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Chapter Text

There was much Achilles liked in the world. His mother Thetis, and the familial tie to the ocean she passed onto him. His father, with his comforting arms that held him close and his gentle hands as he rubbed them through his hair. Or the figs he would eat and await excitedly to ripen during the first blossoming of spring.

There was much that he could say he liked, that is true. But what about things he loved?

Achilles as a child would tell you he loved his mother, as she picked him up and told him stories of the tides below the surface of the waves, or perhaps his father, who took time away from the throne to spend time with and teach Achilles to properly take the mantle of kingship one day.

But now?

No if you were to ask Achilles now, if he loves anything, he would respond with neither of those.

Not his mother, not his father, and certainly not the figs.

No, love for Achilles could only be placed in the heart of a man. Love for Achilles could be found in the doe like eyes, and dark curls of his beloved.

His Patroclus.

Philtatos.

Love had no meaning until Achilles met Patroclus, there was no way to truly understand what love was, the connection it brought to a person's soul, without first meeting Patroclus. Not for Achilles.

Patroclus is everything for Achilles. Patroclus was his purpose, his pride, his happiness, his love.

So when it came time, when the ships landed upon the shores of Skyros to call them to war, Achilles sat in their bed chambers and asked Patroclus for his blessing to go. He asked Patroclus to come with him, to understand the war that was a part of him and help guide him so that it did not consume him in the upcoming years docked at Troy.

He would not leave if Patroclus refused, he would argue perhaps, get angry and shout. But his heart would never allow him to betray him and leave for Troy without him. For not only would he be betraying him, but he would be turning away from one of the only things he loves. He wouldn't be able to live with himself without Patroclus by his side.

That is what he believed at least.

At first ask, Patroclus was against it, asking Achilles why he feared mortality, why he feared growing old and weak and happy. He asked tears running down his face as he hugged himself tight, his body pushed to the back of the bed they sat upon, the furs bunching up around his legs, why Achilles would rather die than be happy beside him until their time ran out and Thanatos came to collect them. Why he instead would prefer to be taken down to eternal rest in the arms of Keres.

And Achilles, had only grabbed his arms tightly, bringing Patroclus’ hands to his mouth and kissing them.

Gently he explained how his fear of losing Achilles was similar to the fear Achilles had of losing his god blood. Of his gifts running out and him becoming nothing. How he dreamed to be immortalized and sung about, how his heart demanded the attention of the masses, and his wish for his story to go down forever.

Patroclus had just pushed his head on his hands, having tugged them away to cradle them to his chest, his breaths coming in short gasps.

It was silent for a few moments when beneath his hands Patroclus mumbled.

“Is this truly what you want most?”

Achilles had simply nodded and pulled his hands away, cradling his face before pressing a soft kiss to his head.

“It is.”

With a sigh and a strained tearful smile, Patroclus agreed.

“Then it shall be so.”

And their life in Troy had begun.

-

Troy was not everything it was cracked up to be. It was hot, humid, and miserable to fight in, day in and day out.

Through time passing, many of the men would mutiny or rebel, no one was happy the war was taking years, and they were promised a swift win.

The heat, the relentless fighting, the injuries, it was all too much for the men. They did not wish to honor their oath any longer, but by the gods decree as it was an oath upon them, they could not leave the war until either the fair Helen was returned to the hands of sharp eyed Menelaus, or they had been defeated by Troy.

In the face of this inevitability, something akin to families started to form. Friends would sit beside the fire at night, laughing and loving the company they granted each other. Men would proudly show off the sons they had with the bed slaves they won through battle. It was a way to remain sane, a way to have home in a place that denied us all of that feeling.

The war almost became normal.

The men would gear up and head to war, kissing their women on the head and ruffling the hair of the toddlers they created.

Almost as though it was a simple and normal occupation.

It was similar for Achilles and Patroclus. The women he won through battles hard fought, would gather around the fire alongside Patroclus and himself, tending to their needs, not in misery but in slight respect.

They understood there were much less desirable men they could have been taken in by, and Achilles would not chance a stray look at another, not with Patroclus held in his arms and heart.

Every morning Achilles made ready for war, his golden Armour gleaming in the morning sunlight, while Patroclus rose to help him into his Armour and send him off, before heading to the medical tent to help where he could.

It was perhaps not ideal, but it was their new normal, and a new normal was better than no normal.

-

Through the passing years, Achilles had become known as the Greatest of all the Greek army, Aristos Achiaon.

There was no match for him on the battlefield, no one was able to touch him without the help of a deity. And since there was no one to stop him. He did not know when to stop.

He killed hundreds, possibly thousands of Trojans, their warm blood providing a strange comfort to him that he gladly told to Patroclus.

He never saw the sad horrified looks that passed over his face, he only saw the things he wanted to see, the love and understanding in Patroclus’ eyes as he nodded along to Achilles’ tales, wiping away the blood that coated his skin.

He was uplifted.

The fighting, the glory, the pride of war, it was exhilarating. Killing men and watching them as they fell, spear tip embedded in their stomachs, it set his blood ablaze. Made him crave more.

The night he told Patroclus of this, how the war truly affected him, was the night of their very first true argument, here on the sand of Troy.

Patroclus believed him to be changing, shifting into a monster he was not meant to be. A monster created by the men that only saw Achilles as a tool, a weapon for their own gain.

But Achilles, all he could feel is the glory that was given to him easily. He loved the pride and joy of the men, their respect and near worship. He desperately explained this to Patroclus, wanting him to understand.

Yet Patroclus would not hear of it any longer, and that night was the first and only night they ever slept apart.

-

It took a while, but through time and patience Patroclus had begun to help Achilles understand. Help him understand how he's falling into chaos and something unrecognizable. How the men of the army use him for their own benefits, and it has affected both his thoughts and his actions. How this war killing machine, that went around and took joy in the slaughter of basically innocent men, was not truly him but what others wanted him to be. And over time, he began to shift.

No longer did he step onto the battlefield with a cruel smirk and thoughts of others inferiority.

Now he stepped onto the field with a stone face, not happy, nor vengeful, simply there. He no longer took the pleasure of killing all the men on the field that dare to exist in his line of sight.

That is not to say he did not kill, no he still killed in large amounts, not slowing down nor stopping. He simply understood the need to respect the men that fell before his spear trying to protect a kingdom that was doomed by its prince’ greed. So at the end of the day, he would sit outside, as he waited for Patroclus to return from the medical tent, and when he did, they would sit and watch the smoke that rose from the burning pyres beyond the wall.

It was not ideal, he still killed many, but he no longer cared to flaunt their deaths, no longer pushed their legacy from his mind to rise up his own.

And for Patroclus, that was enough.

-

It was morning of the ninth year at war when things started to go wrong.

Achilles would return from war, tired beyond his usual. After Patroclus would bathe him he would simply fall into the soft furs that adjourned their bed and fall asleep.

If he were any normal man this would seem normal, in fact it would be expected. Fighting for hours on end, for your life and others, it would get exhausting.

But this was Achilles.

The man with god blood within him. The one who could run all afternoon and not lose a breath. Who never seemed to get more than 3 hours of sleep and still thrived in spite of it.

Now he slept through the night, rising only after Patroclus woke him with soft kisses to his cheeks.

It was strange, and Patroclus began to fear that perhaps Achilles was getting sick, something that has not happened once in all the years of living beside him.

But whenever Patroclus asked after Achilles, trying to understand his fatigue and exhaustion, Achilles simply said nothing felt different other than the increased sleep he had been getting. Despite Achilles' attempts at calming him, he could not help but worry at the changes in his behavior. There must be something different, something off no matter how crazy people would believe him to be if he explained his thoughts to any other man.

But without further proof of sickness, he could not do anything for him other than simply keep an eye on him.

So that night after speaking to Achilles, he pushed aside his worries and laid against Achilles' side, his body curled into his side breathing softly. Achilles ran his fingers up and down Patroclus' spine, soothing him into rest so that they may sleep together. It was peaceful, simple, a moment of joy stolen from the hands of war that threatened their simple moments of peace.

A peace quickly stolen and not to be returned in this life.

-

Achilles woke to soft murmuring and golden lights, blinding him momentarily, and rending him useless for a moment. Upon his vision returning, he realized quickly that his surroundings were not familiar to him, and he was surrounded by people he did not recognize.

Adjusting quickly, he moved to sit, not wanting to be defenseless against these people he did not know. Without looking he moves his arm to his hip to pull the knife on his hip from its sheath, or he tried.

His arms were stuck behind his back, tied tightly with gleaming gold chains that seemed to burn the more he struggled against them. And his knife, which typically sat on the belt along his hip (Gifted to him by Patroclus), was gone, along with the belt that held it in place.

His feet were bound to a pole in front of him, protruding from the ground, with the same golden chains as his arms, tightening and pulling him close to the pole until he was sitting directly in front of it.

He was stuck, he knew he was stuck, but even still he struggled. He ignored the burn and tightening of the chains, trying to free himself. He ignored the curious gazes of the other people in the room, focusing on escaping.

He couldn't stay. If he was taken from the tent, then what of Patroclus? Was he taken as well, somewhere away from him? Was he in danger? Were they both in danger? Was he ok and looking for him?

These questions made him persist.

With a sharp tug he was pulled right against the pole, forcing his legs to bend awkwardly against the hot metal. He was no longer able to move his legs in this position, instead he relaxed for a moment, allowing his straining muscles to breathe. He does not know how long he has been struggling but this is the most strenuous thing he has ever done.

Before he could try once again one of the people spoke.

“I wouldn’t do that if i were you, those chains are meant to hold gods, the more you struggle the more it will hurt.”

Jumping slightly, he looked up, almost instantly looking away. The pure divinity in their eyes being too much for even him to look, giving him an instant headache.

Their eyes were gold, filled with liquid fire and gleaming bright against the bright lights around the room. Their hair, from the glimpse he got, was also gold, curled tightly against his shoulder, framing the masculine jaw they carried.

A god.

The other person laughed harshly.

“Aw come now brother, must you ruin this. I was quite enjoying this. I wanted to see how far he could go before it became too much, he struggled so much, I bet he had a few more paces in him.”

The other divinity was easier to look at, their eyes being contained behind a shadow cast by the cap they wore. There were brown speckled feathers lining their cheeks, matching the pair of wings coming out of the helmet they wore. Similarly to the ones on their head was a pair on their heels, slightly smaller with more white.

The identity of this deity is presented much more clearly to him.

Hermes.

There was only one other winged god that Achilles knew of, but he is described as someone with wings along his back, and feathers crawling down his legs in spirals. He is always found with a dark red bow strapped along his back, and long thin arrows differing in color for their purpose, strapped to his side.

No. There is no way this deity is Eros, unless all the stories of the gods have been lies, which couldn't be true. His mother herself told him of the tales of the gods. She lived among them, she would know of their appearances.

Turning back to the golden deity, ensuring he would not make contact with their eyes, he trailed the patterns stained into his skin, tracing the arrows and suns printed deeply into his legs and arms. Glancing across his face, he noticed small lines etched in his skin, looking as though they were beams of light protruding from his eyes. Perhaps they were.

It does not take him much to properly discern that this other deity must be Apollon. The symbols of lights and arrows being glaring signs to his identity. Yet despite this, he could not be certain.

Perhaps they can change their appearance just as they can change into animals. For all he was aware, they could be playing pretend, toying with him because their whims led them to believe it would be fun. Achilles could not be certain, so he simply sat quietly, staring silently and watching them converse with each other.

Achilles may be prideful, but even he knew when it was time to quiet down and listen. And within the presence of possibly some of the most deadly gods in existence, he dare not cause any more issues than necessary.

Hermes laughed silently at Apollon, fluttering above the ground and flipping over, his back facing the ground.

“Come now Apollo, surely you do not truly think this was worth it? We could have had so much more fun with this, but alas now we must explain ourselves to Thetis’s son. Why must you always be so direct? You should loosen up more, perhaps you need to hang with Dionysus for a while.”

He did not respond, silently turning away, shrugging his shoulders with a sigh. Without much thought, he lifted his hand into the air and summoned a gold bow into his hand. Quickly and with flourish he placed an arrow into the bow's string, pulling it taunt and aiming out the window. After a moment he breathed deeply and hummed thoughtfully.

“That should do. Now Thetis’s son.”

Achilles jolted at his name, straightening to the best of his abilities from how he sat, nodding his head in respect.

“Lord Apollon.”

Apollo looked him up and down, frowning slightly, a look of slight disgust flashing through his face for a moment, before settling once more into a stony blank expression.

He turned to Hermes nodding his head towards him, his arm not once shifting his aim from the window. Within moments Hermes had conjured a shimmering image in front of his eyes, slowly focusing on a sleeping figure in a familiar tent.

He was cuddled within the furs they had gotten themselves through the years on pelion, burrowing into the pillow Achilles typically laid against, taking comfort in his scent. He seemed at peace.

Achilles was not. Upon seeing his lover curled in their bed, defenseless and on display before these two gods and himself he tugged slightly once more on the chains, fear coursing through him.

What is it they wanted?

Were they going to hurt him?

He snarled slightly, ignoring the chains once more burning and tightening around his arms.

Apollo tilted his head at the sound, looking intently at Achilles, observing him on the floor. Hermes simply observed from where he fluttered above the ground, smirking slightly.

Apollo clicked loudly, his mouth forming a strange O shape. Within moments a few wolves could be seen through the image, slowly surrounding Patroclus in his sleep, blocking from all of his paths of escape, in case he woke from his slumber.

Achilles’ breath hitched slightly, instantly drawing his limbs closer to his body, his muscles taunt not wanting to further upset him.

Apollo smirked, looking directly at Achilles as he spoke.

“We have taken you from your camp as you can tell. Before we continue I must have you swear your cooperation, otherwise I will release this arrow and it will pierce the heart of your beloved before you can do anything to help him. Now do you swear to do so?”

Achilles gulped, looking at the wolves surrounding his beloved before nodding,”Yes, I swear to cooperate with what you have to say, so long as you do not hurt him.”

Apollo nodded, lowering his bow, letting it rest beside his hip, and began fiddling with the arrow in his hand. Without much thought he lifted his hand and let figs fall from his fingers, being caught by Hermes who immediately tore into the juicy fruit. After taking a bite into his own fig, he began to speak.

“Now I must explain why we have taken you. There are many reasons that led to this decision, the main being the amount of people you have killed. You see, I once spent years as a mortal man, tending to this very city and building the walls that protect the citizens within, that you have been slaughtering without mercy. That's not even including the visions I've had of your future, and the things you will do to my son, and the things your son shall do to those citizens. Through your senseless massacres the people of this kingdom have done nothing but pray for my interference, to save them from the monster of the Greeks. And through all the prayers I have received there was one that stuck out to me, one that gave me a way to bring justice upon Troy's people, without causing the other gods to turn against me. This prayer said,’May you please take from him as he has taken from us. Make him feel the loss of sacrifice as I have.’ This stuck to me, and after some thinking I came to this conclusion. I would take you from the army, and your army would be forced to choose a sacrifice, one man with good standing, that would impact the army in some way. Upon this sacrifice, the war would be ended, no winner to be needed, only the satisfaction by Troy that their grief had been felt by the Greeks. Then and only then, would I release you from your shackles and return you to the arms of your army. Your men have already been told of the choice they must make, and understand they have until tonight to choose. If I do not have a sacrifice chosen from the army by tonight, then you will be forever forced away from mortals, and your army would not be allowed to return to the islands and kingdoms they left behind. Their wives would be forced into another marriage and many of their kingdoms would crumble. And should they try to get back to their kingdoms, should their feet leave the warm sand of the Trojans beaches, their ships would be struck to the bottom of my Uncles sea. They would be stuck and you would never be released back to the mortal plane. Perhaps you would be killed, perhaps be turned into a minor god and forced into servitude by an Olympian. Your future would not be certain, i hope that does not stress you so.”

He smiled sharply at that last part, fake concern oozing into his voice. Hermes who had sat quietly the entire time chuckled again, waving away the shimmering picture and Patroclus with it. Then with a simple bow he flies into the air before disappearing once more, leaving him alone with Apollo.

Apollo stared quietly at the space where Hermes had been and sighed, crouching in front of him and lifting his chin.

“Perhaps I wouldn't mind taking you for myself. You're pretty enough I suppose but it would be more fun to have the great Arristos Achaion under my eternal servitude, but alas that all depends upon the decisions of your men. I wonder who they will choose, if they even do? Perhaps Agammenon, as much as I hate the Greek army's king, he would make a splendid sacrifice, especially with all the wealth and fame attached to his name. I'm almost itching in excitement.”

Achilles frowned deeply.

They have to choose a sacrifice for him?

And it's not even as if it's just for him, the sacrifice must happen in order for them to leave. Apollon has all but made it certain they will not win the war, and in an act of mercy is allowing us to leave not as winners but not as losers either. The soldiers have no choice but to choose a good man to leave behind.

Well there are many men who would be honored for such an event. Men who would willingly give their lives for the cause of war, especially if it means they would go down as the man who saved not just Aristos Achaion, but the one who made way for all of Greece to return home to their kingdoms and families.

It hurt to think of the poor man who would inevitably be put upon a pyre, but it would be necessary. The Greek army needs not only him, but needs to go home. It just means that the man who sacrifices himself, will forever be celebrated by Greece. Festivals and holidays will be held in his honor, and be celebrated for generations to come. Their story would more than likely go down as a legend, told to boys to teach them of honorable sacrifice.

Perhaps Patroclus would tell him more of the man after the whole affair. He was always well acquainted with the men in the army.

(His Beloved, Patroclus. Oh how he misses him, but surely it won't be long. The army shall have until tonight, a full day's worth of decisions, to choose who it would be. And after the Sacrifice tomorrow morning, he will once more be in the arms of his beloved.)

Blinking harshly, he tucked his legs in a more comfortable position, raising his head to acknowledge Apollo.

“Yes , I understand Lord Apollon.”

Apollo smirked harshly once more, Mischief flashing through his eyes before disappearing in a twirl of wind and light.

Once gone, Achilles relaxed, leaning against the pole and closing his eyes. It would not be long before Apollo came back to get him for the sacrifice, he would rest while he could. He wanted to give the man chosen his full attention and respect. It takes great honor and bravery to choose to give yourself up, or perhaps he would be forced into the position by the kings. Whatever it may be, he still deserved respect.

And after he would go to Patroclus, curl his body within his arms and rest, seeking comfort in the warm arms of his companion.

His arms wouldn’t be warm when he finally gets to him.

Chapter Text

It was not with comfort and peace that Patroclus had awoken. No. It was with cold sheets and a small hand, pushing harshly against his shoulder.

Groaning slightly he rolled to his side, expecting Achilles to be sitting there with a smile and a kiss to be planted upon his lips. Instead, he is greeted with the panic stricken face of a young boy, who Patroclus partially recognized as a servant boy under the rule of Odysseus.

If he remembered correctly, this boy was the first of the children born to the Greek army and their slave girls. Patroclus had personally helped in his delivery, a strong boy with a birth mark behind his ear.

 

The boy was still shaking his shoulder, and tugging at his chiton. He did not speak, only gesturing to the tent flap that hung close. Upon seeing Patroclus awake, he nodded towards the tent and left, his hand behind his back and beckoning him to follow.

Now if he were any other man, Patroclus may have been offended at the lack of care from this boy. But alas, he is just a boy, and he truly do not care for such measures. It does not help either that his tongue had been cut from his mouth at 2 years of age because of his cries. His father was not a kind man, and that Patroclus could understand, so instead of being offended, he simply stood up and followed him out of the tent where it seemed all of the Greek kings were waiting.

‘That must be why Achilles is no longer in bed’ He thought, pushing through the crowd, excitement causing his steps to be longer and more eager. He must have been called to rise before the king's meeting. Perhaps another trial just as yesterday.

(A man had been taken and sentenced to fight in the next day's battle without armour and put in the forefront of the battle, if he survived it would be punishment enough to make him a servant alongside his son. The man, Piritheus, was actually the servant boy's father. Taken into custody of the Greek army due to being caught taking from the other king's war spoils and denying the claims against him.

The man had not survived, Patroclus remembered, he had taken a spear to the back of the neck, pushing out through his eye socket. It was not enough to kill him instantly but he had been in pain and alive long enough to be brought to the medical tent. Machaon tried to staunch the blood and stabilize him but it was not meant to be so. Surprisingly they had run out of all the yarrow Briseis had collected the night before.

However strange it was no one questioned it long. This was war, of course they would run out of it, no matter the amount of wounded they would be given. Unlike the others, Patroclus did not need to question it much. Instead of dwelling long, he simply complimented the yarrow flowers within the boy's curls as he passed him next to the burning pyre. No words needed to be said, and no man needed to know what he did.)

Upon reaching the kings, he could not see Achilles, only the other kings arguing aggressively, yelling and throwing wine around the table in which they stood.

Without much care for respect, he walked up to the table and cleared his throat, bringing the room's attention to himself.

“Might I ask where I may find Achilles? He had already risen by the time i was awoken so i wish to see him before the day begins.”

The kings all seemed to stare harshly at him, their eyes tracing blazing trails along his skin, none of them answering his inquisitions. It was almost as though they did not know what to say, their mouths trying to form words that would not make themselves known. Unsurprisingly, it was King Agememnon that spoke first.

He stepped forward, extending his arm towards him, a tight smile filled with greed and grief pulled taunt across his face.

“Steady Patroclus! We had been meaning to speak to you! We sent a servant boy to your tent, I hope it was not much of a bother to wake you in such a manner?”

He simply shook his head, not caring much for the small talk. He only wanted an answer to his question,” Fierce Agamemnon, King of the Greeks, son of Atreus. I do not wish to dally, please answer my questions so that i may go find Achilles, once he is beside me, i would be more than happy to participate within this meeting. But any meeting between the generals and kings should include him.”

The kings seemed to tense more if it was possible, their shoulders drawing taunt and their breaths catching in their chests. Instantly Patroclus was on guard, looking between the men in front of him, trying to discern their reaction. No one reacted like that for no reason, they were afraid of something and did not seem to want to share it with him.

Drawing his shoulders up and stepping back slightly, he remained aware of his surroundings, a small bit of fear and unease creeping into his heart. Warily, he looked to Agamemnon.

He stood there, his face pulled into a reassuring smile, yet it did not comfort him as he most likely intended. He would never find comfort in anything the king did, and it also did not quite reach his eyes. Yet even with all of that, the most unsettling part of that smile was the familiarity he felt as he gazed upon it.

He had seen that same look before and yet could not remember exactly where. He rarely spent time around the king, only staying near him when Achilles was forced into these meetings and did not wish to go alone. So it unsettled him deeply to feel such a way.

Raising his hand to the knife on his hip and resting it there he looked to the king.

“Where is Achilles.”

He did not phrase it as a question again, more so a threat. Something was wrong and they knew what it was but wouldn't say what the issue was.

Agamemnon's smile became strained, his hands raising up slightly in a show of innocence.

“Now Patroclus, no need to seek protection. WE, do not sek to harm you. We simply wish to talk. We will inform you of Achilles whereabouts, but we will do so in private. There are too many eyes and ears following us to speak here.”

Looking around, Patroclus was surprised to see the truth in the King's words.Many foot soldiers were staring, watching the exchange in earnest interest. Even Patroclus, as steady as he is could feel their burning gaze and eager ears causing embarrassment to creep in.

Turning slightly, he nodded to Agamemnon and followed him, alongside Odysseus, Ajax and Diomedes. Within moments they had made their way into Agamemnon's chamber tent, and unsurprisingly to Patroclus it was just as he would have expected of the king.

Red and purple sheets covered ebony and cedar furniture, highlighting the wealth he had. Boar tusks and deer antlers sat surrounding the walls of the tent, alongside pelts of many different creatures, including a glowing silver deer pelt hung above his bed.

This made him stop and stare for a moment, which, while that was most likely his intention upon placing it in such and eye-catching position, was not why he did so.

No, he recognized that pelt. This was the pelt that belonged to Artemis's doe, the one Agamemnon slayed and caused them to spend such needless months on the shores of Aulis. A sense of dread washed through his gut unprompted as he stared at the gleaming fur.

He did not know why it unsettled him so to see the sacred pelt hung along the wall, and why it seemed to make him wish to run, but perhaps it was the effect it exuded upon being slain. It made some sense, as it was a sacred doe to Artemis, she would not wish to have her pelt stolen after she died, it makes sense she would have some sort of protection implemented into the furs of the coat.

With one last look towards the pelt, he continued scanning the room, his eyes falling upon the sad sight of the women servants sitting fearfully in the corner.

Many of the women were unclothed, their pale skin shining against the candle light, alongside the bright bruises around their necks and arms. The women who were clothed wore tainted white cloth around their bodies, dark stains held firmly within the fabric, whispering stories that only they would ever truly know about.

It did not surprise him to see what looked to be 2 women pregnant, not with the king's appetite. As we continued in, walking past the women, Agamemnon did not even give them a glance, though the women were most likely thankful for this. It was the sad truth of the Trojan enslaved women, they would never get the safe happy life with a husband to share the joy of children with. Instead they will be forced into the beds of the men who slayed their husbands and family, and forced to carry sons who would never be acknowledged by their fathers, and daughters forced into the same tragic life they themselves were stuck in.

It was tragic, it was unfair, but it was the way of the Greek people. Greece was not nearly as accepting of women as Troy was, the closest they got was Sparta, but even then it was Agamemnon's brother who ruled over Sparta. Agamemnon had Mycenae and did not live by the same morals as his close brother, preferring the majority of Greece's beliefs over that.

Turning away from the depressing image the women made, he stopped behind the rest of the men as they all came upon a small table. Like everything else in the tent, it was made out of expensive cedar with images carved into it, showing the exploits of the great Heracles and many other heroes. Sitting down with the others, he looked at the carvings once again, curiously eyeing the unknown picture carved into the middle of the table.

Carved largely in the center of the table was a deer laying upon an altar. A belt displaying very adamantly the Heracles knot, was carved around the doe’s belly, alongside a dark shredded veil. It almost seemed like a commemorative piece to someone's life as it showed what looked to be pyre smoke and poppies.

He was not able to look too far into the images, before Agamemnon began to speak.

“Now that we are away from prying eyes and eager ears I will explain exactly what we know. Now Brave Patroclus understand, this was no choice of our own but dictated by the hands and whims of the gods.”

As he said this his strained smile fell, a serious look befalling his features. Any possible comfort Patroclus may have convinced himself of quickly fell away, leaving him bare to handle the anxious fear that curled inside him alone. Nodding, he gestured for Agamemnon to continue.

He almost wishes he hadn’t.

“Late last night Achilles was taken from your shared tent and brought to a place only the gods who took him know of. We were not made aware of this until we were all summoned to the amphora by an unknown force, any who resisted were quickly disposed of. We have yet to find where their bodies ended up after Lord Apollon threw them from where they stayed nestled in their tents.”

Patroclus stiffened hearing the gods name. He did not understand why such a prestigious god would take his Achilles; it did not make sense. At first when they said a god took him, he thought it would have been his mother who took him, as much as he would have dreaded it, at least he could take comfort in the fact that his mother loved him and would ensure he was safe.

Even if that meant she turned him into a god, at least he would not be lost to the prophecy. Patroclus would have found a way back to him, he always did. But with Lord Apollon being the one who took him, it caused so many more issues. He was, according to Thetis, not on the Greeks side of the war. He did not like Achilles, meaning he was not safe in the hands of the golden god.

With his chest constricting and tightening, he nodded minutely, allowing Agamemnon to continue. If he did not continue, he feared he would accidentally die with the anxious fear causing his heart to race. He needed to know why.

“Well, moving past that, lord Apollon has explained that he is alive, just taken prisoner until we follow through with the commands that he has laid down for us.”

Anything. He would do anything to get him back. Just knowing there was a way for Achilles to be returned safely to his arms caused much of the unease to loosen its cold grip upon his heart.

Agamemnon hesitated for a moment grimacing slightly and looking towards Odysseus who simply nodded, biting the side of his lip. Diomedes and Ajax shifted slightly with a frown on their faces, seemingly dreading the next part of the conversation. Their reactions caused the unease to once more grip his heart, now slightly tighter than before.

Patroclus looked straight into Agamemnon's eyes and breathed deeply.

“What are his commands?”

Agamemnon stiffened slightly before raising his shoulders up trying to exude confidence as he spoke.

“The first is, we are to abandon the war effort, Greece and Troy would both win, just as we would both lose. A draw. Where no more bloodshed nor benefits will be exchanged.”

This did not hurt Patroclus, in fact it greatly pleased him. This blasted war had been going on for far too long, nearing a decade at this point. It was time for the men to return home to the wives they missed and the kingdoms they left behind. With the end of the war, meant the end of the anxiety that plagued his heart each day due to the prophecy that held the tale of Achilles' fate within its grasp.

Nodding he let Agamemnon continue.

“The second, we are to perform a sacrifice to the gods. One of great power and standing. One that should we make this sacrifice, we shall feel the loss of the named sacrifice. Or as Lord Apollon put it,”so you shall feel the grief that the Trojans are forced to bear. Only when you know grief shall you be able to receive your great Aristos Achaion back, and be allowed to set sail for home.”

This took him by surprise. What did he mean by allowed to set sail? Would they be forced to stay on the too hot sand of the Trojan beaches should they not make the proper sacrafice? And without his dear Achilles they could not leave either way. It was inevitable. They would be forced to perform a sacrifice to the gods in order to reclaim Achilles, and to actually leave the shores of Illium.

He understood now what must be done, but something still bothered him. Looking at the men around the table he gestured curiously.

“What could possibly be the issue with this? We are being given a chance to go home, not as winners, but not as losers either. We simply must make a sacrifice right? Then why do you act as though this is too much? We have made sacrifices to the gods before, hecatombs to please lord Apollon and ask him for mercy upon the plague arrows he shot into our camp earlier this year. Surely the loss of a hecatomb shouldn't be too much for all the kings to muster? Surely not as important as finally getting home to your kingdoms and families. My Lords, I'm not asking why we have to sacrifice, I'm asking why this seems to be giving all of you such grief if it is truly so simple a request? Shall you allow it, as soon as this is over I wish to start the sacrifices. My men would help with the cause, as should yours.”

It was the way that their faces continued to fall as he continued along his rant that made him realise it couldn’t be that simple. It wasn't just their reactions, but the gods would never be so simple. How could he forget such a thing? Looking around fearfully he asked,”What is the catch?”

Would Achilles be returned to them with a disability? Perhaps his godhood torn from his body? Or maybe the gods would take his ability to speak or share the beauty of sight? What could it possibly be?

It was not Agamemnn who spoke finally, by Odysseus. He stood up squaring his shoulders and giving me the respect that no other man in the room could manage, by looking directly into his eyes as he spoke.

“It is not a simple sacrifice, but one already chosen by the gods. One that Lord Apollon himself has declared must be the sacrifice, as any other sacrifice would be considered invalid in the eyes of the gods. A sacrifice that Lord Apollon feels will make Achilles understand the true nature of grief-.”

He stopped himself short, a tug at his mouth signaling a frown wishing to make an appearance. The regret in his eyes was clear as it flashed by, Odysseus seeing no reason to hide the emotions inside him, not when Patroclus would soon know the reason anyway.

He did not need to say it for Patroclus to finally understand what was happening though, dread filling his gut. He could feel his eyes starting to well up and his heart drop in horror. Odysseus did not need to say it for him to understand what was happening, that is true, but he needed to hear it anyways, needed to hear it come out of his mind and into spoken words before he would allow himself to react.

Odysseus looked away for a moment and pulled his legs up under him from where they lay crossed under the table, then sighing he looked into Patroclus’s eyes and said what he already knew.

“By the words of Lord Apollon, it is Patroclus Menotides that must be the sacrifice, as he means the most to Great Achilles and will enforce the grief that the gods wish him to feel.”

Everyone froze as a loud clatter echoed through the tent at his words. Patroclus had stood up, his chair falling over and rattling against the plank of wood it originally sat upon, and simply stared. No one said a word, allowing him to come to terms with what is to be forced upon him in silence. Looking around without a word, his eyes once more fell upon the carving in the table and he shuddered.

It all made sense now. The smile, the pelt, the carving, something had tried to warn him but he had not understood. The smile, it was the same damn one that he had when he looked at Iphingenia, bringing her before the altar under the premise or marriage. The deer pelt glowing with a sense of foreboding doom, wishing him to run, as if to not meet the same fates of the doe and the poor girl.

And the carving. By the gods it was a memorial commermoration. Agamemnon had carved his daughter's sacrifice into the table alongside other great heroes, as if her sacrifice was a willing accomplishment she made. She did not wish to die, she did not want to be sacrificed, she had no choice, same as him.

It was that last thought that set him in motion, quickly he took long strides towards the tents flap, taking a step outside before his arm was grabbed harshly by the wrist and he was tugged back in once more. Stumbling he turned around to see Ajax’s hand wrapped around his wrist, pulling him further into the tent with muffled curses.

Agamemnon stood before him, standing in the place he was sitting earlier, his chair discarded alongside his own. His face now twisted into a wicked scowl he was much familiar with, it was the one he would send Achilles when he disapproved of his actions. Funny how it almost made Patroclus comfortable, made him feel as though Achilles would be right beside him,as if he’d turn and he would be snarling angrily at Agamemnon for doing so.

But that was fantasy and this was life, Achilles would not be there for him anymore if he did not do this. He knew that, he understood that. And as much as it pains him to leave Achilles to the grief he would most definitely feel upon his death, he would not leave him to the hands and whims of the gods any longer than necessary.

Even so he wished to have a moment to himself, perhaps write a letter for Achilles for when he is released from his imprisonment and finds out about the circumstances of his death. He didn’t know what he'd do, but he needed just an hour to gather himself before he did anything more.

And yet, looking into the angry eyes of the three kings, and the sad regretful eyes of Odysseus, it did not seem as though he would be getting the time he so desperately needed.

Agamemnon snarled angrily, disgust rolling through his features.

“You have no choice in the matter, you could have taken on the sacrifice with honor, but instead you leave, knowing that you would be forced into the sacrifice anyways? I know you are simply Achilles lap dog, but you’d think as a man you would have some honor. Alas, what else should I have expected from you, a coward just like Achilles.”

Snapping around quickly, Patroclus grabbed the front of Agamemnon's tunic, lifting him slightly. He may be a medic, but he too trained alongside Achilles on mount Pelion, and he was no simple soldier. He fought beside Achilles when he wished for company on the field, not only surviving but thriving. He was not weak.

Thrashing in his grasp, Agamemnon gripped his hand with his own, raking his nails along the skin. Before the other kings could do anything, Patroclus pulled his head forward leaning into his space and snarled his eyes blazing.

“You may be the King of this army, but do not think you have the authority to call Achilles a coward. He is part god, something more than you could ever be even with the title given to you by the gods, you never earned it. Unlike you, Achilles earned the titles he has. Feel free to call me whatever you desire but do not hurt the hard earned honor he has gained by placing labels he did not earn upon him.”

Without a word Patroclus dropped him and turned to the other kings in the room. He had already figured they could not kill him yet, for a sacrifice of this magnitude he would have to be properly prepared and forced into a ceremony before the god in question. They did not wish to anger Apollo more by not giving him the proper ceremony.

It is because of this they respected the space he had put around himself, as well as ignored Agamemnon still spluttering on the floor in embarrassment and disgrace.

Without acknowledging the other kings, he turned to Odysseus. He did not interfere, gave Patroclus the news he needed upfront and clear without hassle, and seemed to genuinely regret the fate he unintentionally doomed him and Achilles to upon taking them from Skyros. He was the only one he would wish to actually speak to in this room, and so he shall.

“Odysseus, just know i was not running away, i was merely finding my tent to process the information that has been told to me just now, and give myself time. I would never abandon Achilles in his time of need. I could not bear it. Though thinking about it now, I do not know when exactly this ceremony is to take place? I am curious as to how long I have to get my affairs in order before the ceremony.”

He did not say much, just simply nodding and responding,”tomorrow morning,” and then he left, marching out of the tent, his head towards the floor. Patroclus could only hope that he was going to his own tent. As much as he loathes him for bringing them there, it did not pass by him, that he too was forced into this without wanting to be here. He felt a kinship with the cunning man, but Patroclus would never be able to trust him. The best he could do for the man is to wish him rest and peaceful thoughts. Anything more he would not force himself to perform.

Turning away from where Patroclus watched Odysseus leave, quickly followed by Diomedes, he looked at Agamemnon and sighed, purposely ignoring Ajax.

“Listen, son of Atreus, as much as I do not want to die, I would not be so dumb as to leave the man that i lo-care for to the hands of the gods. I struggle, knowing the pain in which I will be abandoning him to survive alone. Yet I would never forgive myself for leaving him to the gods as a prisoner. Just know son of Atreus, i am not doing this for the men or the army, had Achilles not been on the line i wouldn’t give a damn about this. My death will lead him to unimaginable pain, that I know for certain. So tomorrow morning when I walk onto that altar and you feel as the knife slits my throat, and my very own life is spilt upon your fingers, know I did not do it for you. I did it for Achilles. Now I wish to reside in my tent the rest of the day and participate in preparations for tomorrow. I will be ready in the morning for the ceremony, am I to assume that the army shall all be there to watch?”

At the question, Agamemnon rose up quickly staring directly at me, shame and anger poorly hidden behind dark brown eyes. He did not give Patroclus the pleasure of a verbal answer, simply nodding and gesturing to the tent flap and turning away, heading to the back of the room where the women resided.

With disgust bubbling in his chest, Patroclus turned away from the women cowering from the king and stepped forward to leave. Turning slightly, he allowed himself one last glimpse of the silver pelt and the carving on the table. Upon seeing the belt tied around the doe’s waist his eyes grew wet, his fist tightening slightly. Without a word he left, letting the tent flap swing close in the wind.

Ignoring the kind greetings of the men and foot soldiers mucking about, he ran into his tent and sat at the table he and Achilles had shared dinner at, just the night before.

Sitting in the chair, he grasped at a quill and ink that lay in the chest underneath the table, and began to write.

-Achilles, my most beloved, dearest to my heart.

I wish I wasn't writing this but alas the fates were never fair to us.

Now first I want you to know why I did this. I could not bear to leave you in the hands of the gods, without knowing whether you would be safe, or if I would ever see you again. I hate to doom you to the very thing that has plagued me since this gods-forsaken war began but it must be better than leaving you to the whims of the gods. Now I want you to move on. Once this war is over, leave these shores and return to Pythia, take your son with you if you are able to find him. I do not like that a piece of you is wandering this world without a proper person to guide him into the amazing person you became, so I would be pleased to know he is looked after. After you settle back in, take the throne of Pythia and raise the kingdom to new heights.

As selfish as it may sound, i still wish to be the one you hold most
dear and close to your heart, but I would not fault you for finding
someone in your time of grief. If you find a good person, who could help care for you and bear you heirs to the kingdom. So long as when you inevitably make your way down to the underworld, you allow me to return to your side. You may forget about me, if that's what it takes for you to bear the pain of my death, I do not care. Just come back to me when we are able to be together once more in death.

Upon my death I ask for one thing, if you wish it as well, have my ashe’s buried alongside your own, so that it may symbolize us being together in life, and once more in death. I will not fault you for your decision either way, just know what I want and decide if you wish it so as well.

I love you my Achilles, and I shall wait for you among the shades. Please do not mourn long, for we shall see each other again.

I love you my Achilles

-Your Philtatos, Patroclus

Patroclus stared at the letter that sat upon the table and watched as the ink smeared slightly with each tear that hit the page. No matter how much he tried to hide it he could not help the tears that continued to fall. Without Achilles to help him calm his cries, his tears quickly turned into chest wrenching sobs, his breaths coming too harshly for it to do his lungs any good.

Standing up, he turned and stumbled toward the bed, collapsing into the soft furs that still smelled of his Achilles. With a deep inhale of the furs another sob tore its way through him, the smell of sandalwood and pomegranates flooding his senses.

He hated this, he wanted his Achilles, he did not want to leave him alone, he did not want to die.

He did not want to die.

He has done so much, and only just when he finally has reached a bit of happiness in life he is forced to lose it all, in order to protect it. And yet as much as it hurt, as much as he cried knowing he was to die, he could not find it in himself to regret it.

It was either him, or Achilles, and never would he let it be Achilles.

Taking a deep breath he turned his hand over to get a better look at the ring that sat neatly upon his ring finger. The gold band wrapping around the green and amber stones, hugging his finger just right.

Achilles has a matching one he got made for himself and whenever he was lonely, Achilles told him he would kiss it gently. Today, Patroclus could be found spending the day, laid out on their bed, clutching the ring close to his chest. Holding on tightly, to one of the most important things Achilles ever gave him.

It was with the ring clutched tightly to his chest, and the familiar smelling furs wrapped around his body, that Patroclus fell asleep.

Perhaps it was with the mercy of the gods, that he did not dream that night.

Chapter Text

With a painful jolt Achilles was woken up, his chains being tugged harshly and pulling his body forward. Quickly, he looked around from where he lay on the floor, his hair tangled around his limbs and the chains. Warily scanning his surroundings, his gaze landed on where the tugging originated. Immediately his shoulders rose up and his mouth pulled behind his teeth.

There in front of him kneeled a woman, the chains attached to his wrists held firmly in her hands as she lifted them up to get a better look at them. She was muttering to herself rapidly, her eyes flashing from the chains to a scroll and quill sitting beside her.

While still wary Achilles stared curiously, watching her as she continued to obsess over the chains, her wild mutterings being mildly off putting for the golden haired man. She was simple, yet had a kind of inhuman beauty to her, with her dark brown hair and fair smooth skin. She wore a simple peplos, dark reds and brown dyed within the garment in a regal yet wild pattern. Looking at her face Achilles took notice of markings under both of her eyes, seemingly in the shape of a clepsydra.

Seeing the symbols made him alert, for mortals did not hold these kinds of symbols unless it was a mark upon slaves to show they were in slavery. And it was upon further inspection he realized his suspicions were well founded.

As she bent her head forward to read an inscription on the chains he noticed the sun symbol beneath her chin, sitting just below her jawline. A claim.

Pulling himself back from where he had begun to lean forward to better see her, he began to push away from her. She was claimed by Apollo, and he had no trust in the gods any longer, that one even less so.

As he pulled away from her, he forgot the chains that she still held in her hands and froze when he heard the clank of the chains as they were pulled from her grasp and crumpling on the ground. Looking up hesitantly, he flinched harshly when he saw her attention back on him. She had pulled her attention directly to him, staring intensely with slightly glowing eyes, her face sat in a disappointed frown.

Definitely divine.

Turning fully, she stood up from where she was knelt on the ground, her peplos pooling elegantly around her legs. Without breaking eye contact with Achilles, she grabbed her scroll and quill and began to write.

It unsettled him greatly watching her write without breaking eye contact, yet any time he made to look away she would snarl harshly, eyes glowing brighter in her anger.

“Do not move, im inspecting the chains”

Immediately he would turn back to her and sit frozen, not even moving to scratch an itch or move his hair from his face, not wishing to offend the obvious divine being any more than he already seemed to. There he sat still and silent for what felt like hours, the only noise being the goddess’ occasional mutterings and the scratching of quill on paper.

He was almost glad when the silence was broken by the door to the room swinging open, voices flooding in.

Almost.

Many cheerful voices, and some more subdued washed over them, dragging the goddess’ attention for a mere moment before going back to her writing as if they were not there.

As much as he wished too, he could not turn to look, not wishing to anger her further, instead he sat impatiently, hoping the voices would not originate from any sort of threat or divine being wishing to do him a disservice. Perhaps they would be able to help him, though the thought was quick and passing after waiting a few moments and accepting that the voices still lingering in the room behind him, voices raised in what seemed to be debate, would not be of any help to his situation.

With a sigh he slumped slightly, murmuring curses to himself sadly. Turning quietly, he looked at his hand, which was sitting in front of him uncomfortably and still attached to chains, pulled taunt by the women who had once more picked up the chain. If there wasn't a threat of an angry goddess, he would have brought it to his face, kissing the ring that lay there on his finger glinting tauntingly at him.

Oh how he missed Patroclus.

When he thinks about the fear he must have felt upon waking up and realising Achilles was not there beside him upon their furs, nor in the camp, or anywhere he would be able to follow, his heart pangs harshly. The thought of being the origin of such negative emotions in his beloved, as well as not knowing what was happening to Achilles is far too much for him to bear. Not while he is too far away to comfort his distress.

But even knowing and understanding this, Achilles could do nothing to comfort himself. He could only hope the sacrifice happened soon, so he may soon be in the arms of his beloved once more. Until then, he would find meager comfort in the ring on his finger, wrapping around his finger just as Patroclus would do to him when they finally reunited.

Without realising it, a tear had begun to drag itself down his cheek, the trail of the warm liquid being a physical show of his misery. Without thinking, he lifted his hand to his cheek to wipe it away, and before he could react, his hands were tugged back down harshly, the golden chains digging painfully into his wrists. He did not have to look up to know she was staring at him once again, the snarl audibly echoing around the room.

“I. Said. Do. Not. Move.”

Looking up to give her acknowledgement, he nodded, tucking his head into the space between his neck and shoulder, trying to hide the tears in his eyes.

A curious noise made itself known in the awkward silence as he turned away. He did not care to see the source of it, too busy burrowing in his own misery to see it was not the woman messing with his chains, but one of the people who had come into the room earlier.

Before he could react, a hand had grabbed his chin and brought his face towards their own, studying him intensely.

She was of similar beauty to the curious goddess messing among his chains, her hair instead of a dark brown, nearly midnight black, clashing harshly against her pale skin. Her eyes were bright green shining similar to the other woman at his feet, and also had marks upon her cheeks. The marks were laurel wrapped lyres, sitting gently upon her skin as if it had been there since she was born, as if it were a part of her. Which as a goddess, very well could be the truth.

Jerking his head left and right, he tried not to flinch as she practically manhandled him, grabbing his hair and twisting it this way and that. She treated him as if he were some little girl's toy, a doll meant for her own viewing pleasures.

He hated it.

Without thinking he snarled, tugging against her hand, trying to draw back. She simply tugged him harder and pouted.

“Come now, you're one of the greatest heroes to ever exist! At least let me look at you!”

He grimaced slightly. He knew he could not anger the goddess, for fear of her obtaining retribution, yet it still did not settle the wild fury in his chest, aching to be released. This is why he never understood why his mother wished godhood upon him so much. The gods were inhuman physically and emotionally. Their morals, nearly nonexistent when it comes to mortals.

Achilles did not wish for that. As a mortal himself he has seen the way the gods and immortal beings use people as play things to do their every want and whim, hell he was living through it at this very moment.

He would never understand the thoughts of gods, yet no matter how much he surely wished to never achieve godhood, there would always be that one part of him, whispering what if into his ear and promising golden covered glory, and red covered hands.

A part of him he wished didn’t exist and yet was sown into his very being by the hands of the three fates themselves.

He was brought from his thoughts by a loud squeal next to his ear, igniting a pulsing pain at the shrill sound.

“EEEEE, Oh My Apollo, Clio! How could you keep him from us?! Why would you not tell us that someone with such a rich heroic past, present, and future, lay chained and at our mercy to discover!”

Achilles froze for a second, processing the name.

Clio, as in, one of the nine muses? The one who embodies the link between memory and history, who inspires many others to record our history so as to never forget it?

Achilles turned, his blood beginning to pulse in anxiety.

That would mean that the rest of the women in the room must be the rest of the muses. The very goddesses who work hand in hand with Apollo to bring structure and knowledge to the world.

Turning intently, he looks to the now identified Clio, watching her sigh deeply and lowering the quill. Her eyes, which once showed a dark brown, now glowing a near gold, looked from me to the other woman, shaking her head exasperated.

“Calliope, come now, leave the poor hero alone. And I did not tell you because if you had listened to our Lord Apollo when he spoke to us earlier before sunrise, you would have known that the hero was here. I was simply inspecting these chains, they have not been out of Hepheastus’ forge since the time he helped chain the god king many millennia ago. I was not going to waste the opportunity to inspect and write the story that the chains hold, just to tell you of the very thing, our lord has already told you”

The annoyance in her voice was prevalent as she lay the quill and scroll on an end table, standing up and walking to the other woman, Calliope’, side. Once beside her, Clio grabs Calliope's hair and adjusts the front of it, pulling some of the hair back behind her ear from where it fell in front of her face, purposefully ignoring her pout as she did so.

“Clio, stop it. Let me see more of his story, it is truly an epic tale indeed!”

Before Achilles could process the conversation another muse spoke up, her curly hair jumping with her as she sprang in front of them.

“Oh, Oh! Imagine the music and hymns to be written in his name. Tales told through rhythm and rhyme, all telling the story of the world's greatest hero! Oh, I can hear it now!”

Achilles' eyes narrowed as she spoke, taking in her words and features, trying to determine exactly which of the muses she could be. As much as the nine muses are sisters, they are nothing alike when it comes to features, all having their own defining features that sets them apart from the rest.

She mentioned music and rhythm, so perhaps she is Euterpe the muse of lyric poetry and music? The marks upon her cheeks would support his theory if so, matching Aulo's marks sat below each one of her eyes.

Overall she is just as beautiful as the rest of her sisters. She had bouncy gold curls that matched her playful personality. Her peplos colored in sky blues and whites lay slightly shorter than the rest of the women's, showing off her unblemished legs.

Achilles nodded to himself. He was certain that she was Euterpe, meaning the other women must also have symbols that represent which muse they were. Looking at them, careful to not make eye contact in case they decided to bring their attention back on to him completely, he scanned the rest of the women, coming to conclusions for each of them.

The tallest of the women must be Urania, the celestial globe on her cheeks a dead giveaway to who she is. Her hair was longer, a dark black though a silver streak glowed softly, framing the left side of her face. She seemed calm, not as chaotic as her other sisters, nor as serious as Clio seemed to be. Her peplos was a solid dark purple, only a silver belt hung around her hip. Though unlike the rest of the women she had a cloak on her back that seemed to hold the stars within them. Staring at it made his head spin and eyes blur, almost as if he was gazing upon a power he was not meant to see.

The next woman, he assumes is Erato, her marks showing a Cithara surrounded by a wreath of myrtle, symbolizing love and passion. She was fairly simple in looks but no less beautiful, her big doe-like eyes were a warm amber, her hair sitting just below her shoulders was almost pink with how light her red hair was. It wasn't harsh and fiery like people seemed to describe the strands of red in his own hair, hers was more of a blond red. Her peplos and eyes matched her hair, the peplos being white mixed with a light pink color, and her eyes being a bright orange color. She stood beside Urania, smiling gently towards him when he turned to look. He did not like that stare so he continued on in his investigations.

The smallest of the girls was Polyhymnia. It took him quite a while to discern who she could be but the only muse he could not tell easily was her, so he assumes that this woman is her. On her cheeks she has clutches of grapes draped in what seems to be a religious veil, typically used in the worship of gods in godly festivals. Her eyes were a light blue, nearly grey, her hair modestly cut lay in nice black waves. Her peplos was not a peplos at all, but a feminine chiton unlike her sisters. It curled around her body modestly, religious symbols stitched into its fabric, speaking hymns and stories of old.

She did not seem to take interest in much of anything going on around, simply sitting and staring to the wall. He much preferred her uncaring attitude compared to the others' hyperfocus on his life.

Thalia was easy to recognise with her short choppy blonde hair, and dark green eyes. Her marks were the overly exaggerated comedy masks he would see used in the old Greek theaters, surrounded by ivy leaves. There was not much to say about her, she wore a simple black peplos and gold girdle, and sat on the ground, swaying side to side from where she sat.

Terpsichore was also simple. She wore a himation gown with black and white details, her hair a light brown color and slightly frizzy. Her eyes were gold, matching the marks on her face showing a lyre and plectrum set, surrounded in simple leaves that belonged to a plant Achilles could not identify.

(Patroclus could have.)

Shaking his head slightly, trying to relieve himself of the depressing thoughts from his mind, he turned to the very last muse, the only one who has yet to take part in the conversations with the other muses, expecting to have no issues identifying her. Instead when Achilles turned to see what she looked like, he met her eyes directly, instantly regretting it. His heart and soul started screaming, crying for relief, tragedy was running through his very bones until he finally looked away, looking to the marks on her cheeks. Tragedy masks lay stabbed with a knife and a wine cup was catching the substance leaking from the mask. It was not complicated to understand who this last woman was. Melpomene.

The fact that she had yet to stop staring at him with those deep, dark blue eyes unsettled him deeply. He did not like that the muse of tragedy seemed to take a special interest in him, or possibly saw potential for her own domain to infect his life. The way she stared, it was almost as if he was a fly caught in her trap, one she seemed unwilling to let free. Perhaps unable.

Though her interest may originate from the prophecy. She may have already seen how the prophecy would commence, how he was fated to die early for the immortalizations of glory and fame, all as soon as the great Trojan Prince Hector lay dead at his feet. Perhaps she saw exactly how that was supposed to play out, him leaving his father to grieve the loss of not just a son, but his only heir to the kingdom in which he rules over, as well as dooming his mother to an eternity without her son.

How he was going to leave Patroclus to mourn, to live a lifetime without his other half. Leaving him to move on, find a wife and have children. Live his life and once more claim him back when he too passes on and reaches Achilles once more in the underworld.

God how it burned to think of, but he would not deny his love the right to have a wife and child just as he does. He deserves to have the family he used to speak of on Pelion, promising eager giggles and happy cries of children filling the air around them when they grew older.

Achilles smiled softly, the image of Patroclus playing with a young boy, or doing his daughter's hair lightening the harsh anxiety still tearing through his body. It was most pleasing to imagine, an image meant to be carved into stone forever immortalizing that smile on his face.

Leaning forward while the women were still speaking he pulls his hand towards his mouth and kissed the ring there, not having to worry about their anger while they were distracted. A gasp caused him to pull away slightly, cradling the ring to his chest. He looked up just in time to have his face grabbed harshly in between two hands, squishing his cheeks uncomfortably.

Erato stood over him, smiling eagerly, light cherry hair bouncing with her as she swayed on her toes eagerly. Turning quickly she brought her eyes to his own and smiled, her eyes shining intensely.

“My, My! Who were you thinking of to have that kind of reaction?! It is very rare indeed that I feel a love as strong as this, who is it? Your Mother? Your Father? Oh! Perhaps your wife?!”

Achilles did not give her an answer, simply snarling again and pulling his hand unconsciously closer to his chest. Erato watched the action, smiling brightly. Before he could try to prevent it, she reached forward and pulled the ring off of his hand despite his closed fist. When she went to pull away with it he lunged forward, triggering the chains to pull him harshly against the pole. Yelping loudly he fell, his arms bent weirdly as they continued to tighten the more he thrashed.

Terpsichore walked forward slapping him harshly in the face. Achilles froze, not wanting to move and risk their anger, but also fearing the loss of the ring. Leaning forward, Terpsichore yanked his face towards her own and smirked harshly.

“Now, Now, why must you fight it, let her do what she wishes and you won't be punished. Mortals, so stupid, thinking they can have any say for themselves when divine beings are here.”

She rolled her eyes as she spoke, wiping her hand off on her gown, stepping over the chains and leaning against Melpomene who looked at her silently. Gently pushing Terpsichore off of her shoulder slightly she sighed and lifted her arm. Instantly the rest of the women stood and walked up to her, lining up in front of him, their faces serious.

Achilles watched mesmerized and terrified as they all turned their gazes directly upon him. Their eyes and tattoos were all glowing vibrantly, casting the room in humanoid shadows. Each one froze, not so much as blinking almost as if they were waiting for something, when suddenly Melpomene stepped forward and began to speak.

“Despite what you may think, we do not wish for your life to end here and so it shall not, we will not harm you. Your fate is in the hands of fate itself. Each one of us have found you entangled in our domains, trapped within the arms of divinity. A hero, who embodies piety, music, history and a sacred love. We stand before you today upon the orders of our Lord Apollo, he wishes it be clear to you exactly how many gods your life is entangled with, who all you have to ensure you don't offend. We the muses make up your life, have been crafted by the fates into your very being, and yet we are the goddesses you need to worry about the least. You will never be free of the curses of divinity because you are crafted by divinity, your very essence embodies the essence of other deities. When you're finally released from our hands tonight at the ceremony for the sacrifice, know that not only do you embody the essence of some of us, you have the essence of all of us. Tragedy runs in your veins, and you have been chosen by the fates to be their perfect tragedy. Your tale will be told through time, both you and your lover immortalized for the end you will reach through death.”

And just like that they disappear.

Achilles stared at the place they had just occupied, shaking slightly his face pulled into a tight frown. He knew his life was going to end in tragedy, he chose this path himself, Apollo did not need to tell him again. It was nothing new to him, in fact he has been prepared for it since he first made the decision.

As he considered what Apollo could have possibly intended for him to know, he did not realize that he was not alone, and in fact one of the women had stayed to watch him.

In the shadows of the room stood a tall looming figure, her eyes glowing white from where she stood. Her claim by Apollo glowed as well, a shiny gold color pulsing and fading. With quiet steps she walked from the shadows, letting Achilles see her from where she stood.

Achilles tensed immediately, recognizing her from just a few minutes prior. She stood with the same elegance and poise as she did earlier as she waited. For a while she just stood here staring at him, her eyes while still shining, seemed to have dulled, as if her thoughts were elsewhere.

Hesitantly Achilles sat up, his hair falling around his curls in strands of gold. Pushing his hands out, he gently pulled his body forward, making sure not to thrash about too much so as to not trigger the chains once again. Once he sat directly in front of her in a more comfortable position, he looked up hesitantly, ensuring not to stare into her eyes.

“My Lady Melpomene, was there something more you wished to say?”

She did nothing at first, simply tilting her head and continuing to stare at him. Achilles began to get deja vu, having experienced this same thing earlier with her sister Clio.

As much as Achilles may be able to show respect to those who deserve it, he still had pride and impatience. Without his noble Patroclus to quell his unnecessary anger, he was lost to his own emotions, unable to control how he acts. So as she continued to ignore him, he straightened up and growled, his firsts curling together.

“Listen, I can't take it anymore, kill me if you like. I do not care, but being stared at and played with as if I am simply a doll I can not stand anymore! Tell me what you need, if you just want to stand there then find another thing to stare at. I'm not a plaything to be used by you guys whenever you wish for another more interesting thing to look at, one more so than the normal mortals down below. I'm not a child's doll to be pulled around and dressed up, nor am I without the ability to feel emotions. I am Achilles, Aristos Achaion, and I deserve an inkling of respect! Am I not part divinity? Do I not have gold running through my veins? We aren’t much different from you and I, so just tell me what you want or leave!”

It was when he finished that he realized what he had done. Grasping the sides of his head he closed his eyes, pressing hard in fear.

How foolish could he be! Yelling and making demands to a goddess of all things! He may have said he does not care if she kills him but he does. He has things to return too, people to fight for, a home to actually go home too.

If he throws away his life, the Greek army will be stranded on Troy, forever cursed to never sail the sea again. They need him alive, as part of the deal, part of the exchange for Apollo, he must live, so that he can feel the grief of the loss of the sacrifice. It's the only way for Apollo's deal to be fulfilled.

Yet, sitting here, his breath coming in deep inhales, he begins to realize the extent in which he possibly just ruined it all. How he possibly doomed not just himself, but the Greek army to death should the goddess decide to kill him.

Looking up slowly, fear heavy in his posture, he saw that the goddess had not moved from where she stood, in fact she did not seem to even hear him.

With curiosity and wariness present in his every step, he relaxes his body, and sits in silence. He does not wish to speak again, lest he make the situation worse by once more speaking out of line.

They sat there for a while, no one saying anything, the only sounds being the fountain in the corner of the room, and the shuffling of the chains as Achilles shifted his position to be more comfortable.

Finally after some time, she raises her eyes to properly stare at him once again, her divinity shining through in the aura she produced. It was a lot, overwhelming and yet nothing he felt he could not deal with. With quiet steps she walked until she stood before him. Gently pulling his face to hers by his chin, she frowned.

Turning his head this way and that, she hummed softly, before releasing his chin and grabbing both sides of his face, forcing him to stare directly into her eyes. In her eyes images began to play. A twisting vine growing and wrapping around a wooden lyre, pulling it taunt till it splinters, catching on fire and turning to ash. Another lyre replaces the other one in her eye, turning gold and shining brightly. The vine twisted its way around this lyre as well, the lyre quickly beginning to crumble as soon as the vine raps its way around it.

Achilles tried to pull away, the images making his gut drop slightly. He did not understand the purpose of the images but she seemed to have wanted him to see them, and would not let him look away. After rewatching the same scene between the lyres play in her eyes over and over again, she finally looked away still holding his face,making him breathe deeply in relief.

When she turned back around her eyes had gone back to their natural dark blue color, and her face was stoned, not an emotion across her features. Letting one of her hands drop she holds his cheek gently with the other and tilts his head. Without any emotion she speaks.

“You are going to make the most beautiful tragedy. I'm truly sorry.”

And with that she vanished once again, leaving wind blowing in her wake.

Before settling down again, waiting for Apollo to let him get ready for the ceremony, he checked around the room, not seeing nor hearing anything, ensuring none of the Muses were still here. With a deep sigh he leaned back against the pole, dragging his legs up to his chest to allow him to rest his head. Then gently, he pulled his ring close and kissed it, smiling through his watery eyes. Softly, he pulled the hand his ring sat on close to his chest and leaned back, his head thrown back slightly. Staring at the ceiling his heart panged in longing, his loneliness creeping up on him infecting his heart.

Turning his head back down he sighed.

“Soon Philtatos, I will see you soon.”

And his eyes closed, the roller coaster of emotions causing him to tire out easily and forcing him to bed earlier than normal. Achilles could only hope now, that he was not wrong and that soon they in fact would have the sacrifice chosen and the ceremony completed.

It's all he could do, hope.

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.

Chapter Text

Achilles never thought he would ever find silence comforting. His entire life has been constantly full, full of movement and sound. Never has silence taken such deep meaning and purpose in his life as it has now. Where sound used to fill his ears and vibrate in the air, silence now pushes, closing in around him as he sits on the floor chained.

Yet it does not bother him.

Silence meant no one, no one meant no gods, no gods meant he was safe for now. The silence closing in on him was more like a blanket than a threat, wrapping him gently in the security and safety that comes with loneliness, things he would soon lose.

But for now even knowing it would not last very long, he cherishes it. Achilles sitting in the room, curled around himself with his eyes closed and guard up, has found solace in the silence like he never thought possible.

Yet with silence comes thoughts, and while many would argue this is a good thing and his thoughts are ones that should bring joy, they only brought longing and love.

Perhaps if he was a normal man he would think of the upcoming sacrifice, or perhaps his upcoming freedom and what that means for him. But Achilles is not, and never claimed to be normal. No he did not think about anything of which he probably should, his thoughts were taken over by the image of the dark skinned man he called beloved.

He thought of his smile.

His eyes.

His voice.

His thoughts.

His love.

He thought of it all. He wondered how he was doing and what he was doing now. He thought of how he must feel and he thought of the anticipation of finally being reunited soon. Of finally being able to fall into his warm secure embrace, not having to worry about the gods walking through the doorways to torment him with their presence at all times of the day.

No matter what he thought or where his mind wandered it was always Patroclus behind each individual thought. And he could not help but wonder if Patroclus had the same issue. Did his mind flood with worries and wishes for Achilles? Did his thoughts remain occupied at all times no matter what he did with the golden prince who held his heart?

Achilles hopes desperately so.

Achilles shifted from where he sat on the floor, his hand tracing some of the engravings on the chains. They were truly magnificent chains, Achilles could not deny, their engravings even grander. Had they not been chains holding him captive and away from his freedom, he would even go as far as to think they'd make beautiful bracelets, perhaps nice gold cuffs for Patroclus. He was beautiful in gold. As much as people said Achilles suited the color, Achilles has yet to meet someone, including himself, that suits the color more than Patroclus, with his warm skin tone reflecting the warmth of gold perfectly.

Achilles was happy to remain as he was, thinking thoughts of Patroclus and remaining in peaceful silence, but it seemed as though the Morai had different plans for him as Apollo appeared in the open doorway at the end of the room.

Stepping forward, Apollo raised his arm, flicking his wrist outwards, towards the golden man chained to the floor. The chains started to shine and burn in response, tightening and loosening around Achilles wrists, causing him to flinch and groan as the heat began to rise to uncomfortable temperatures, leaving his skin red and raw.

Achilles yanked against the chains slightly, trying to shift away from it as much as he could, yet he could not do much. The chains are constantly shifting making it impossible to try and escape the uncomfortable prison. He tried with all his might to remove his wrists from the burning metal only to fall short each time. Yet just as soon as he had begun to lose motivation to struggle against the rising heat, it stopped.

Achilles, who had closed his eyes on instinct and snarled slightly at the pain left on his wrists, opened them once more, shocked to see the chains start to melt into a gold puddle at his feet. The gold liquid slowly melted and dripped on the floor, leaving Achilles amazed at the lack of burns on his skin as it did so, the only tell of the heat of the metal being the red marks on his skin from the cuffs holding him in place.

He struggled to get into a proper sitting position, pushing past the sore limbs and tired body, the burns only adding to the pain. Looking up he jumped, pulling back from where he sat and stood up quickly, instinctively reaching for his dagger that lay on his hip, and quickly realising it was not there.

Apollo stood directly in front of him, his eyes and hair glowing bright like fire. In his eyes seemed to be burning civilizations and dying people. Achilles did not know whether it all was happening in the present, of far in the past, perhaps the future, yet despite the horror that was his form, it did not unsettle him as much as his godly presence shining through him did.

It was almost like Achilles could see it, the godly aura he held reacting and allowing him to visually see Apollo's divine presence, and it was of such magnificence Achilles was sure had he no godly blood in his veins, he would have been driven to madness. And while it did not harm his conscience, it caused fear to pull in his veins, anger not too far behind.

Apollo raised his head, his eyes still glowing brightly. Quietly reaching towards Achilles he went to place his hand on his shoulder, only to miss when Achilles hit it and stepped back on instinct, the lack of security the last two nights adding up to cause his reaction.

Despite his fear, he was tired of fear dictating his life during his time there, he was reaching his limit of respect and with the way Apollo looked in that moment he would not allow him to touch him if he could help it.

Yet when his hand made contact with Apollo’ he yelped, pulling his hand back. Looking down his hand was covered in bright red blisters and bleeding slightly, all just by touching his skin. Achilles pulled it to his chest and grimaced, looking up and curling his lip in disdain when he made eye contact with the god. Despite the power radiating from the god and staring directly into his divinity, his eyes only burned and his head pounded in tune with his heart beat, his own divinity shielding him slightly.

Apollo whose face was originally blank, was now pulled back in a snarl. Before Achilles could do anything, Apollo struck out, grasping Achilles and pulling him directly into the his space, clasping his shoulder and squeezing harshly.

Yelling and yanking, Achilles threw his arm out hoping Apollo would release him but he just grasped harder, letting the heat of his hands burn into the flesh of Achilles’ shoulder .

It was unbearable. Achilles was not a stranger to pain, he had been scratched by godly blades and felt the heavy pain of exhaustion after a long day of work, but he rarely got truly hurt, his godly gifts helping in preventing such from happening. The wound Apollo was afflicting on him was no minor scratch, causing him to writhe and yell from the pain until finally Apollo released him.

Falling to his knees and grasping his shoulder with his hurt hand he panted heavily, the toll his body took draining him greatly. The pain was all consuming coming in waves of heat and aches throughout his entire body despite only afflicting his hand and shoulder.

It took a few moments of heavy panting and tears, but once he had calmed down enough and the pain had dulled to a slight throb allowing him to think clearer, he warily turned around once again, expecting Apollo to be behind him once again. Instead he now stood on the other side of the room,leaning against the back wall, a glare on his face. The glow that had highlighted his features had dimmed exponentially, making him seem much less threatening, only his godly aura still caused him unease.

Apollo’ hand was held out in front of him, a bundle of cloth in his grasp. With surprising gentleness he tossed the clothes to Achilles, who caught it and bundled it tightly in his arms. Instead of lingering as Achilles began to fear he would, Apollo turned and headed towards the door.

Before stepping completely out of the room Apollo lifted his eyes and turned them towards Achilles.

Achilles, who had been staring at his back suspicion clouding his wary gaze, startled slightly, gripping the cloth tightly, a grimace across his lips. Though he still feared for himself, he no longer cowered before the god.

Apollo let his eyes trail down his defensive position, taking note of Achilles face and feelings, before looking back in Achilles green eyes, his eyes intense and face blank.

“Get dressed, the sacrifice will soon be ready and despite the ill in which I feel letting you go, I keep my oaths, You are to dress nicely and not put up any issues, they have done their part, time for you to do yours.”

Looking him up and down once more, his tattoos began to glow and his hair began to fan around his head slightly. Then leaning towards the direction of Achilles he smirked evilly, sending a chill down his spine and causing him to snarl on instinct.

“You shall soon know sacrifice, I pity you though I do not feel bad. Monsters can only be tamed through pain. Now simply walk through the doorway when you are dressed, and I shall take us to the Greek camp for the ceremony.”

And just like that he left.

Achilles stared at the door Apollo walked through warily, waiting for him to reappear and continue his torment, yet he never did. Sighing heavily after a few moments, he lifted the cloth and placed it on his body, the color gold and red clashing against his skin in a war over brilliant tones.

There were no longer any mirrors in the room for Achilles to use, so when styling his hair and placing the necessary jewelry he could not tell whether they were placed properly, but he could not find it in himself to care.

Despite the inevitable loss of life soon to occur, he could not help but feel giddy knowing that he will soon be back at home, in the Greek camp, preferably wrapped in the arms of his beloved.

A smile graced his face when he thought of him, he could not wait to be back with him, his heart desperately beating trying to keep him going while missing half of what makes it function. The thought of explaining all that had happened to him: Apollo, Hermes, the Muses, it filled him with excitement.

Humming softly to himself he pulled a red ribbon from where it fell on the floor, pining it to his hair and standing up. Instead of lingering in the gold soaked room as many others might have, getting that last glimpse of the glory of Olympus, he pushed forward, power in his steps as he reached the door. And without turning back he left.

-

The first thing he saw was light. Not the golden sun that beamed through the palace at all times almost as if as a reminder of the power of his captor, but normal proper sunlight Achilles could appreciate. Then his eyes fell on the rolling barren hills of sand that lined the Trojan beaches and the Greek camp, where the small specks of the people moved around quickly.

They were quick, carrying around sacks of sand and rocks, building a divine altar right in the middle of the agora. For the people not taking part in building, they were getting ready, preparing food and drink for the ceremony, and collecting gold and silver pieces, along with vials of wine and olive oil. Rich imports to appease the gods.

Achilles could not help but feel mesmerized watching them flit about, working in tandem in a way he only ever saw when on the battlefield. Though perhaps in a certain way this was a similar position. They were fighting to survive, while in war they are fighting for their lives in a literal sense, in this they are fighting to appease the gods and not lose their lives due to any failureon their part.

Turning to the left, Apollo stood at his side, tall and regal, his face blank to all the proceedings going on around them, his eyes scanning all the preparations of the men mingling about. Achilles did not know what Apollo wished of him to do, so he stood there quietly, waiting for him to continue forward.

Despite this Apollo looked to him, his eyes narrowed, a displeased frown on his face.

“Do you not wish to go to the camp? Perhaps you wish to be enslaved by me and doom your men to live without their kingdoms and wives? Hurry now, the ceremony will start soon.”

Achilles nodded stiffly, forcing himself to walk and not jog.

As he began to get closer to the actual gates of the camp, he could see the guards standing there, their spears held high and faces grim. He did not recognize one of the men, as they were dressed the part of a cretan soldier, one of Idomeneus’ men. He was tall and his hair cut shortly to his head but other than that Achilles did not recognize nor care much for him.

It was the man beside him he hadd an ounce of care for. Seeing the shorter soldier, dressed in the colors of the myrmidon's hair cut to his shoulders and posture stiff, he almost smiled.

There his noble charioteer stood, with a focused but blank look on his face. Achilles did not realise how much he might have missed the others he has lived with while stuck within the confines of the war. The boy of little words he watched turn into a man with only a few words still, now standing guarding the gates leading to Achilles’ home, to Patroclus.

Standing straighter he strode forward pulling slightly ahead of Apollo as he has not dared to do yet, in case of possible disrespect upon the god.

He could see the moment they spotted him, when they recognised the golden hair of their greatest warrior, because their faces once blank brightened, Automedon the most. Achilles could not do more than nod at them as he continued through the gates, slightly catching the eye of an excited Automedon and giving him a knowing nod. A show of respect.

The guards were on duty and could not leave their posts until the ceremony started, which would be soon. Achilles made sure to make note that he would find Automedon tomorrow, after the excitement of the ceremony had settled down, and he had time to reunite with Patroclus. He wanted to speak to the boy that has changed so much during the last decade.

As he walked through the camp the stares and whispers followed him, their happiness and awe at his arrival overshadowing the inevitable sadness of the sacrifice. But their happiness couldn't last very long, as the trumpets started to play in the distance, 10 blows-10 minutes. Their previous joy dimmed immediately, now simmering with nervous excitement.

He did not wish to linger any longer in the camp space, the nerves around camp beginning to set his own off, so he continued forward, watching as the people ran up and down the sandy path carrying some of the last bits and pieces of the ceremony. It was confusing how as he passed certain kings their faces turned grim not able to hold his gaze, though perhaps a king offered himself up instead of a commoner. Achilles wouldn’t be surprised, as kings and princes are the most greedy when it comes to glory, he would know.

It took a moment, for Achilles did not know where he was going, simply following the trail his feet took, before he realized his feet were leading him to his tent, to Patroclus. Excitement and anticipation began to thrum through his veins, picking up the pace slightly, he reached his hand forward to pull the tent flap aside, thinking only of the secure embrace that would surely await him on the other side, only for another arm to reach out and tug him away.

Turning quickly, anger burning hot through him, he opened his mouth to yell at the man, but quickly shut hen seeing who it was. Apollo stood there face blank and eyes boring into his head, tugging him further away from the tent where home awaited him.

“Not yet Hero, you can get back to your pet soon enough, I'm certain.”

The way he said hero, with condescension and disgust made a chill go up Achilles spine, so instead of resisting, he simply turned once again to the tent and tried to look and listen, perhaps he would hear him as he walked away, or see him as he walked out of the tent, and yet disappointingly that did not happen.

Sighing slightly, he pulled his shoulders back and held his chin high. If he could not see him just yet, he would do anything he could to see him sooner, and if that meant staying obedient like a dog who begs for the scraps at the king's feet, then that is what he shall do.

It did not take long to make it to the ceremony, it was just that time seemed to drag on longer the further away he got from Patroclus, and the louder the whispers became.

As Achilles took in all the ceremonies different faucets and devices soon to be used in the sacrifice of the century, he could not help but be impressed by the grandeur of it all.

Multiple plants and flowers associated with Apollo lined the walkway leading to the stone altar, which sat upon the sand carved and crafted with the dancing images of soldiers in battle, and maidens in rhythm.

Stepping up the rocky path leading to the altar, he let his hands trail along the carvings in the stone, outlining each one he touched. Achilles noticed that the closer he got to the altar itself, the more the carvings changed. No longer were they soldiers and maidens, both engaging in their own dances of life, now it was wolves and lambs, eating and running, women whose hands rose in plea before a man. Despite the disturbing images, none set his stomach on edge quite as much as the one on the main altar.

Walking up to the stone surrounded by gifts and gold Achilles saw the biggest carving yet sitting in the stone soon to be coated in blood. There was a doe looking from the side directly at the main piece, a starry pelt outlined her form and upon her back lay a piece of cloth that Achilles did not know. That wasn't what unsettled him so, though the eerily familiar pelt set him on edge.

It was the familiar images of a girl's fearful eyes, and horror filled stare, looking intensely into his eyes almost as if accusing him of the knife very visibly cutting her throat.

Nausea swarmed through his body briefly as he looked into the girl's accusing stare. Achilles knew that stare, those eyes, that girl.

Iphingenia.

Achilles pulled his hand back from where he went to touch the carving, blinking through the memories of her blood running down his cheek after it spurted from the open wound in her neck, her body falling limp quickly after the initial strike.

Pulling his head up he turned away allowing the disgust to roll in his gut hotly. Only Agamemnon would make his daughter a sacrificial symbol, using her as a means to raise his prestige. He could only hope the poor man to give up his life did not understand that his life was being compared to the unwilling sacrifice of a girl who simply wished for marriage, it would be a dishonor to him if he knew.

Pulling himself away from the altar, he followed Apollo who had walked ahead to a set of stairs leading up into a balcony built into the wood of a towering olive tree. Achilles did had never seen this sprawling olive tree or balcony before, but instead of questioning where it had come from, he walked up the stairs and stood beside the god, ignoring the piercing gaze he could feel on his shoulders, in favor of watching the people start to walk into the agora and stand around the altar.

They were in differing colors of golds, whites, browns, yellows, and even greens, all fashioned with embellished belts and gold jewelry. A last show of respect for the value of the sacrifice, he noted to himself, watching the crowds of people trickle in.

It is very easy to find the people of importance in the crowd, the kings overexaggerating their status in reds and blues and impressive jewelry, and the people participating in the sacrifice wearing reds, purples and yellows, the colors of the god Apollo. Those were the people who did not stop to stand within the crowd of people at the base of the sacrificial structure. They continued forward to stand on both sides of the Altar stone with the carving of Iphingenia. The three men doing so caused a shiver to run down Achilles spine when he realized the similarities between this time and the time with Iphingenia.

There stood Odysseus on one side, his shoulders straight and face blank. He wore what looked to be a red and gold stitched chiton with a purple cloak around his shoulders, lyres and little suns stitched around the border of the fabric. His hair was tamed into neat curls and a laurel crown sat upon his head, accented by a small braid running alongside it.

On the other side of the stone stood Diomedes. His face was also blank, surprisingly to Achilles. The man who never seemed to stop showing pride and maturity in everything he did, stood stone faced and tall, like if he didn't move then nothing could affect him. Diomedes’ hair was much more intricate than Odysseus’, long strands of black hair curling around small braids that hung from his head, beads woven throughout. He had a simple gold diadem around his head, accented by carvings of the sun throughout it. He also wore a purple coat, though instead of the border being suns and lyres as Odysseus’ was, it had hyacinths and ravens embroidered in the fabric. His tunic though, differed once more from Odysseus’, Diomedes’ wore a gold tunic with red embroidery, his jewelry a mix of purples, reds, and blues tying everything together.

(It was not lost on Achilles exactly the meaning of the hyacinths and the irony of the situation at hand.)

Agamemnon was the last of the three men standing before the altar stone. He stood behind it, gazing out into the crowd of people with hawk-like eyes. He was looking for something, perhaps someone. He wore a red tunic embellished lavishly and almost unnecessarily with gold chains, and jewels. There was nothing major of interest to note with him other than the crazy show of wealth and the weathered old priest Calchas standing at his side quietly. Though from his position on the stand, Achilles could see that he would once again be the center piece of the actual ceremony, the one with blood stained hands.

It took what felt like ages for the last trumpet to blow, signaling the beginning of the ceremony. Achilles could not help the glances he kept giving the crowd, watching from above for familiar curls and the warm smile he knew so well, though obviously skipping over it each time, as he had yet to see him despite his desire to do so. It was when he heard the last trumpet blow that he decided to wait till the end to find him. Now was a moment to focus.

The men all standing before the altar turned to look forward waiting for the man to appear on the risen platform, though they did not have to wait very long.

There at the edge of the crowd a man stepped from around the corner led by a small boy, and began to walk down the beaten down aisle. His face was concealed behind a veil, though Achilles could not see the designs on it from where he stood, hiding his identity from the men.

As he walked the beads in his hair and jewelry on his neck clinked together forming a repetitive rhythm of sound, a haunting one that would be remembered in the minds of all the men in attendance.

He stood with his head held high and shoulders raised up in confidence. This was a man who had accepted his fate for what it was and gladly embraced it, Achilles was impressed.

Upon reaching Odysseus and Diomedes, he only seemed to acknowledge Odysseus nodding his head and reaching his hand out towards Odysseus, who grasped it tightly, squeezing and holding tightly for a moment, before letting go once more. The man turned away as he let go, stepping up to the altar and kneeling before the stone.

He held his head high, looking up towards Agamemnon who stood there with a jeweled knife in hand, the very same one used a decade earlier against his daughter. He seemed to say a few words to which Agamemnon pointed towards his chest, where a hyacinth flower lay pinned to his cloak draped over his shoulders. Whatever was said between them was not heard by him, but seemed to upset Apollo.

Flinching slightly, he grimaced as Apollo wrapped his hand around his shoulder, his eyes burning with fire as he stared directly at the flower placed on the man's chest, yet he did not move nor speak, only gripping on to Achilles harder when Agamemnon made to move towards the man.

Grabbing the knife he motioned towards the man, who began to remove his veil in response.

Everything moved in slow motion after that.

Familiar brown curls sprung out from the veil, twisting and curling around the strong jaw Achilles had traced every night. Then almost as if to prove the increasing fear in his gut right, brown doe-like eyes revealed themselves as he looked up towards the sky, quickly finding the balcony in which he stood.

His eyes rose to Achilles with a gasp, tracing his body from his legs to his torso to shoulders to his face. He smiled softly, his eyes guilty as he watched the horror form on Achilles face, before letting his eyes finally trail up to meet Achilles’ gaze.

Green eyes met brown and suddenly everything in Achilles world fell apart.

Chapter Text

When you begin to reach the end of your life, knowing your death is upon you, you begin to appreciate things differently, see them with a different outlook. Things like the way the sun hit the scamander, beaming across the natural ripples of the current, reaching a newer beauty than Patroclus ever noticed before. Or the tree limbs swaying in the wind, as if dancing to the rhythm of nature only they can hear.

Thoughts such as these passed through his mind as he walked out of the tent, following the silent boy with yarrow in his hair. He never truly stopped to consider the simple thoughtless bits of life and now as he marches to his death it is all he could see.

The men flitting about did not bother him as he walked by, they were all still trying to make it to the ceremony before it started, the second call of the trumpets having just rung through the clearing.

As he walked he watched all the people he passed, none looking to him any differently nor paying him any mind. He took comfort in this, knowing the kings had not told anyone who the sacrifice was meant less stress, less grief.

Patroclus’ attention kept being pulled from the flowers that lined the makeshift streets of the camp, to the lavishly dressed outfits of the people. He could see who the kings were, their outfits out shining everyone else’s. It was almost not a gesture of respect but one out of greed using the excuse of piety and respect to flaunt their power.

He could hear the people’s whispers, but the actual words never reached his ears, his thoughts occupied by death and Achilles.

His eyes which had remained blank to the world around him, caught in his own thoughts watered slightly, a single tear running down his cheek, easily moving through the gold makeup causing what looked like an almost purposeful mournful look.

Instead of torturing himself with the what ifs, and the possibilities, he occupied his mind with thoughts of gold.

Gold skin.

Gold eyes.

Gold hair.

He thought of the freckles that lined his muscular arms, and how his muscles stiffened gracefully under the weight of a spear.

How his green eyes would catch the light of the sun, the green reflecting the color of his iris flauntingly.

He truly was the ideal beauty of man, reflected in mannerisms and physicality. And Patroclus was the lucky mortal that caught his attention and held it in his grasp tightly, only the intervention of the gods and Patroclus’ own decisions would pull that connection taunt enough to snap.

As he got closer, the crowd growing bigger and closer with each step, he began to fiddle with his ring, turning it around his finger, the slide and warmth of the ring bringing him small comfort. The hyacinth pinned to his chiton sat still as a heavy reminder of his upcoming fate, as well as a comfort for the fear of the ‘after’.

That very hyacinth laying on his chest matched the ones lining the aisle haphazardly thrown together by the kings and soldiers setting the ceremony up, alongside sunflowers and delphiniums. Their petals and leaves stood towards the sun, as if begging for the gods attention and care and given the soft golden rays of warmth in response.

The aisle was lined with carvings, many of men and women dancing and soldiers in battle. Patroclus could not tell what carvings there all were from where he stood at the back of the crowd awaiting the last trumpets call, but it seemed that the closer to the altar you got the more the carvings changed, what they changed to he could not see from where he stood.

The heads of the men of the crowd blocked his line of sight, obstructing his view to any bits of the actual altar or ceremonial pieces.

Patroclus lifted his hand to his chest staring at the aisle, caressing the fragile petals of the hyacinth. The words of the man who gave it to him kept echoing in his brain, though he did not know if it was more of a lifeline or a chain holding his freedom and peace of mind hostage.

That man's apology was not for what his lover is doing to his own, but an apology for the fact it was his lover doing it to them in the first place. An apology may have been given, but he does not yet know whether he is in sound enough mind to receive it, and even if he wants to.

Without thinking much through his actions he brushed the hair behind his ear, tickling his neck softly in the process causing a shiver to run down his neck.

The wind which had begun to pick up as the day progressed, blew his hair back out from behind his ear, causing irritation to flare hotly in his belly. When he pushed it back once again, it did the exact same thing, the touch against his neck mocking him in his discomfort.

Before Patroclus could truly get upset and lose his already fragile temper, the young boy in front of him grabbed his hand gently, tugging it towards him.

Patroclus turned to look at him, the boy's gentle yet direct action directly feeding into his already prominent curiosity for the boy. The boy did not speak, as he could not, he only reached into the pouch attached to him by a simple leather belt and pulled out what looked to be a veil.

It was simple and obviously made with women in mind, as the floral designs woven into the fabric all seemed to jump out at you, almost begging for your eyes to catch twice. It is a perfect piece for a woman trying to catch the eye of a man of greater status than her.

It was dyed a dark purple, the fabric slightly sheer though not enough to give away to the features of any maiden, or in Patroclus' case man, that lay hidden behind the pretty fabric. It had beads and gems woven into the border and hanging from the gold fringe that lined the outside of the cloth.

A stunning piece, no doubt an expensive one, leaving Patroclus to question exactly where a boy such as himself was able to obtain something such as this. A piece that was no doubt to many of the Greeks here, worth more than himself in terms of monetary value.

Patroclus stared at the boy's outstretched hand a second more, the boy shaking it towards him enticingly, causing him to reach forward and actually take it from his grasp. Before putting it over his hair he looked at the boy once again. He does not know whether he did it for clarification from the boy, or simple hesitant curiosity, but after staring into the boy's dark brown eyes that contrasted starkly with his skin he pulled it over his curls and secured it over his face.

Despite any doubts that may have festered in his mind, the veil did in fact prevent the wind from tossing his curls into his face. The weight of the beads and gems holding the veil down effectively.

Turning to look at the young boy at his side, he nodded gratefully, the boy's smile in return was cautious yet bright as he nodded back. The yarrow flowers in his hair swung in the wind reminiscent of the hair of a certain soldier, the gold a reminder of the man and his situation. His mood instantly seemed to darken, sad thoughts and emotions beginning to once again swell up like a flower in bloom.

Despite this he did not have much time to dwell on his thoughts at all, as the third and final call of the trumpets sounded, causing him to stiffen from where he stood at the back of the crowd.

The crowd, whose murmurs had become increasingly louder, full of questions and statements on who they believed the sacrifice could be the sooner it got to the last call, immediately quieted. The silence was nearly deafening as they all turned around to watch the aisle, waiting to see who would reveal themselves as the sacrifice.

Standing there quietly for a moment, Patroclus could not help but feel relief. At least they would not immediately know who he was, the veil hiding any identifiable features from prying eyes. The longer it took for recognition among the people, the less pressure he needed to worry about.

As he stood there he tried to move, trying to make it from where he stood to walk before the entire Greek army, but whenever he went to step it was as if he was making his way through Sisyphus’ punishment, his muscles locked and protesting against any movement.

Patroclus tried, he did but the more he tried the harder it became, his thoughts racing quickly, and anxiety rising as the murmurs of the soldiers began to once again pick up, this time in questioning and accusing tones.

Before his resolve could completely crumble in the face of his end, he felt a tiny hand slip into his own, gently squeezing and pulling him forward. He did not need to look to know who it was, and he squeezed his hand slightly, grateful for the boy's support no matter how little it may be.

Sighing he pulled his shoulders back and raised his head high, letting go of the boy's hand as he stepped forward. The boy stood in front of him and began leading him forward, the aisle slowly but surely getting closer.

With each stride Patroclus took he could feel the fear and anxiety leaving him, replaced by a familiar acceptance and grief. He accepted what he had to do, what was needed of him not just as a man, or as a therapon, but as a lover, as Achilles' partner he had this responsibility and he would carry it out. He would keep him safe.

The grief he felt despite this new found acceptance was harsh but not unexpected. He grieved for the time to be lost, the plans to be ruined and most importantly the man to be scarred by the end of this.

Patroclus had no doubt Achilles would grieve, he expected it and accepted it, but he is strong and Patroclus expects his strength and fortitude to hold him up long enough for him to win and survive this damn war. Because despite the gods' words, Patroclus could not help but think that the war could not be ended by one simple sacrifice, even if his thoughts may have been different when he first heard the deal made between the gods.

As he walked he watched his feet trail along the road, the sand and gravel slowly turning into rich soil and soon a beaten gravel path. As his feet reached the aisle, he looked up at the crowd. All of the men were silent, staring at him inquisitively, trying to decipher who he could be behind the veil.

Patroclus noted the lack of recognition on any of the soldiers' faces and felt confidence fester in his belly. With a deep breath he pulled himself away from the boy and gently pushed him from the aisle. Without looking back, he stepped forward and continued onwards.

His gaze as he walked never once straying to the crowd, the fear of meeting the eyes of certain people haunting his every step. Instead he kept his gaze forward, tracing the paintings and carvings of old stories ahead of him as he walked.

The eyes of the soldiers bore into his back as he walked forward, the murmurs had all but died now that he approached the stairway leading to the altar where his end lay waiting.

There waiting at the end of the aisle was Odysseus and Diomedes, both dressed extravagantly for the occasion and waiting patiently. Patroclus would never admit aloud, the slight feeling of comfort he obtained from seeing Odysseus standing there, face pulled blank but eyes reflecting his sorrow. Diomedes did not show this, his face blank but eyes heavy with pity.

Turning his eyes away, Patroclus looked away from him. Patroclus did not want pity, he wanted respect. He did not deserve pity, he deserved to be regarded for what he is to do, not looked upon as if he were a young prince who was to be raised without a father.

Turning his gaze away he looked directly at Odysseus, meeting his eyes easily as his own already sat staring at him deeply. As he approached, Odysseus reached his hand forward, clasping his hand around Patroclus’ own and squeezing as he helped lead him up to the altar stone.

Stepping up the stairs, Patroclus turned slightly, angling his body away from the crowd as he knelt forward. Odysseus grabbed his hand and held him up squeezing tightly one last time before letting go. Patroclus did not bother to acknowledge Diomedes, simply walking forward and kneeling before the altar.

Instead of keeping his head down, cowering before the Greek king who stood before the altar holding the instrument that would lead to his demise, he kept his head high, staring directly into the eyes of the man who now faced a similar and near identical position to the last sacrifice a decade earlier.

Agamemnon was decked out in rich reds and purples, signifying his wealth and status for all who may question it. His black hair was pulled behind an obnoxious band, full of gold and stones with intricate patterns molded into it.

It did not seem to bother him that he was showing off at a sacrificial ceremony, obviously trying to ensure his importance even over the subject of the ceremony. Though Patroclus was not surprised, it was just like him to do so.

Agamemnon stared at him hard, his eyes holding pride and disgust as he stared down at him. His gaze shifted over his body, tracing the gold on his face and the rich cloth that wrapped around his body. Perhaps he was envious of the attention, if he wouldn’t make such a horrible sacrifice to the gods Patroclus might have forced him into his position, let him relish in the wealth he seemed to envy so heavily, but alas the gods would not appreciate waste as a sacrifice.

His eyes moved like irritating gnats along his body, causing his skin to shiver in annoyance. Turning his eyes toward the great kings, Patroclus scowled harshly, letting the annoyance show in his tone and face.

“Would you, great king, be on with the ceremony? Instead of leading your envious eyes across the attire you had me wear to this god's damned event.”

Patroclus breathed deep, letting the brazen hot air enter his lungs, like a soothing hot compress on a wound, it helped settle his nerves. He knew he was only irritated by the circumstances, and losing his temper right before his death would just lead to a more complicated end. Especially when Agamemnon was the one holding the knife that would soon meet the flesh of his neck.

Agamemnon did not speak for a moment, continuing to stare without much shame or hesitance. Then his face hardened in suspicion, his eyes open with apprehension.

It took a moment for Patroclus to understand what set him off, and what could be the reason for his suspicion, but when he followed the trail the king's eyes were on understanding washed over him quite quickly.

His eyes hard and wary, were sat on his chest, more specifically the flower that sat pinned to the chiton he wore. Before Patroclus could say something, perhaps try to lie about his reason for wearing it and the origin in which it came, Agamemnon had already raised the knife in his hand, pointing it towards his chest accusingly.

“What is this mighty Patroclus, why do you wear the sun's lover? Are you wishing for acceptance upon your end by claiming his lover's spirit? Why would you wear such a thing to your death?”

Truly he did not know why it angered him so, perhaps he had not yet completely cooled after his frustration moments before, or maybe he hadn't accepted his fate as well as he thought he did. But upon the king's words leaving his mouth he felt the heat of anger coil in his gut and his heart race.

Without truly thinking through his words he scowled hatred set deeply in his face,”Perhaps dear king, I have the favor of someone important to the god Apollon. And even so it would be of no concern to you what I do on the day I am going to give my life away for the good of this army, despite what I truly wish to do. If you do not wish for this ceremony to be inevitably ruined and you and your army stuck here, you will not question my actions nor belittle my choices for your own gain.”

Agamemnon seemed to freeze, though his face portrayed an array of emotions. Anger and fury make themselves home in his features, as well as disgust and embarrassment. Finally his face settled on disgust, glaring down harshly at Patroclus from where he kneeled on the ground watching the king.

Patroclus did not back down nor cower from the glare, in fact glaring back just as harshly even despite the veil over his face. Gods be damned he would not go out cowering before the likes of him.

They stared at each other, both at an impasse and neither wanting to give in, until Agamemnon huffed and sighed angrily. Harshly yanking his hand back he swung the knife at his head, not to hurt but to point at the beautiful cloth that was upon his head. Lifting the veil slightly with the tip of the blade he snarled quietly.

“Remove the veil and prepare yourself, for you will meet your end by the blade held in front of you and I shall not cause possible issue by touching sacred cloth while it's still in use.”

Out of spite Patroclus stood there for but a moment longer, staring deeply through the sheer material, before huffing in annoyance and grasping the veil gently between his fingers.

The next few moments went by in a rush of screams and blood.

As soon as he removed the fabric from his head the outraged and startled gasps of the men echoed deeply in his ears causing him to turn slightly, trying to face the men within the crowd. Instead of the men catching his attention as he intended, his eyes caught on the color gold shining in his periphery.

Turning his head to look, his eyes fell upon a sprawling olive one that was larger than they typically get. His eyes slowly trailed the wood of the tree following the patterned bark up to the small balcony built between the branches of the olive in which they stood.

He did not get to question the odd new tree much even within his own thoughts before his eyes fell on the people standing on the balcony making direct eye contact with emerald green eyes, shining bright in bewilderment as he gazed upon Patroclus.

Achilles.

He stood there, fear dripping off his face and eyes wide in horror as he took in the state of Patroclus and truly began to understand what was going to happen. His eyes were tracing the outline of his body fervently, as if hoping his eyes were not processing properly, hoping he was misunderstanding what was truly happening.

Patroclus watched as Achilles' brain tried to rationalize what he was seeing, to understand what was happening, and his heart panged deeply in anguish.

This is not right, this is not how this should have gone.

Patroclus leaned his head down, clutching his clothing tightly, tearing the fabric slightly in his frustration. He was never supposed to see him, he was never supposed to watch him die. How cruel the gods could be to bring him here to watch him die in such a horrible way. Patroclus twisted his fingers sitting at his side in the sign of hate. He may not be supposed to express this to the gods themselves, but Patroclus could not bring himself to care. The cruelty of the gods truly knew no bounds if they would cause this to happen, to force someone to watch such an event.

Raising his head up slightly, he met Achilles' eyes once more and smiled, nodding his head towards him, trying to reassure him the best he could yet his action did not seem entirely fruitful. Achilles still stood on the platform of the giant olive tree, the shock prevalent in his features but obviously detached as he stared unblinking at the altar.

Good.

Patroclus could only hope he dissociated enough to where he doesn’t realize nor remember this moment. Perhaps then he could live with himself even if he couldn't do anything with a god standing beside him and preventing him from taking action when he does inevitably process. Though Patroclus suspected the reason he has yet to understand was partly due to divine interference at the hands of the god beside him.

Perhaps that was a good thing, even if it seems wrong. Then he would not suffer so.

Peeling his eyes away he felt the fresh waves of tears spring in his eyes as he thought of the expression on his beloved's face. His chest felt like it was caving in, like he had been struck by a cyclops club directly in his chest, inhibiting his ability to breath.

Patroclus truly believed that it could not get any worse, watching the words of confused shock rolling from his lips of his golden boy despite not being able to hear the words himself, and having to watch the horror slowly set in. And yet, the gods did not seem to care for what he believed, because as that thought passed through his mind, a voice high pitched and desperate rose above the crowd, anguish and fear clinging to each syllable.

Turning his head towards the sound he saw the crowd of men parted slightly, surrounding a woman who was grasping tightly to her arms in anguish, her nails digging into the skin leaving small trails of blood to drip down her arms.

It took a moment for the honey brown eyes, and black pleated hair to register in his mind, but by the time it did it was too late.

Briseis rushed forward, tears collecting in her eyes and spilling over like sorrowful waterfalls. She did not seem to care for the men reaching out and grabbing for her, only pushing her shoulders from their grip and continuing forward.

He could hear her insistent cries of his name and curses as she pushed forward, her clothes ripping partially and leaving her breast bare for the men in the crowd, and even despite her dignity being shattered before the eyes of the men, she did not seem to care, continuing to gasp desperately as she pumped her legs forward desperately reaching out towards him.

Patroclus tried to stand, extending his hand out as he went, wanting to catch her hands and comfort her, but as he went to pull his hands forward he felt a set of arms wrap around his shoulders, pushing him against their chest and holding him tight.

Tearing his gaze away from her he looked to the one restraining him and saw Agamemnon whose face was pulled in a displeased annoyed scowl. Snarling slightly, Patroclus pulled against his arms, trying to free himself from the restricting embrace.

Despite his best attempts he could not get away, Agamemnon just gripping him tighter and pulling him back down to a kneeling position every time he struggled enough to stand.

Panic began to course through him the longer he struggled, fear for Breseis as she ran through the crowd, hitting and punching whoever got in her way, for the consequences she could face for the disrespect she was showing to the men. She could be beaten, raped or worse for such a slight.

Pushing up harshly once again, he kicked backward slightly from Agamemnon's grip and managed to get free for a moment.

It was not enough.

It happened in slow motion. Briseis finally pushing to the front of the crowd, running down the beaten aisle and reaching forward, throwing her body towards his own. Before she reached him, her hair was yanked back harshly tugging her back away from him.

With a cry she fell backwards, tears pooling from her eyes as she struggled against the hand still in her hair, tugging her down into a kneeling position and turning her face forward, toward him.

Agamemnon grabbed him once again before he could think to help her, and tied his hands tightly behind his back, even despite his vehement struggling. The rope tore into his skin harshly and caused blood to fall from his wrists and drip onto the ground behind him.

With no emotions of mercy or remorse on his expression, Agamemnon pushed him back against the arms of a soldier behind Patroclus, who he vaguely registered as Diomedes, and feels the arms grasp him tightly once again and hold him in place.

Patroclus could do nothing but watch as Agamemnon began to walk forward, pulling the jeweled knife from his side and pointing it towards her throat tauntingly. She tried to move away crying and gasping as she stared into his eyes, her lip trembling harshly.

As Agamemnon raised the blade to her throat again and began to pull back quickly Patroclus pushed forward straining against his bonds and screaming harshly, the desperation and anguish in his voice pushing through his words.

“WAIT NO PLEASE LEAVE HER BE.”

But either the greedy king did not care, or he simply did not hear, for he pulled the knife back and plunged it directly into her bare throat.

Patroclus watched as her wails of fear and anguish shifted to wet gargles, as the blood pooled from her throat and began to bubble out the corner of her mouth. Her eyes began to look around frantically before falling on his own, where they stayed watching his strangled movements and his cries as he struggled to get to her.

He does not know what she last thought, nor what her last wishes were, but as he stood there and watched her body relax upon seeing him as well as watching her body quickly grow limp as her life essence left her through the entry wound in her throat he wished he knew.

He wished he knew what she thought as she watched him scream for her release while tears continued to pour from her eyes.

He wished he knew what she wanted to say as she gasped for air, only to bring blood into her lungs and drowning herself as she did so.

He watched frozen as her chest stuttered harshly, lifting and pulling, as if thrashing around from the inside, trying to escape the red sea that was drowning her, her breast moving aggressively and coated in blood as her body continued to fight her final battle.

Then almost as if soothed by a lullaby, she stopped. No more movement, no more thrashing, no more breathing, just deadly still.

With little grace, Patroclus watched as Agamemnon threw her body to the ground just below the altar. Her body sprawled harshly, certainly uncomfortably if she were alive and yet no one seemed to care. Her hair was matted and soaked in blood, her eyes wide open and blank as she stared out towards the crowd of men, as if accusing them of her death.

No one spoke. No one could. The only sounds came from the harsh gasps and cries from the other women who stood at the side of the crowd, gasping and holding themselves tightly, as if hoping to ward off her death from their minds and bodies.

Patroclus continued to stare blankly at her body, sitting below him, watching the crimson blood pool below her and soak the tatters of clothes that still covered her, the last remnants of dignity she could have which even then was not much as her top was left for all the men to see.

Agamemnon walked back up the stairs of the altar, kicking her body brusquely as he walked past, not seeming to care as her body crumpled underneath the power of the blow, her ribs audibly cracking. Pulling forward and wiping his hands on his chiton he cleared his throat and turned towards the crowd of men.

“Any more disruptions to our only key for peace?”

His eyes scanned the crowd almost tauntingly, waiting for some fool to come forward with a senseless feeling of duty, and smiled smugly when no one did so. Turning back towards Patroclus he lifted the knife and held it below his chin, lifting it up slightly causing his blank expression to fall on him.

Turning him this way and that he smirked and held the knife along his neck putting teasing pressure on it before pulling away. When Diomedes pushed more pressure on his shoulders he snarled, thrashing harshly in their grasp.

How dare they.

How do they expect him to possibly give himself to them now? Had Achilles not been on the line he would let them all rot, he would ensure Agamemnon's place in tartarus alongside the other horrible men in the world.

Wait, Achilles.

Yanking his head around he looked into his eyes and stared. Achilles was staring right back tears in his eyes as his mouth moved in silent screams. The hand on his shoulder from before now holding him back as he thrashes around angrily.

He could see the vehement fear and fury in his gaze and it brought him comfort, allowing him to calm the thrashing and continue to stare into his eyes.

Even as he felt the cold blade lay tauntingly on his throat, some of Briseis’ blood still on the blade he kept his eyes on Achilles, refusing to look away now. Achilles reached his hand out towards him, throwing his body against the godly arms that held him, as he screamed in grief and fear.

Watching him, Patroclus smiled, muttering under his breath one last time as the blade placed pressure on his throat.

“Philtatos”

He could feel the blade cut deeply into his skin as he spoke that word, blood spilling forth like a tragic current carrying his life from him with each pulse of his heart. From the way Achilles seemed to have frozen for a moment, Patroclus almost believed he heard him and in his heart he desperately hoped it was so.

He felt his body fall to the side, his blood pouring on to the altar as he continued to stare into the crazed grief stricken eyes of his golden boy. It was almost a comfort the way the blood pooling below him seemed to warm the cold that was creeping into his skin, wrapping him in a sinful blanket of death.

He could feel his body shutting down, his heart slowing as less blood was able to make its way through the necessary chambers. Yet even in all of this he watched as the rage and grief began to consume Achilles, how he no longer seemed sane in the face of his death, and his lips curved once more into a serene smile.

Perhaps he was to die, but he knew Achilles would avenge him, Achilles would kill all these sorry Greeks for the death they caused and Patroclus knew as he laid there waiting for his vision to fully cut out that Achilles would ensure his vengeance.

And as he looked into his eyes, the darkness starting to take over his vision completely he knew, it would not be long before he would see him again. He would not have to wait long, though watching the way grief sat on Achilles' soul, he thought perhaps it was better that way.

For the weight in which he carried his grief, he would soon fall anyways. No one could live with that kind of grief.

Gently reaching out his hand, he raised the ring on his finger until he was sure Achilles could see, and with shaky hands he pulled it back to his chest, clutching it close. Pulling the ring up to his lips he kissed it, watching the blood from his own lips coat the lovely band, staining it with his life.

His hand soon fell from his chest, laying beside him, no longer lifting or responding to him. He could feel the tears fall from his eyes as he chest which was rising and falling slowly began to stutter, jerking harshly as the blood pooled from his mouth falling with each jerk his chest took.

And just as suddenly as the jerking started, it stopped, and Patroclus could see no more.