseus’ eyes stopped scanning and began to stare directly at a paper on top. This paper was tear stained, making the words illegible at some points, but that was not what had caught his eye, the Giant, ’Achilles’, scrawled messily on top had caused him to stop.
Patroclus did not move when Odysseus picked it up, nor did he make him stop when he opened it and began to read. Patroclus did not care, there was nothing to hide, and if anyone were to see his deepest wishes and feelings he spoke to Achilles through the words on that letter, he would wish it to be the clever king.
He may not fully trust the king, as he is the reason both Patroclus and Achilles were here, he believed that Odysseus was a good man, and should anything happen to the letter, he believes that he would ensure its contents are not forgotten and make their way back to Achilles.
For a while they sat in silence, Odysseus reading the note and after, simply staring at Patroclus who had not said a word nor showed emotion of any kind since he had arrived in the tent. It was as if he knew Patroclus did not wish to speak of anything, of the notes contents of what he has learned of Patroclus’ feelings towards certain things like his selfish want for Achilles to return to his side when he inevitably passes. And so they did not speak at first, simply existing together in one space, not comforting but peaceful, the clever king could never be comforting to be around no matter how much of a good man he may be.
It was Patroclus who broke the silence.
Turning his head to Odysseus from where he had been staring at the floor, he pushed the hair from his face, careful to not ruin the hard work Breseis did of putting the gold onto his cheeks.
“What is it you need, Clever king? I wish I could say I have no problem simply being in each other's presence, but I have to say I'm rather poor company to keep right now.”
Odysseus’ face remained blank. Gently he maneuvered his feet from where they lay crossed on his lap, and placed his hand on his thigh, his other hand gently grasping something he had brought with him, though Patroclus had not even noticed him bring it.
Then with little brilliance, he pulled out what seemed to be a simple cloak. It was colorful, a base of a deep Saffron, lined meticulously with blue and purple embellishments. Patroclus had never seen one before he did not believe, though it was familiar, something with the colors and designs seemed to cause his heart to patter in familiarity.
Shaking it slightly to help with wrinkles, Odysseus held it up to him, extending it to him without moving any closer.
“This is a Krokotos, something you may recognize as it was worn by Iphingenia when her blood was spilt upon the grounds of Aulis. Agamemnon thought it appropriate for you to have a matching one, though I will not lie and say I do not believe he is simply trying to make it seem like he was the one who should get the credit of convincing you of the sacrifice, simply by tying you to the last sacrifice that he did.”
His face was tight the entire time, seemingly displeased by his words, and possibly expecting Patroclus to be as well. And yet, it did not bother him, perhaps because he did not believe that the men and Achilles would believe the Baffoon king in his stupid claims, perhaps it was because Patroclus had found a simple comfort in the woman who passed, feeling as though they are both lambs to slaughter, whether willing or not he did not care the thing.
Reaching forward, he gently grasped the cloak from his hands and held it to his chest, seeking familiarity and comfort in the item that was soon to be wrapped around his shoulders.
Looking back up at Odysseus (from where he was staring at the cloak in his arms), he thanked him, nodding his head in acceptance.
Odysseus did not seem to be a man of many words today, despite his silver tongue known for never retiring, as he simply grasped my shoulder and squeezed, trying to convey comfort to him in a small yet meaningful form. Patroclus appreciated the effort and clasped his hand in Odysseus’ own, squeezing.
“Thank you Odysseus, not just for the cloak but for the support. I may never forgive you for dragging me and Achilles to this godsforsaken war, and yet, I find myself seeking the comfort you continue to offer. Perhaps it is simply because I have no one else offering it, and if that were to be the case, I thank you still.”
Odysseus stood there for a moment face blank, his eyes seemed to scan every inch of Patroclus’ soul before he looked away, his hand reaching for the tent flap as he stepped towards the exit.
As he stepped out he pulled his head back, turning just enough to view Patroclus(alive) one last time.
“Do not thank me. I caused your suffering and now due to the actions brought upon you by myself, you and Achilles will be forced apart in life. My only hope is that when Achilles inevitably finds his way to the underworld, you will be there to meet him. I do not expect you to forgive me, but the least I can do is help, even if it is in such a minor way as simply keeping hope.”
Turning completely, he left, the tent flap sealing itself closed, leaving Patroclus once more alone with his thoughts.
Looking around he noticed the lyre in the corner of the room and smiled. He could almost hear the musical notes filling the silence of the tent, the warmth in his chest from the memories of laughter and love, swelling intensely, nearly consuming him in memories of the past.
Patroclus walked over to the lyre picking it up and gently plucking the strings, the notes hanging in the air. Upon a moment of contemplation, he brought it over to the bed and sat on the furs he and Achilles shared, laying the lyre in his lap and beginning the start of a simple melody.
Patroclus was not very well tuned when it came to music, did not know the secrets of the lyre and had the magic in his fingertips as Achilles did, but due to his shared lessons with Achilles as a boy, he was passable. Patroclus never cared for it much anyways, he simply wished to know enough to understand Achilles when he spoke of it and played it, that was it.
Now those lessons came in handy as he continued to pluck the strings, letting the sound soak into his bones and carry him to a place away from the horrid reality he must face soon. With his eyes closed he began to see images, memories playing through his head and consuming his very being.
Patroclus as a boy listening to his mother play the lyre as he stood in the ocean looking out towards the sea and playing in the battering waves.
Patroclus meeting Achilles, lyre in hand and a smirk on his face.
Achilles playing the lyre in their first lesson together to hide the truth of Patroclus’ disapearances from Peleus.
Both of them laying sprawled on a cave floor listening to the soothing notes and letting it pull them to sleep.
Them in the room on Skyros, Achilles playing to comfort Patroclus after Diedamia’ confession.
All of these memories of happy peaceful times, before the thought of war had even crossed their minds soothed him, bringing him a sense of calm that perhaps shouldn’t be possible, knowing that he is to die in just a little while yet.
Even as he finished that song, his hands continued to pluck, an unknown melody beginning to continue in his fingertips, despite the little he knew of playing, let alone creating music. It almost felt as if there were ghostly fingers grasping his own and moving them for him, the once soothing happy tune, becoming much more mournful and hopeful.
Eyes remaining closed, he lifted his head towards the ceiling and began to hum. The vibrations causing his throat to warm slightly, a pleasant feeling surrounding him.
He would have continued letting the music comfort him and bring reminders of the love he's lost, had a hand not suddenly placed itself against his chest, grasping tightly at the fabric above his heart.
Dropping the Lyre he opened his eyes quickly, taking in the man standing directly in front of him. His hair was long and brown, thick tight curls framing his face delicately, his jaw sharp and strong, complimenting the muscular yet lithe physique he carried. His skin was unnaturally tan, freckles littering over every inch, almost as if the sun has not only figuratively kissed him, but literally.
He was a beautiful man, Patroclus would not deny it, yet the most mesmerizing thing about this man, was his eyes. A light purple shade surrounding a darker purple with golden streaks running through them, framing his dark pupils and making his almond eyes pop against the rest of the man's natural beauty.
This was a man who very much would catch the attention of many kings and queens, possibly even gods.
And this man's attention was directly fixed on Patroclus.
Patroclus fidgeted, trying to pull back and have the man release his chiton, yet he seemed to cling tighter.
Quickly before Patroclus could react, he pulled him forwards and embraced him tightly, squeezing him and constricting his arms to his sides. Stunned and a bit uncomfortable he turned his head down and made to pull back.
“I'm sorry sir, but might I ask you to please let me go? I do not know you.”
Looking up, the man pulled away, a small smile playing on his lips. Pulling his arms away from where they wrapped around his shoulders he stepped back turning his beautiful eyes towards him once more.
Patroclus watched the man as he seemed to adjust his strophion, the purple and red fabric hugging his hips delicately. Turning his head, the man looked up, his face light but eyes heavy.
“I can not say much as I'm not meant to be here, but I wish you to know that sacrifice is necessary for the ones you love. Even if you do not have a say in your sacrifice.”
Stepping forward he grasped Patroclus’ hands holding them tightly, purposefully ignoring the look of confusion on Patroclus’ face.
“Im sorry that my beloved is the one who has hurt you and your lover, yet I wish you to know that you are not the only one. Whether sacrificed in the sake of saving your beloved, or sacrificed due to your beloved, it does not matter. Sacrifice is sacrifice. As a fellow sacrifice I wished to help you.”
Pausing he pulled his hands from where they sat and leaned over pushing them towards the ground. Before Patroclus’ very own eyes a purple flower bloomed from the sand, growing and curling into itself, reaching towards the man's hands.
Gently the man lifted the bloom to his face and whispered to it silently, perhaps blessing it, or perhaps not. Patroclus did not know. But what he didn’t know was quickly overshadowed by what he now knows.
Now that flower he has seen very little of, never naturally growing in the region where Phythia was tucked away, only ever truly being seen not in imports or gardens. No, the place he typically would see such flowers was in the paintings of old, always based off of one story. The story that is often depicted as the greatest tragic love story of all.
The story of Apollo and Hyacinthus.
Gasping softly, Patroclus stepped back slightly, taking in the man all over again, now with a different perspective and a newer understanding.
The now named Hyacinthus smiled knowingly, standing straighter. Reaching out his hand towards Patroclus’ own, he closed his eyes and leant forward slightly.
“By your reaction, I assume you have figured it out. Crazy to think that even now, hundreds of years later I am still known.”
Pulling his hand back to himself he walked up to Patroclus and grasped his shoulder softly. His hand with the Flower lifted as well, but instead of settling on his shoulder, he placed the bloom behind his ear, delicately laying there and complementing his dark curls.
Hycainthus did not do much after that, instead he simply nodded once with a sad smile and turned. But right before he disappeared he spoke one last time.
“Im sorry.”
And then he vanished, leaving Patroclus standing there in an empty tent once more.
It took a few moments for understanding to hit Patroclus, but when it did it hit hard. Gasping harshly, he stumbled towards the bed, the reality of his situation and the one he just faced hitting him harshly. Reaching up with his hands, his fingers gripped tightly into some of the beads in his hair, pulling harshly as he did.
Despite the confusion and anguish rushing through him, the flower's soft weight on his ear seemed to send him waves of calm whenever he focused on it.
While their situations were not the same, he did in fact find comfort in the thought of someone else having faced sacrifice for the sake of a lover, whether because or for did not matter to Patroclus.
With delicate fingers he lifted his hands towards the flower and softly brushed the petals. It was beautiful and delicate, yet held a tragic tale like no other. Patroclus wonders if he would get anything like that.
Perhaps not a flower as he will be burned upon a pyre after his death, but maybe having something named after him, in respect of his sacrifice. He would much enjoy that, knowing that his story would never die, and by association Achilles’.
His thoughts were interrupted once more by the tent flap rustling. Within a moment a small head peeked from around the flap and peered into the inside, his gaze skipping over everything before finally settling on Patroclus.
The young boy reached his hand out towards Patroclus, nodding his head softly. He was telling Patroclus it was time.
Looking around silently as he stood, for one last time, taking in the memories and moments while he could. Then reaching for the young boy's hand he squeezed probably harder than necessary, and let himself be led out.
No matter how much he wished to linger, there would be no use and besides, Achilles is waiting.
He would never make him wait longer than necessary.