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“Think! Agamemnon will know you defy him still, but the men will love you. There is no fame greater than this – you will prove to them all that your phantom is more powerful than Agamemnon’s whole army.”
Achilles had a bad feeling about sending Patroclus into battle, but his lover had known exactly how to play him; to get him to agree to his crazy, stupid plan. He watched from the edge of their camp as Patroclus rode toward the raging battle in his chariot and in his armor.
‘In my armor.’ The thought echoed in Achilles’ head, and he could not deny the warmth that had spread through him when Patroclus had stood before him in their tent. He had looked magnificent. Patroclus was no longer the skinny boy that had walked into Achilles’ chambers on his first day in Phthia. He had grown into his skin in their days on Pelion, and the armor shone against his dark, muscled skin, those sharp eyes piercing his from beneath the helmet. It was all Achilles could see of his face. Achilles had kissed him then, hard and quick, hoping to convey the fear he felt inside. Patroclus had kissed him back in turn, the same fear evident in him at that moment. Achilles did not let himself think about how that kiss had also felt like an apology from Patroclus.
Achilles had been following his chariot with his eyes, reluctant to let Patroclus out of his sight even if he could not be down there watching over him like he wanted to be, so he saw the moment that Patroclus hefted the first spear onto his shoulder.
The first thing Achilles noticed was that Patroclus’ form was perfect. The second was that the movement was not just in threat, Patroclus meant to throw the spear, and he did.
Achilles’ chest pinched in fear as Patroclus released the first spear, but he could not help the swell of pride that washed over it as it struck down a Trojan clean through the breast.
The fear returned in earnest when Patroclus picked up the second spear. Again, Patroclus threw it with incredible precision, and Achilles knew that no one on the battlefield would question the identity of the man under that helmet now.
Achilles watched as the Trojans begin to retreat and sighed. It was enough, Patroclus would return to him now, but he had lost the chariot in the mass on the battlefield. Sometimes he thought he caught a glimpse of Patroclus and then it was gone again. He scanned the crush of bodies, but they were too far away for him to pick anything out now. There was a cluster of men near the wall, and it drew his attention. From where he stood, Achilles thought it looked like the men were fighting over a body. Most likely that of a king or prince, and he wondered who it could be to keep his mind off Patroclus for a moment.
Finally, finally, a group of Greeks were coming back to the camp, and Achilles rushed to meet them only to stop short at the sight of Patroclus’ limp body in Menelaus’ arms.
Achilles’ hand was moving on its own will, toward his sword. If Patroclus were dead, Achilles would simply have to join him. He would not be without his lover.
His hand came up empty, and for a moment he paused, unsure what to do, what to think. It was then that Achilles remembered he had given his sword to Patroclus, and his knees hit the ground beside his lover where Menelaus had lain him on the ground.
“No,” he whispered aloud. He was not supposed to fight! Achilles had told him not to fight.
Achilles wept over Patroclus’ body, uncaring that his blood was staining his skin. He only knew that Patroclus was already cold, but when Achilles pressed his chest to his dead lover’s, he could almost feel him. As if Patroclus’ soul still resides within his body, waiting to be released by the pyre to finally travel to the underworld. Achilles could do nothing but press their chests tighter to each other in an attempt to fuse them together. Maybe then the boy, the man, that he has loved through it all, would not leave him alone in this world.
That night, Achilles found it impossible to sleep. He had grieved over Patroclus’ body for hours before he had found the strength to lift himself off the ground and carry himself and his lover’s body to their shared tent. Inside, he sat in the corner and stared over Patroclus’ body, hardly seeing it. Rage and heartache warring for dominance in his head and in his heart, so he pushed those thoughts aside. Instead, Achilles thought about killing Hector. He imagined killing Hector and nothing else, but beneath that, there was a hope that Hector would kill him first despite what the prophecy said.
The next day Achilles returned to the battlefield for the first time in months. The Trojan army was a trivial thing that was simply in the way of his goal, but Hector was evading him. Achilles’ gaze seared into his whenever they locked eyes across the battlefield, but then Hector was out of sight again, forcing Achilles to kill men he did not care to recognize. They did not matter to him, and he could scarcely stomach killing them without imagining Hector in their place. Achilles took pleasure in the chase, and he could not help the sharp smile that cut across his face when Hector finally broke free from the rest of the fighting armies and made an attempt at crossing the river.
‘Finally,’ he thought, ‘finally I will kill him and avenge Patroclus.’
And then the river was rising, and a god was barring his path. The god, Scamander, stood proudly before Achilles and asked him if Hector was worth Achilles’ own life. There was no pause before Achilles was responding with a stout ‘yes’, and that was that. Killing Hector and the promise of death were the only things that Achilles cared about now, and there was enough rage pumping through his veins for him to be able to beat this lesser river god, Achilles thought. So, they fought, and Achilles landed a devastating blow that sent Scamander retreating back into his waters. The fact that he had survived a god meant nothing to Achilles as he continued his quest for Hector. It would not be long now, he knew, before one or maybe even both of them would be dead.
When Achilles finally found Hector, hiding in a grove of olive trees, he grinned.
“This is for Patroclus,” he muttered under his breath.
As Achilles hefted the spear, he remembered the prophecy, told to him what seemed like a lifetime ago. ‘Hector’s death will be first,’ as his mother had said. Achilles threw the spear, knowing his aim was true and watched in reverie as it pierced Hector’s neck and then his body crumbled to the earth.
But now Achilles had killed Hector and survived him. The frustration welling up inside him was almost instantaneous and could not be compared to anything he had felt before. Achilles no longer had a purpose. He had lost Patroclus and avenged him. Now what? There was no single reason for him to be left on this plain without the man that had never before left his side, and as he dragged Hector’s body back to his tent, the only thing on his mind was how he might die and what he could do to get there as soon as possible; to be reunited with Patroclus on the Elysian Fields.
That night when Achilles finally slept, he knew Patroclus was there with him. At first, it was only in the softest of sensations against his skin, like a gentle summer breeze, and it was warm as it brushed over him. Achilles closed his eyes at the sensation and let himself imagine Patroclus as he had been when he was alive. Patroclus, bright and solid and smiling at him like nothing else mattered, and oh Achilles’ eyes had slid back open at some point. That really was Patroclus that he was staring at, and Achilles’ breath caught in his throat. There was a glow about Patroclus that Achilles had never seen when he was alive. His skin shimmered like it was lit by moonlight and the soft smile he was giving Achilles made his heartache.
“Pa-tro-clus,” Achilles intoned, soft and loving in the way that his voice had not sounded for days now. Not since Patroclus had been killed.
Patroclus’ hand came up to cup Achilles’ cheek, and Achilles leaned into his touch. It was warm and gentle, but the feeling of skin against skin was muted like he was not fully there. It was a harsh reminder that he was not, not really anyway, not in the way that truly mattered.
After a beat, Patroclus spoke up, his voice light and airy. “You must return Hector to his people, to Troy.”
Achilles was shaking his head before he had even finished speaking, the motion jerking him away from the comfort of Patroclus’ touch.
“He killed you,” Achilles whispered into the space between them, “I cannot.”
“Yes, he killed me, and you have killed him. It is over.”
“No,” Achilles choked out, “he does not deserve it. It is his punishment for taking you from me!”
“No, my love,” Patroclus whispered kindly as he stepped forward to cup both of Achilles’ cheeks in his hands, “none of us deserve anything that has happened since we arrived on these shores. Death was coming for us. We knew this.”
“For me,” Achilles corrected, “it was supposed to be me. We had been preparing for my death ever since we heard the prophecy. I was not supposed to have to learn what it was like to live without you, and it is my fault! I should never have let you wear my armor nor my name into battle. I got you killed.”
There were tears running down Achilles’ face, and Patroclus used his thumbs to wipe them away with all the gentleness in the world.
“Do you think I would not have suffered the same?” he asked Achilles in response, “Did you think, after years of preparation, that I would have been able to live on after you had died? I told myself that once you were gone I would follow soon after. I was not willing to continue to live in this life without you beside me. I would have done whatever it took to join you in the afterlife. Do not look at me like that,” he chuckled when he saw Achilles begin to frown, and the sound mended Achilles’ heart if only a little.
“You truly are the best of the Myrmidons,” Achilles breathed, almost as if he had not meant to say it aloud, but now that he had, he knew that he had to explain himself because Patroclus would try to deny it if he did not.
“You are a better man than I ever was. You took the time to get to know everyone in this camp when I have barely made the effort to know my own men. You fought for Briseis when I was willing to let Agamemnon have his way with her in order to give me justification for killing him. You were checking up on Briseis, I know you were, when I could not have cared less about how she was being treated during her time with Agamemnon. And most importantly, you could not sit here and let the men of our army suffer and die when we, when I, could have been turning the tide of this war. I let my pride cloud my judgment and it went too far. What I regret most was that I let it get to the point when even you could not get through to me.” Now it was Achilles’ turn to slide his hands onto Patroclus’ face. “You knew what had to be done, and when I refused to act, you took it upon yourself to get it done. You saved so many lives out there, and I am so proud of you, Philtatos. Most beloved.”
There were tears cutting a path down Patroclus’ face now too, but the boys smiled at each other even as Achilles was pulled back to consciousness, the feeling of Patroclus slipping away from him. He held that image of Patroclus in his mind and decided it was time to set his soul free to make the journey to the Elysian Fields.
They lit the pyre, and Achilles made the men surrounding him swear that when he was dead, they would mingle his ashes with Patroclus’ in the same urn and bury them together. He never wanted to be apart from Patroclus again, and this was how he would ensure their eternity together in the afterlife.
“Wait for me,” Achilles whispered over the urn as he prepared to head back out to the battlefield. His goal this time was to find his own peace. He went without armor and with only his sword to defend himself, but he could almost feel Patroclus there with him, the feeling of his hands last night still a phantom touch on his face, his shoulders, his wrists. Achilles could only hope that by the time the day was done, he would be reunited with Patroclus.
With Troy’s two best heroes dead, its allies had come to prove their worth and defend the city. It was Achilles’ hope that one of them would finally be able to do what no other could. Achilles knew he was not a god. His blood ran red, so he knew he could die no matter how indestructible he had been up until that point. One by one, however, he bested Troy’s heroes. First came Memnon and then Penthesilea, but neither of them gave Achilles much of a fight. He turned from the bodies and, subsequently, from the wall of Troy, and that was when he heard it; an arrow was whistling through the air. Achilles knew that he was its most likely target, but he kept his stride steady and did not turn to face it.
The arrow struck him in the back, pushing forward until it pierced his heart.
Achilles could not help but smile as he hit the ground.
Death came with freedoms that excited Achilles. He stayed long enough to watch them burn his body and place his ashes in the same urn as Patroclus, just as he had asked, before he took off. Achilles wondered if what he experienced as he drifted over the open water and then the grassy hills beyond Troy was similar to flying, and any other thoughts were pushed to the deep recesses of his mind for the moment.
Eventually, one thought pushed to the front of his mind that could not be ignored. Patroclus. He must have been waiting for Achilles. How could he have forgotten?
As he drifted back over the landscape, Achilles wondered why he had not seen him while he was in the camp. Where had Patroclus been?
Achilles hoped that Patroclus had already made it to the Elysian Fields. The Greek belief was that the souls of the dead could not begin their journey to the underworld until after they had been honored. Large monuments were built for men who were considered heroes, and headstones were built for the common people for this reason. It was the custom that the Greeks followed, but perhaps they were wrong. Maybe once a person had been burned on the pyre, their soul was free of their body and able to find its way to the underworld. Maybe it was different for everyone. It would explain why Achilles was still here, but Patroclus was not. At least not that Achilles had seen.
Achilles hoped that was the case.
When he got close enough to make out their camp, he noticed a mass of soldiers coming ashore from a new ship that flew the banners of Scyros, and it made him pause for a moment before he remembered that he had a son. Those banners would be the symbol of his mother’s land, and that too gave Achilles pause.
Eventually, Achilles was there amongst all of the kings and his son. They were planning Achilles and Patroclus’ monument, but the nonexistent air in Achilles’ lungs froze when Pyrrhus announced that the monument would stand for Achilles alone. The word slave dropped from his mouth and something primal within Achilles woke up at the notion.
“I love him,” Achilles wanted to shout, “he is no slave to me. I love him!” but he could not seem to formulate the words. It seemed as though the dead cannot speak in the land of the living. Instead, he took out his anger on his surroundings. He made to throw the scrolls across the room, shake the walls of the tent, flip the table set up in the middle of it, but nothing happened. All he got for his efforts was a slight stirring of the breeze coming in from the door flap. The men within the tent did not even notice.
Even if Patroclus had already made his way to the underworld, and Achilles so hoped he had, now more than before, he was furious at what his son had implied and the betrayal that he had made against him. It was Achilles’ last request to have Patroclus and himself be honored together after their deaths. The biggest honor that can be given to a person was to be remembered after death, and Pyrrhus was taking that away from them both. Patroclus even more than himself.
Achilles escaped from the stifling tension in the tent, then. He did not care that some of the other men had started to protest his son’s demands. They were being shut down almost immediately, and it pained Achilles. He saw his own stubbornness in the boy, and he knew they would not succeed.
In the following days, there was no outlet for his rage. Achilles could not seem to get anyone’s attention, however, no matter how much he shook the tents as he dashed between them. He was as quick as he was in life, but the winds ignored his movements just as the Greek army did. At night, he attempted to occupy each of the king’s dreams in turn, but they drowned him out. Even when he screamed for them to simply look at him, they were unaware of his presence. It would seem that Patroclus had talents in this realm that Achilles could not match.
Each day passed in much the same way. He tore through the camp, angry and hurt at what everyone was letting Pyrrhus do to Patroclus’ legacy, but when the sun set, Achilles’ anger had been spent. He still hurt, but it was a grieving thing that caused him to plead with the kings to listen to him; to fix the mess that Pyrrhus had created.
Achilles’ efforts were all for nothing. His monument was being built and no one had been able to convince Pyrrhus to let it stand for Patroclus as well. He was not surprised, but his chest ached anew whenever he took a break from trying to get someone’s attention to go check their progress on its construction.
And then there was the night when Achilles finally saw Patroclus again. Achilles had come to try his luck with Odysseus’ dreams again only to find Patroclus already there. He had stood frozen for a moment, simply watching his lover seamlessly meld himself into the other man’s dream, and the fear that had been gripping his heart tighter with each passing day eased somewhat at the sight of him.
“Patroclus,” Achilles called out, “I am here.”
Neither of the men in front of him turned at his voice, and dread began to fill his chest.
“Patroclus?”
Nothing.
“No, please. Patroclus! Patroclus!”
Nothing.
“No!” Achilles cried, and an anguished sound chased the word out of his mouth. He sank to his knees, feeling helpless as he watched their interaction. There was nothing else he could do, so he took the time to memorize Patroclus’ face, afraid that this moment would be the last time he got to see the man he loved for as long as his soul lived on. If Patroclus was still here, it meant that he too was waiting to be honored before being released to journey to the underworld. The thought broke Achilles’ heart.
When Patroclus had finished speaking with Odysseus, the man had a resigned look on his face, and he seemed to be preparing himself to face Pyrrhus once more. The monument was almost done, and Achilles knew that everyone realized what that would mean for Patroclus and himself. Once it was completed, the Greek army would leave the Trojan shores and return home. After that, there would be no one left to release Patroclus into the Elysian Fields. He would be stuck in the realm of the living for eternity.
The following day he trailed behind Odysseus as he brought wine to Pyrrhus’ tent. Inside, Achilles watched as Odysseus made his last attempt to convince Pyrrhus to change his mind, his last favor to Patroclus. As he hovered around the tent’s edges, he was sure that Patroclus was there with them. He hoped that Patroclus could sense him there as well. Maybe Achilles’ presence could bring him some comfort like seeing Patroclus the previous night had for Achilles.
Pyrrhus was unwavering in his decision. No one was surprised.
“Let it be remembered that I tried,” Odysseus said to the room as if anyone other than Pyrrhus stood there with him. It seemed as though he knew he had an audience.
Achilles would remember. He was sure Patroclus would as well.
After that, there was no more anger within Achilles. He resigned himself to watching the men building his monument as they finished their work. The stonecutter was chiseling his name into the stone, big, bold letters taking shape as he worked.
“Please,” Achilles whispered in his ear, “please put his name beside mine. Patroclus, Patroclus, Patroclus.”
It turned into a mantra that Achilles could not help but repeat over and over as the man worked. It was his last attempt, he knew, because once the monument was completed his soul would be pulled into the underworld. Achilles was tired and had run out of ideas that would get someone, anyone, to notice him, to hear him, and to listen to his plea. So, he whispered in the stonecutter’s ear as he worked, and he prayed to the gods that the man would hear him and fulfill his request, anything so that Achilles was not alone for the rest of eternity. Those weeks, already, had been too much for him to bear, and he refused to believe that this was what the rest of his days would be like in the Elysian Fields. With no purpose and without Patroclus beside him, Achilles was sure he would go mad.
The stonecutter had not heard him, and when Achilles’ name was finished, he packed up his tools and returned to the camp.
Achilles felt it then, a tug at the core of himself, and he began to panic. All of a sudden he was not ready, he never really had been, but now it was real. Fear gripped him harder than the forces that were trying to pull him beneath the earth.
“No!” he cried out, “please, no.”
No one was there to hear him. There was no hand reaching out to clasp his and pull him back to safety. He distantly wondered if Patroclus could hear him in those final moments of his in the realm of the living if Patroclus could hear how hard he was struggling to stay there to be with him.
His non-existent hands scrabbled to find purchase on the grass and dirt, on the edges of the stone monument, in an attempt to pull himself up. He ached with how hard he was fighting whatever had a hold of him, and he screamed again. This time it was an incoherent, wailing thing, and he shuddered at the sound of it even though he recognized that it came from himself. It was not a battle cry, but one of pain and despair. He was losing the fight against the strings that tugged at him, and while he knew it, he refused to stop fighting. He did not want to lose Patroclus forever. That was what giving up now meant, losing Patroclus.
“You will see him again.” The words echoed in his head, raspy and feminine. “Let go, child. You will meet again.”
He shook his head minutely, but something in him had calmed at the sound of the voices, his grip easing ever so slightly.
“Do as they say, boy,” came a deeper voice, a man’s voice. “Let go of this place.”
Achilles recognized it for the command that it was, but he clung to the wording the man had used. Only the place, not the person. He whispered his final goodbye to Patroclus. It was one of love and apology and longing, and then Achilles let go. He finally gave in to the tugging, and he fell below the earth hoping desperately that the women were right.
‘You will see him again.’
For a moment it truly felt like he was falling, but suddenly, and at the same time not so suddenly, he realized that he was not. Maybe he never had been. His body was rocking gently, and when he realized that his eyes had closed, he opened them tentatively.
The river Styx, of course, was what he saw when he did. From inside the boat, he could see nothing but starry waters. Achilles found himself transfixed by the way the waves shimmered and glinted as the skiff cut through them smoothly. He briefly caught his reflection in them and was surprised to see that his skin held a soft, golden hue to it like he had caught the last rays of the sun before it dipped beneath the horizon.
When he finally glanced away from the water, he found Charon, the silent ferryman, standing at the back of the boat with a small lantern at his feet to illuminate the immediate area. The second thing he noticed was that there was no shoreline visible to him. No matter which direction he looked, there was only inky darkness illuminated only by the glittering waters beneath him and the orange halo of the lantern behind him.
He grabbed at the edge of the skiff to balance himself as he squinted into the darkness, but the solid feel of the wood under his hands had them snapping up again. Achilles took a moment then to truly look at his arms in the dim lighting, and he found that he looked alive again. He had a solid, physical form here, where he had only had the feeling of self in the human realm. It was a strange, new adjustment that Achilles made in his head. For weeks he had had nothing but a memory of how he should look, where his arms and legs should be, and what it felt like to touch things.
A small grin split his face unconsciously as he rubbed his thumbs over his fingers, relishing in the solid feel of the pads gliding against each other. It had been so long since he had felt any form of human contact. Even in his dream with Patroclus when he had still been alive, Patroclus’ touch was not real. It was not solid and fully present like the feeling of Achilles’ own fingers in that moment. It was almost disorienting, and he felt silly at how much comfort and joy the sensation brought him.
When Achilles finally looked up again, there was a silvery glow in the distance, growing as the waves pushed their boat in its direction.
The Elysian Fields came into focus slowly and then all at once. They glowed as if under the moonlight, but when Achilles glanced up to find the source, there was nothing.
As the skiff approached the shore, fear and hope warred in Achilles’ chest. Patroclus had to be here already or else Achilles was going to raise hell. The women had said they would meet again, but Achilles was afraid that they had not meant as soon as he arrived.
Achilles pushed those thoughts to the back of his head, unwilling to think about that possibility. If Patroclus was not at the shore awaiting his arrival, Achilles would just have to go looking for him. It was not like Patroclus was supposed to know when Achilles was arriving. He was probably anxiously waiting somewhere on the plains among the other souls, and Achilles let those thoughts turn into truths in his head.
‘He’s out there somewhere waiting for you to find him,’ Achilles thought to himself as he surveyed the silvery, rolling hills before him. It was dotted with moving shapes in varying shades of greying colors, some more vibrant than others. Somewhere among them, Achilles was sure he would find Patroclus. Probably one of the souls that held a vibrant shade of gold that Achilles could spot from a distance, just like Achilles’ own skin.
As he had predicted, Patroclus was not waiting at the shore when the skiff made contact. Achilles did his best to not let that worry or discourage him.
A dark figure, however, was striding across the shore toward where the boat had landed, and Achilles could do nothing but blink at the wiry, shadow-drenched man that stood before him. There was no other person, no other god, that he could be. Hades was standing before Achilles.
“Welcome, Achilles Pelides, Aristos Achion,” he greeted, and Achilles recognized his voice immediately.
“You spoke to me before,” he said reverently.
“I did,” Hades agreed, nodding, “you were reluctant to let go of your world.”
Achilles shook his head, “Not it, just him. Where is he?”
“He is not here yet.”
Achilles was sure his heart would have stuttered if he was not already dead.
“What do you mean? He died before me; he should be here!”
“The door has not yet been opened to him.” Nothing in his tone changed, but Achilles caught the way that Hades’ eyes softened as if that could lessen the blow that his words had dealt.
Achilles felt weak, and the world seemed to freeze around him. He distantly felt his knees hit the sand, but his surroundings had faded to background noise.
Denial was rising like bile in the back of his throat. He tried to stutter out another question, or maybe it would have been a demand. He could not be sure because his thoughts were muddled and frenzied. Panic was starting to set in, and Achilles was finding it hard to breathe despite that rationale that he no longer had to. Could dead souls suffer the same ailments as the living?
Achilles pinched his eyes closed, balling his hands into fists at his sides, and decided that he did not believe Hades. He did not doubt that Hades kept things very organized down here, but surely one soul could slip in unnoticed. How many Greek and Trojan soldiers had been brought by the very boat Achilles had just stepped off of, had walked these shores, and now stood among the hills Achilles could see in the distance.
“He is here somewhere,” Achilles whispered, more to himself than anything, as he pushed himself up back onto his feet.
“I am going to find him.”
Achilles could hear Hades call out after him, “Pelides, you waste your time!”
Achilles stopped short at that and spun hard to face the looming god again.
“I am sure I have plenty to waste,” he growled, “he gave my life meaning, and he will do the same for my afterlife.”
With that Achilles was gone, racing over the grass toward the souls that littered the hills. He was sure that he would find Patroclus among them. He envisioned Patroclus waiting for him along the shores until he realized that too many soldiers and other souls were passing through to make it reasonable to stay there. He would have gone somewhere more secluded. They had spent a lot of time alone, and even though Patroclus was friendly and social with everyone back in the Greek army, it was unlikely that he would be among the large gatherings that Achilles had spotted from the boat as he arrived.
He paused at the top of the first hill. Looking out over the entirety of the Elysian Fields, Achilles felt hopeless. If there had only been trees on the hills that rolled before him, Achilles would have looked there first. Their camp on the Trojan shores had been overlooked by a hill sporting large trees that offered them plenty of shade during the heat of the day. He could see Patroclus looking for a comforting scene after his arrival, but there was nothing here that resembled their hideaway from the rest of the Greek army. Achilles felt his chest squeeze, but he ignored the feeling. Too many thoughts were swirling through his mind, and if he paused to listen to them, they would surely overwhelm him.
Achilles felt separate from himself. It was as if he was floating above his body and only a spectator to the things happening around him. He felt weightless and heavy all at the same time, and the world around him seemed to spin. Panicked, Achilles did what he did best; Achilles ran.
He raced over the hills, eyes flicking unseeing across the faces of wandering souls. They watched him calmly, a stark contrast to the fear that gripped Achilles. Despite his task, Achilles gave none of them a second glance as his feet flashed over the ground faster than they ever had before. Desperation chased him, driving Achilles to run like his life depended on it. His goal was forgotten, but his every thought was of Patroclus.
‘Where is he? Is he waiting for me? He will probably be thinking that I am still alive. Leading the war against the Trojans. I have to find him. It has been days since his death; he must be here!’
His breathing came in time with his footfalls. Quick, sharp gasps escaped him as he tore across the hills but it was not enough. Achilles felt like he could not breathe at all. Everything was a blur to him. None of the faces he saw were Patroclus’. None of them even looked familiar at this point. Maybe Achilles’ vision was blurring. He did feel dizzy, and he swore he could feel his heartbeat pulsing throughout his entire body.
Bile was rising in his throat as he tore across the hills, but it all just tasted like iron; like blood coating his mouth as it dripped from his lips. He could see the image clearly. Patroclus laying on the ground in front of him, blood trickling from his lips, welling in a pool at his wound. Achilles’ own hands were covered in it.
‘He is dead because of you.’ Briseis’ voice taunted him.
He killed Patroclus. He killed him. He killed him.
Achilles collapsed in the grass, his breathing ragged and legs like lead.
With his forearms and knees to the ground, hands scrabbling in the dirt, Achilles heaved, but nothing came up. His body trembled as he gagged over and over, and tears dripped from his chin at his own helplessness. When his stomach finally stopped clenching, he took a shuddering breath.
With air behind them, Achilles’ sobs grew harsher, wracking his body. He felt lightheaded and dizzy, but the ache in his chest was worse. He did not know if it was from a lack of oxygen or his own heartbreak.
Achilles forced himself to take in a deep breath even when his trembling caused his lungs to catch. He did not stop until he felt his lungs stretch full, and then in a giant rush, he let out a wail of pure anguish that rattled his own bones.
Flexing his hands in the dirt once more, all Achilles could see was the lifeless body of Patroclus the day he had died. Blood staining his tunic and pooling at the corners of his mouth. He remembered the fading warmth on his skin when he had reached out to hold Patroclus to his chest. He remembered the sticky blood coating his hands, his cheek, his chest.
Achilles gagged again, digging his toes into the earth as his body strained.
‘He is dead.’ That was his mother’s emotionless tone.
‘He is dead because of you; because of your pride.’ Briseis’ voice, full of loathing.
‘It is all my fault. He is dead. Patroclus is dead, and it is all my fault.’ His own voice joining the chorus.
‘I killed him.’
That thought brought everything to a standstill. Achilles felt like he had just stepped out of his own skin. The feeling of the earth beneath him was gone, the trembling and the ragged breathing too. The only thing that remained was the burning agony in his chest. There was nothing to distract him from the scene that played out in his mind.
Achilles was once again chasing Hector through the laurel grove. This time Hector did not turn to face him. Instead, Achilles threw the spear at his retreating back. This time it was not Hector that it felled. This time when the spear found its mark, it was buried in Patroclus’ chest, now turned to face Achilles, his eyes wide in horror.
‘You have killed me’
Patroclus’ own voice in his head, broken and accusing, was the final blow.
If his breathing were ragged before, it was erratic now. Achilles clawed at his chest, throat, and face. His skin was slick with sweat, and he could not find purchase with his blunt nails. A fire burned in his chest, and Achilles was sure he was being burned alive; the pyre was lit, and there was no stopping the flames now.
There was a ringing in Achilles’ ears, and he pressed his face into the ground, covering his head with his arms in an attempt to block it out. It offered him no peace.
“Achilles,” a voice above him shouted. It was solid and forceful, such a distinct contrast to the airy whisperings swirling in his head.
‘Dead. I killed him. You do not deserve him. You killed him. You killed me!’
“Achilles!” That voice again, louder this time, but also softer. There was a kindness and a fear behind it that was able to break through the heavy fog surrounding Achilles.
“Breathe, young Pelides. It will pass, but you have to breathe,” Hades instructed, and when Achilles got a grip on himself, he found that he could breathe. It was shaky and weak, but he could breathe.
There was a hand on his back rubbing small circles into his damp tunic. The material made a sound that reminded Achilles of a gentle tide meeting the shore. He imagined himself sitting on a beach, toes curled into the warm sand and watching the water lap at the ground before him.
After a few moments, the hand paused before making its way to rest on his shoulder. Hades offered it a gentle squeeze before speaking again.
“Can you sit up?”
Declining to answer, Achilles pushed off of his forearms and rocked back onto his heels. When Achilles looked up to meet Hades’ eyes, there was no pity, but he saw a gentleness in them that he was not expecting.
When he could bear the look in the god’s eyes no longer, Achilles dropped his head back to stare at the sky above him.
“It looks like the Styx,” he breathed in wonder.
The dark expanse was littered with stars, but they were not arranged into any constellations that Achilles could recognize. It was like he was looking at someone else’s sky, but it had a calming effect on him. His mind was blissfully blank as he stared at the abyss above him, and maybe his vision was still blurring, but it almost looked the sky was shifting, similar to the waves that had brought Achilles to these shores.
Achilles forced himself to take a deep, even breath and was pleased to find that he could. There was still an ache in his chest, but it no longer hurt to breathe. There was kind of an ache everywhere, and his head was pounding. Despite all of that, Achilles felt mostly himself again.
“I believe you,” Achilles spoke to the looming presence beside him, “I think I always did, but the thought was too much to bear.”
“Every soul makes it here eventually, young Pelides. Patience is a virtue you could learn to wield,” Hades responded.
Achilles sighed and maneuvered himself into a more comfortable seated position.
“You may have a point, but he is dead because of my actions. If he is not here, then that means I have trapped him in a hell worse than I can imagine.”
There was a lapse in conversation. Hades had no response that would satisfy Achilles, so he deigned not to give one at all.
“The suspicion is true then?” Achilles asked after some time, “One must be honored with a tombstone in order to pass on to the afterlife?”
“Yes. Your son did the both of you a great disservice in leaving your companion’s name off your tomb.”
“Thank you,” Achilles says. It was all he could manage, so he cleared his throat before asking his most pressing question, “What happened to me? I am dead, but it felt like I was dying.”
“Your soul still remembers how it feels to be alive. Think of it as a defense mechanism. It seems to fade over time, but your soul mimics the sensations of the body it inhabited for so long upon your arrival in order to help you adjust.”
Achilles simply nodded in response.
Hades left after a time, but Achilles stayed seated there, looking out over the Elysian Fields lost in thought. Achilles reflected on his actions in the final months of life. He had been stubborn and uncompromising when it came to Agamemnon.
There were many things he wished he could apologize for, and there were many more that he wished he could change. He did not let himself get caught up wondering what might have happened if he had made a different decision, but each moment, each decision he did make, crossed his mind like a procession.
Achilles believed he should have figured out that Patroclus was the one his mother spoke of when she brought them the second prophecy. “Best of the Myrmidons” she had said. There was not anyone it could have been but Patroclus. His father had been great, no doubt, but Patroclus outshined him in many ways during the war. Patroclus did not have to be a soldier to rise to fame amongst the Myrmidons. He had done that by being kind and by helping those in need. His name was known around the entire camp for his honesty and his compassion. Achilles should have seen it, but he had been blind.
Achilles regretted saying that Pyrrhus was better off with his mother. The boy had grown up with only Thetis to speak with. Achilles remembered what she was like. She was commanding and harsh, and she had never made Achilles feel like anything less than a weapon to be used for the purpose of the gods. He had no doubt that the sea nymph had never shown any kindness towards the boy if the past was any indication of the future. Achilles knew it was not practical for him to raise Pyrrhus during the war, but there was no doubt that the current issue would never have occurred if he had. Thetis had raised Pyrrhus without a shred of love or kindness, and it had only blinded him to the feeling in the end. Achilles could not deny the evidence.
“Thetis was a terrible mother,” he sighed as he fell onto his back to stare at the sky once more.
Regret washed through Achilles as his thoughts returned to Patroclus. Their last days together were spent fighting, and it was Achilles’ fault. He knew that he had let his pride get the best of him, but what really haunted him was that even Patroclus had turned his back on Achilles because of his actions. There was a long list of sins he would have to pay for in order to earn his lover’s forgiveness. He had only looked to save his pride when Agamemnon took Briseis from him. He had not tried to save the girl, had not fought for her, and had let Agamemnon take her, knowing he would rape her, just to give Achilles a justification for killing the king. All of this for himself with no thought to Patroclus or Briseis. They were friends, the three of them, and he threw that away just to save his pride. Furthermore, he had not listened to Patroclus when he pleaded with Achilles to do something, and Patroclus had to take matters into his own hands to save Briseis. Achilles should have listened. If he had been paying attention, he would have heard the pain in Patroclus’ voice.
When Patroclus had returned to the tent bleeding from the arm, Achilles had only felt more rage instead of fear. He had not even moved to dress the wound. His first thought was that Agamemnon or some other king had thought it appropriate to take something more from Achilles. It felt like, after his altercation with Agamemnon that day, all Achilles did was think of himself, and that was not fair to his friends or his people. It was not who Achilles always thought he was, nor who he wanted to become.
“I should have swallowed my pride and gone to kneel before Agamemnon like he asked of me,” Achilles muttered aloud, closing his eyes to the starry sky above, “then maybe we could have avoided the prophecies all together.” Achilles knew it was not worth wishing for an opportunity to change the past, but as he slid his eyes back open he swore on the brightest star he could find.
“When I see Patroclus again, I will beg his forgiveness, and I will spend the rest of eternity making up for my actions and the pain they have caused.”
Achilles sighed and studied the stars for another moment before pushing himself to his feet. Some religions believed that one must atone for their wrong-doings in the afterlife, and Achilles knew he had plenty to atone for. Maybe this was his punishment. Solitude and longing were a good fit. He had ignored and denied Patroclus after all.
Lost in thought, Achilles began to wander the hills. He took in the sight of the other souls inhabiting the plain, noting their greying skin and the visible age of their faces. Even the souls of those who had died young like Achilles looked weathered like this place had dulled the spark within them. They watched Achilles as he passed, void of thought or emotion as if they were an empty husk.
‘I will look like that one day,’ Achilles thought to himself as he turned away from them, ‘Someday the glow of my skin will fade and turn grey, and I will look as old and tired as the other souls here.’
A glance down at his own hands proved that Achilles was already right. The bright, golden shine that had lit his soul from within was now only a bronzed tint on his skin. Another sigh slipped from his lips.
Eventually, Achilles’ wandering led him back to the shore where the skiff brought him to shore. Staring out across the waters of the Styx, Achilles felt a wave of hopelessness wash over him. He was bored like he had never been in his life, not since Patroclus had come into it. It was a startling revelation, to understand that Patroclus had changed his life so profoundly without Achilles knowing. Maybe it should not come as such a shock, because that was what had drawn Achilles to Patroclus in the beginning, was it not? His uniqueness, the way he was quiet but had so much to say, and the way Patroclus challenged him at every turn and never backed down just because of the status Achilles held.
Achilles was surprised all the same.
Gods above, Achilles missed Patroclus.
Toeing the drag marks the skiff had created in the sand, Achilles noticed a crudely-built dock a few paces to his left. Achilles realized that the boat must arrive at the same spot every time it brought a new soul to the afterlife, so he wandered up the shore away from the dock. If he was going to wait for Patroclus, he was not going to sit where every new soul could see him. He had been stared at enough in life that he believed he deserved some privacy.
Once the doc was out of sight, Achilles crumpled to a seated position in the sand with his toes in the cool waters.
Time passed slowly. There was no sunlight, so it was impossible to know the difference between night and day on the Elysian Fields. Achilles did not know how to tell how much time was passing without a solid way to measure it, and he found no useful solution for what felt like a long time. Eventually, Hades started to come by to sit and talk with Achilles. He assumed the god was trying to check on him, but he allowed it anyway, pretending not to know what the god was doing.
It helped, if only a little. Achilles pretended that Hades arrived for a couple of hours every evening, and that gave him something useful for judging the passing of time. Hades was the ruler of this plain. If anyone knew how time passed here it would be him. Somedays, Hades brought Cerberus, and Achilles let himself forget about everything and play with the overgrown puppy in the water of the Styx.
Achilles also took to running in between visits from the god. He raced against the wind across the hills, relishing in the freedom it offered him. It was his only connection to life, and Achilles noticed how his skin always glowed a little bit brighter after he returned to his hideaway along the shore.
The subject of his skin got brought up often with Hades. It was not something Achilles liked to talk about, and on one occasion Achilles interrupted the god to ask about the stars when he tried to ask Achilles once again.
“Does the sky here not reflect that of the land of the living?”
“No, young Pelides. You will not see the constellations created by Zeus here.”
“Why not? Why go through the trouble of recreating the sky?” Achilles asked propping himself up onto one elbow from where he was laying in the sand, the water lapping at his skin.
“The constellations in the sky of the living are the stories that Zeus tells, but he tends to be biased toward your heroes and he likes to exaggerate,” Hades explained, “I like to tell the important stories; not the flashy ones.”
“Will you tell me the stories of your constellations?”
Achilles was unsurprised to see that some of the glow had returned to his skin by the time Hades left that evening. Achilles had always been a good student and a fan of new stories, and Hades continued to share the stories of his constellations when they spent time together.
There were times when Hades could not get away for a time to see Achilles, but the god usually would inform him that he had missed a day because his duties called him away. Sometimes Achilles noticed the absence, but nothing compared to this.
It felt like it had been weeks since Hades had last come to visit him. At first, Achilles tried to keep a grip on his schedule despite the god’s absence, but he was slipping again before he knew it. Achilles ran more often as the time stretched on, and he felt as much as saw how it was draining him rather than rejuvenating his passion for life.
It was something Hades had explained to Achilles on the rare occasion that Achilles entertained the discussion about what the shine of a soul’s skin meant. Achilles was already dead; he could not die again in the afterlife. Unfortunately, that did not mean he was safe. When a soul started to lose their joy for living, their spark that made them unique, they began to fade. If a soul truly lost its spark, it faded into nothing. A husk of its original shape and then no more than the breeze that blew across the fields. It was not an irreversible act as Hades explained, but he had never seen a soul come back from the brink. That was why the Elysian Fields were not littered with souls, it was inevitable.
Achilles stopped running after some time. It did nothing to help his situation, and he could no longer afford the effort it took. There was no motivation within him anymore. Achilles was willing to let himself sit along the shore until he became nothing but the breeze he used to race against.
Hades never returned, and Achilles started to feel as empty as he remembered the other souls in Elysium looking. He was sure that if he were to take a look at himself, he would see that same vacant look in his own sunken eyes. Achilles was a shell of himself, he could almost feel his soul dissolving a little more with every lonely, passing moment.
Achilles had truly, and finally, given up.
There were hands on his cheeks then, gentle and warm as the sun.
“Achilles,” came a voice, and he looks up.
Before him stands a man with skin of molten sunlight. Achilles was blinded as he looks up at him, but he cannot look away. He felt as though the hands on his skin were melting away the fog that had been creeping into his soul. They grounded him in a way he desperately needed, keeping the last of his soul present in Elysium.
“Who- who are you?” Achilles whispered, but the warmth of those hands was familiar. Achilles knew who stood before him, leaning over him and washing him in golden sunlight, but he dared not hope.
“It is Patroclus,” he laughed, coaxing Achilles’ chin up further, so he was looking into the face of the radiant man standing above him. “Your mother set me free.”
Patroclus drew Achilles’ face up further to press their foreheads together.
“I am home.”
“No.” Achilles jerked out of Patroclus’ hold, his eyes wide and wet.
“I was terrible to you. You should be screaming at me for all that I put you through. I do not deserve your touch, nor do I deserve to have you call me home when I turned my back on you! Why are you acting like none of it happened?”
“Oh, Achilles,” Patroclus intoned. There was a deep sadness in his voice as he responded, “I forgave you for everything long before I took your place and carried your name back into battle. You have nothing to apologize for.”
Achilles only shook his head, choking on his words, “I will spend the rest of eternity paying for the pain I have caused you.”
Patroclus studied him for a moment, and he realized how ghastly Achilles looked sitting before him. He took in the dull skin and the way his eyes were starting to sink into their sockets. The man before him looked nothing like the vibrant person he had known in life, and a desperate fire, fueled by his fear, bloomed in his chest. He was losing Achilles, he realized, and he had not waited at the grave only to lose him as soon as he found him again.
“No, love,” Patroclus started, his voice loud but not unkind. He kneeled between Achilles’ legs and pressed their foreheads back together, keeping his grip on Achilles’ neck firm when the other man tried to pull away from him. “You are no longer responsible for the actions of your life. We are in Elysium together, and I refuse to lose you again.
“Look at me,” he demanded, “I am here, and that is all I care about now. I do not give a damn about our lives anymore. I am done grieving and looking back on the actions of the past. It is time for us to get on with our afterlife and the eternity we will share. Do you hear me?”
Patroclus pulled back only far enough to be able to look Achilles in the eyes. His hands still rested firmly on Achilles’ skin, fingers fanning the back of his neck and thumbs rubbing soothing circles into his cheeks and jaw.
“Please do not leave me again,” he whispered, ducking his head.
There was a beat of silence, and Patroclus worried that it would not be enough.
“Patroclus,” Achilles breathed, a tear slipping from his eyes.
“I have missed hearing you call my name,” Patroclus sighed as he pressed his forehead to Achilles’ own, and tears sprang to his own eyes.
“Pa-tro-clus.”
“That is more like it,” Patroclus whispered into the space between them, “I missed you.”
“I love you.”
And then Achilles was tipping his mouth up to capture Patroclus’ in a searing kiss. All the desperation and fear he could not speak of were conveyed in the urgent press of lips. His hands came up to mirror Patroclus, slipping them around his neck to pull Patroclus impossibly closer. Tears dripped down both of their faces, mingling between their lips, and letting them taste each other’s grief.
The light encircling them grew, and when they finally broke apart, Patroclus gasps, a blinding smile cutting across his face.
Before Achilles could question him, Patroclus reached up to grab his hands and brought them in front of their faces. Without breaking eye contact with Achilles, Patroclus turned to kill the inside of his wrist before presenting them to Achilles like a prize. They shone a brilliant gold that rivaled the color of Patroclus’ own skin.
-----------------------
Achilles and Patroclus lived their afterlife much like they had spent their time with Chiron on Mount Pelion. They would race across the hills together, side by side, or they would splash around in the shallow waters of the Styx. Cerberus loved to join them, and unsurprisingly, Patroclus took to the three-headed dog immediately. They also told stories, and Achilles retaught him about the stars like Hades had done for him.
Eventually, they talked about everything that had happened before their deaths. They laid on one of the tallest hills and confessed their greatest sins to each other. Even when Patroclus told him not to, Achilles apologized for how he had treated Briseis and him both, and Patroclus apologized for leaving the beach.
Maybe things would have been different if they had made different choices, but the world held so many expectations for them in the land of the living. Neither of them would change a thing if it meant they got to be together where they were now.
They spent their eternity together. Neither of them were ever lost to the despair that destroyed every other soul that made it to Elysium. They shone golden among the hills for the rest of time. Maybe Achilles had never ascended to godhood, but this was probably better. So long as he could have Patroclus beside him, he did not care where they were.
Hades planted them a willow tree, and it became their sanctuary. In the grey light of Elysium, it looked like it held the sun beneath its branches.