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In as much as Elysium can be considered to have days, the day had begun as any other. Against the slow stretch of eternity, days passed like leaves down a stream, slipping away one moment and slowing to a crawl the next. Time held no sway in the Underworld. Or, it shouldn’t have. In retrospect, perhaps the feeling of morning that swept through Patroclus when he roused himself on that final day should have been the first clue.
At the time he felt only a warm satisfaction, waking in the arms of his own heart. Achilles had turned his nose into the space behind Patroclus’ ear, shuffling closer and pressing kisses along the line where Patroclus’ hair met his skin.
“It is morning.” Again Patroclus was struck by the awareness of time, the feeling of day sharp and present in his mind. If he tried he could almost feel morning light on his face, the quiet potential of a day ahead. “You must report to the House of Hades. You have lingered here too long already.”
Achilles groaned into Patroclus’ bare shoulder. “Let the Master of the House wait. He will not know the difference.”
“I will not have you chastised on my account,” Patroclus chided, twisting to his side. Before he could do more than gently nudge Achilles in the side, his swift-footed lover had a hand on each of Patroclus’ broad shoulders, and was bearing him down onto the bed beneath them. Achilles’ levered himself effortlessly over Patroclus, a wicked glint in his eye.
“My own soul, what could make you think this was for your account? I assure you, my interest in delaying is entirely selfish.” With that, Achilles lowered himself down Patroclus’ chest, peppering kisses in a path as he went. From collarbone, to nipple, to sternum, to stomach, to groin.
And really, there was only so much restraint that could be expected of any mortal, with a man such as Achilles in his bed. Patroclus groaned and lay back, relaxing into the familiar feel of Achilles’ hands and lips. He took hold of Achilles’ beautiful locks, buried a fist into his golden hair, and held on tight.
Later, when they had both cleaned up and Achilles could no longer justify abandoning his post, Patroclus was left alone in his little cottage on the banks of the Lethe.
In the years to come, Patroclus would never be able to recall what final words passed between them. What words of brief farewell, assured that any parting would pass in moments. Which kiss was the final one? Had they kissed again by the door? Or after Achilles had finished dressing and fixed his bed-ruffled hair? Or had it been in the midst of their passions? Perhaps they had been so overcome in the feel of each other that it would never have occurred to either of them that it might be the last one.
After Achilles had departed for the House, Patroclus took to the road, fancying he might find the wayward Prince on his semi-regular rampages through the underworld. Patroclus enjoyed his meander down to the glen in a way he never had before. He found a certain joy in the world now, a pleasure in meeting other shades on the road, a peace in the quiet murmur of the world around him, that had been absent for so long. Elysium had taken on new life for him of late, as he had finally shaken off the cloying fog of the Lethe. The return of his heart had brought something solid and permanent back, filling out his shade and grounding his feet into the soil of his afterlife.
Upon stepping into his glade, the first thing Patroclus noticed was the smell. A scent like rotting apples hung heavy in the air, thick as a fog and pressing at the back of his throat. He swallowed a few times, tasting something foul that would not dissipate.
Unease settled into Patroclus’ shade. So little changed in Elysium, he could not imagine that this shift could portend anything good. Inching forward, Patroclus looked out over the Lethe, and saw with a start that the waters were… different. Wrong. He had spent untold years, lifetimes of men, sitting in this glade by the river. He knew its every eddy, the exact smell of wet earth and nectar, the play of the ghostly half-light on the river’s surface. But now. He blinked and dropped to his knees by the water, staring carefully into their depths.
Sediment of some kind was floating through the river, casting a golden pall over the waters. As Patroclus watched, the sediment seemed to grow thicker, slowing the river from a gentle current to a heavy roll, something like sludge muddying the crystalline waters.
Entranced, Patroclus extended a hand, his fingers outstretched towards the river. He was loath to risk any interaction with the Lethe, after everything he lost to its pull, drowning for years in his grief and self-pity. But the gold was still expanding, until there was more sediment than water. It almost looked like–
“Pat!” A sharp voice called Patroclus back. He snapped his hand away from the river as he twisted around. Diomedes was striding across the bridge, his strong legs eating up the ground between them. “Do not touch the water.”
Patroclus pulled himself up, taking in his friend’s god-like appearance. When they had seen each other lately, in the sleepy land of the Underworld, Diomedes had presented to Patroclus as a man without any burden – free to reap the reward of an afterlife among his friends and lovers. But now, Diomedes looked just as he had on the shores of Ilion: his cuirass shone in the milky light of Elysium, a spear in one hand and his boar-stamped shield in the other. His shield was glowing amber with Athena’s boon. It sent yet another ripple of alarm down Patroclus’ spine. Diomedes was dressed for war and cloaked in Athena’s blessing. Whatever had brought about this change in aspect, it only meant one thing.
“Are we at war, Diomedes?”
Diomedes grimaced at this. “War might suggest a foe we have any hope of besting. It is not for us mortal men, living or dead, to meddle in the affairs of Olympians and Titans. We must recognise our place in the weave of The Fates, and adapt accordingly.”
“Talk plain, friend.”
“This, Pat, is what you might call a tactical retreat. Come, you must follow me, and hurry. Odysseus is gathering his family and any exalted we can reach before it’s too late. He sent me to find you and bring you with us to the Crossroads.”
Patroclus lurched back, horrified by the suggestion. “I cannot go to the Crossroads. None of us can.”
“The Titan witch, Hecate, is making an exception. Come, we must hurry.”
Diomedes clasped Patroclus’ shoulder and pushed him forward, down the road at a near-run. Patroclus adjusted the strap holding his spear in place across his back, feeling more stable knowing he had a weapon in reach.
“Wait,” Patroclus said, though he did not slow his pace to keep stride with a racing Diomedes. He punched through the paths of Elysium without hesitating, leading Patroclus closer to the surface than he had ever dared to go. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“Chronos has come. That’s the word from Odysseus anyway.” Diomedes paused when they reached a portion of the road that had become overrun with blushing pink thorns, blocking their path. The smell of rotting things swelled once more, causing them both to recoil. “The Titan has returned to reclaim the Underworld. We must flee to the Crossroads or risk falling to this spreading pestilence.”
As Diomedes began to hack away at the thorns, Patroclus was frozen in horror, his muscles tensing against a foe he couldn’t possibly fight. Then a new, horrible thought occurred to him. His heart seized in his chest. “Achilles. He’s in the House, I must go to him–”
Patroclus spun around, intending to make his way down to the House himself, and damn the consequences. He only made it two paces before Diomedes caught his arm in a white-knuckled grip. “Wait, Pat, you cannot–”
“I will not make the same mistake twice, Diomedes. I will not abandon him again, not when we finally–” Patroclus choked on the words, unwilling to waste any more time than he had already lost. “Release me.”
He did not wish to fight Diomedes, but he would if it came to it. There was a time when Patroclus might have doubted his ability to beat his god-like friend in a test of strength, but with Achilles’ soul in the balance, Patroclus would not lose. And if the look on Diomedes’ face was anything to go by, he knew it too.
Diomedes opened and closed his mouth once, seeming to hesitate on the precipice of letting Patroclus go. But before he could make a decision one way or the other, a crash came from up the path. Both men looked over to find Odysseus at the mouth of the thorny road, a heavy axe held between his hands.
“There you are,” Odysseus said, his eyes mostly for Diomedes. “Hurry, Hecate will be sealing the gates to the Underworld any minute. She will not wait for any lingering shades.”
Taking advantage of Diomedes’ brief distraction, Patroclus tried again to slip his grip, and this time succeeded. He stumbled away and down the road, only to again be caught, this time in Odysseus' firm grip. “Patroclus, my brother, you must attend me.”
But he couldn’t. Patroclus couldn’t hear anything but the blood rushing in his ears, the lust for battle that called him to go, go, go, to fight, to rip, to tear, to pierce, gut, cleave, eviscerate any enemy standing between himself and his own heart. In his mind, he saw Apollo’s mocking smile, Hector’s wide-eyed taunts, Meneleaus’ horror-struck face as Patroclus fell. And he would do it again, and again, and again, as many times over as he needed to if it meant saving Achilles from himself.
“Achilles…” Patroclus said, his love’s name the only words in his throat.
“Achilles is safe,” Odysseus said firmly, his fingers digging hard into the meat of Patroclus’ shoulders. “The House made it out, they are at the Crossroads.”
It took a long moment for Odysseus’ words to sink through the panicked roaring of Patroclus’ blood. “Safe?” he repeated weakly.
“They are at the Crossroads,” Odysseus said again. “I will show you. Come.”
And what else could Patroclus possibly do? In the time they had wasted, the thorns had already grown back over the path where Odysseus had come, and it took all three men slicing at the branches to clear enough space for them to scrape through, their shades cut and bleeding as they finally broke into the next clearing.
After several more glades, each requiring more and more work to clear the path, finally they emerged into a glen that Patroclus had never seen before. The air here was thinner, the rotting smell giving way to the scent of earth and growing things. They must be very near the crossroads now, the waypoint between above and below. The golden infestation had left the water now, leaving behind cool streams and the sounds of birdcalls.
And there, just over a small hill, stood a pair of gates so tall that Patroclus could not see where they ended and the sky began. They shone sickly green with magic, and a steady stream of shades were crossing the threshold into the space beyond – some huddled together, some recognisable, some more mist than physical form, all of them refugees from this strange invasion. Odysseus had Diomedes’ hand clasped tight in his own, and pulled the man forward, Patroclus following close behind.
“Be welcome, shades of Elysium.” A woman was watching the procession of souls entering into the Crossroads. She wore a wide hat, and a mask covering most of her face. Only her eyes were visible, sharp and depthless.
“We thank you, Hecate,” Odysseus said gravely.
It did not take long to discover Odysseus’ deception. Because of course Achilles was not safe, of course no one from the House made it out. Of course they didn’t. But by the time Patroclus uncovered the obvious lie, it was too late. The gates were barred and no force would move the witch to open them again. Least of all a heartbroken mortal flinging himself against the unbreakable seals. He had begged Hecate, and cursed Odysseus, and shunned Diomedes’ wisdom. He would sooner be tortured in Tartarus than abandon Achilles on his own for the third time.
But the Fates did not care what Patroclus wanted. They never had.
Odysseus found him late on the first night, beating his hands raw on the sealed gate. “Brave Patroclus,” Odysseus said, firm and unrepentant, “you are many things. Loyal and loving and one of the most ferocious mortals to ever live. You are all that makes a noble, honourable man.”
“But?” Patroclus said, impatient.
“But you are a fool,” Odysseus said bluntly. “You were foolish on the shores of Ilion, when you pushed beyond what the Fates would allow, and you would be more foolish now to try fighting your way alone into the depths of the Underworld – a feat not even an Olympian would dare attempt alone. You will not help Achilles if you drown in sand and become a thrall to Chronos.”
Patroclus leaned heavily against the sealed gates, his back pressing into the unyielding magic. For the first time, he thought to look at Odysseus. Unlike Diomedes, Odysseus had none of that regal aspect he had held in life. He did not look noble or god-touched. Rather, he looked ragged to the bone, his clothes ripped and hastily donned, his hair unoiled, his armor dull, his eyes dark and sunken.
“Did you know this was coming?” Patroclus asked, unsure where the question had come from, but suddenly certain in his suspicions.
Odysseus flinched. “No. Not for sure. But we… had our suspicions. The Fates, there was… anyway. It doesn’t matter now, it’s done, and we could do nothing to stop it.”
“We? You and the witch?” Patroclus sneered, “You always did favour witches, I heard.”
Odysseus’ eyes hardened, and his shoulders squared. “We did what we could to protect–”
“You did nothing,” Patroclus snapped, venom coating his tongue. “You could have warned us, warned him. Don’t you think it’s the least you owe to us both?”
Odysseus met his eye, refusing to be cowed in the face of Patroclus’ fury. “Perhaps,” he said cooly, “but I saved you, didn’t I? I think I know which choice Achilles would make. And I know which of you I was indebted to. Hate me if you wish, Pat, I would expect nothing less. But you will receive no apology from me.”
With this he gave Patroclus a curt bow and turned away without waiting for a reply. Patroclus could only watch in silence as Odysseus disappeared into the depths of the Crossroads. Surely off to confer with their new host.
With Time bearing down on them, Patroclus felt every passing moment with a clarity he couldn’t even remember having had in life.
Day two, and the Crossroads was in chaos as shades and Chthonic gods and the Titan witch all vied for some kind of foothold in this new world.
Day twelve, and Patroclus learned that Hecate had been able to spirit away the newborn daughter of Hades and Persephone, before the invasion. The poor babe already had a trial ahead of her and she was not yet old enough to hold her head up on her own.
Day twenty-three, and most of the shades had settled into a new rhythm, building something like the lives they’d had in Elysium. Hecate expanded the Crossroads to accommodate the new residents. She provided new streams and a marketplace and fertile soil and homes. Patroclus accepted in silence a bare tent with a cot and nothing else.
Day fifty, and Patroclus finally noticed something. He was sitting at a low table, reading through one of Odysseus' reports on what bare reconnaissance they had been able to gather about the state of the world below. Most of the Olympians had gone to ground on the surface, to regroup or maybe just to avoid the conflict entirely. There were no reports of any kind coming from the House itself. By the looks of things, there was no one left in the House of Hades to save. There was no House of Hades at all anymore. Achilles was lost to him, again. But this time, Patroclus refused to sink into despair. Instead, he buried himself in any information he could get his hands on. He was not as cunning as Odysseus, and would not pretend at being a keen strategist, but he knew his way around a sound battle strategy. He had already read this report twice when his eyes caught on something. According to Odysseus’ notes, almost none of the shades from Tartarus or Asphodel had made it to the Crossroads in time before the gates were closed.
Patroclus looked up. Diomedes was sitting across from him, sipping at a watered down nectar and leafing through a different report of his own.
“Di,” Patroclus said slowly, “was Penelope in Elysium when Chronos arrived?”
Diomedes’ face spasmed, his jaw clenching and unclenching. “No,” he said finally. “She had gone to Asphodel for a short while. In death she found a love for wandering. Perhaps because she had never been afforded such an opportunity in life. She liked to… explore.” Diomedes smiled softly, his face bare with love and grief. “Odysseus hated it, of course. He knows how a short while can become a long while if one is not careful. And even now, after all these years, he still chafes to be away from her for any stretch. But it was important to her, and, well… It’s not as though anyone could have stopped her once Penelope got it into her mind to do something. She is rather stubborn that way.”
“So she… she didn’t make it? To the Crossroads, I mean.” Though Patroclus suspected he already knew the answer. His gut twisted with something. Not regret – he would continue stoking his ire towards Odysseus, however pragmatic his actions may have been – but at least some kind of kindred pain.
Diomedes shook his head. “She did not. Neither did Telemachus. When the rivers turned, he took off towards Asphodel in search of his mother. He was gone before Odysseus could stop him and bring him to the Crossroads.”
Patroclus acknowledged this with a nod, but could think of nothing further to say. He held out a hand to Diomedes, who he knew loved Penelope too. Diomedes took his arm gratefully, holding tight for several minutes as they both returned to their reports.
Day seventy-three, and Charon arrived in his boat, sailing right up to the docks of the Crossroads. Patroclus watched from across the glade as the boatman glided onto shore and conferred with Hecate. He had only seen Charon once before, early into his self-imposed exile on the banks of the Lethe. Still, he would remember the skeletal form any day. Moments later, Charon and Hecate returned to the docks together, drawing a slumped figure from the depths of the boat. The unconscious body looked small and fragile in Charon’s arms, as he carried the sleeping figure with obvious care into the glen. The boatman crossed the field into Hecate’s private chambers and out of view. Whoever Charon had just brought to the Crossroads, it was causing a stir among the shades. Whispers filled the air, all attention turned to the doors behind which Charon and Hecate had disappeared.
“Who was that?” Patroclus asked of a passing shade, a woman he thought was named Dora, who was so old that she was more smoke than physical form. “The one the boatman brought in.”
The shade flickered for a moment, malevolent in one blink, kindly the next, before she answered. “It looked like Hypnos, from the House of Hades. I guess Charon went to rescue his brother. Doesn’t seem like he’s looking so hot, does it?”
It didn’t.
Patroclus shuddered. He tried, and failed, to avoid thinking about what had transpired in the House.
Day one-hundred-and-eleven brought a stir at the gates.
“Intruder at the gate!” cried a sentinel shade from the watchpoint at the edge of the training grounds.
Patroclus went with the other shades to investigate the disturbance. In truth, he was itching for something to fight. He wanted nothing more than to slice through a wave of Chronos’ minions. Gone were the days when he thirsted for glory in war. Now all he wanted was to kill for the sake of feeling that he was accomplishing something, anything.
“Please!” came a distant shout from the far side of the gates. “Please, we have come so far. Please, we beg you for mercy. Please, let us in.”
Hecate swept through the gathered shades, to the front of the crowd, where the gates stood fast. “What is the meaning of this? What trick does Chronos send to our gates?” She called in a booming voice across the field.
“No trick,” came the muffled reply from the underworld. “We are simply shades looking for shelter.”
“How did you come here?” Hecate asked.
The voice said, “We walked. We have crossed the Mourning Fields and the desolate ruin of what was once Elysium. We have crossed the flooded expanse of Oceanus, and the festering remains of Asphodel. We have clawed our way through the darkness of Erebus. We walked all the way because we heard whispers of safety at the Crossroads between the worlds. Please, we beg to come in from the cold.”
From his position at the back of the shades, Patroclus could not guess what expression was crossing Hecate’s face at this pronouncement. For his own part, Patroclus saw no downside in opening the gates. If it was a trick, he and his comrades would have the pleasure of doing battle with an untold legion of Chronos’ faithful. The whole of the Crossroads might fall as a result, but Patroclus didn’t find that he cared all that much one way or the other on that score. Further, if it was not a trick, then surely they owed it to the damnable souls trapped outside the gates to let them in.
Hecate did not seem to agree. “The gate is closed,” she informed the voice beyond. “You should not even have been able to find these gates in the first place.” There was no cruelty in her words, only a calm resolve. “I have pity for you, shades, but the gates will be opened for no soul. Go find what peace you can in the gloom of Erebus.”
The voice beyond the gates was quiet for a moment before saying, “We cannot, Mistress, risk the darkness again. You do not understand what we have seen, these endless nights. Perhaps if I told you more–”
“There is nothing you can say to move me, shade,” Hecate cut in sharply, her tone much less sympathetic than it had been moments ago. “I suggest you move on.”
Again a beat of silence.
“I understand,” the voice said eventually. “Thank you for your consideration.”
Hecate swept away, with a curt, “Return to your duties”, to the gathered shades. Most of them moved off, but Patroclus found himself lingering a little longer, sitting on a low stone bench and watching the sealed gate in silence.
A new sound began from beyond the gates. Softly, at first, so quiet that Patroclus was sure he’d imagined it. Music. The shade trapped in the underworld was… singing? Patroclus held still, listening intently as the voice grew in confidence. He could not remember the last time he’d heard music. But now a lament carried across the air, growing louder by the moment. It echoed across the training ground, clear as crystal and impossibly beautiful. Patroclus felt the music reach right into his heart and hold tight. His own grief and the grief of the singer surged up in tandem, stealing his voice and sending his shade shuddering in and out of solidity. Tears bloomed into his eyes, spilled down his cheeks, heaved through his chest.
Patroclus sat on the bench and wept. Before long, more shades returned to the grounds, drawn by the call of the shade’s song. Odysseus and Diomedes arrived hand-in-hand, both weeping freely and joining Patroclus silently on the bench. For the first time since arriving at the Crossroads, Patroclus felt no anger when he looked on Odysseus. He could not summon anger in the face of such love. For what is grief, if not an expression of love? Reaching out, he took hold of Odysseus’ other hand, trusting the music to convey what Patroclus himself would never have the words for.
Night passed and the music continued, slipping seamlessly from a lament to an epic, telling the journey of the shades over the last hundred days, as they struggled their way closer and closer to the surface. Time, which had held Patroclus in a vice-grip since the moment he’d arrived in the Crossroads, slackened and slipped away as he listened to the mourning of this unknown shade. Finally, as the shade told of their final approach towards the gates, Patroclus noticed that even Hecate had returned, the infant princess cradled in her arms. For a few suspended moments, the whole of the Crossroads and the Underworld beneath them seemed to pause, enraptured by the shade’s song. As the singer drew to a close, his final notes hung like pinpricks of light in the air. When those too had faded, silence pressed back into the training grounds. No one dared move, dared utter a noise of any kind as the music still held them all in place. Before anyone could as much as rouse themselves, an almighty crash like Zeus’ own thunder boomed through the clearing. The gates of the crossroads had cracked clear down the middle, splitting open of their own accord.
Gingerly, the shade emerged through the broken gate. Patroclus wasn’t sure what he had expected, but the man was a lean, hungry-looking shade with wild eyes and a mop of dark hair. He was a wisp of a man, and looked like a gentle breeze might knock him clean off his feet. Still, there was no question he had a gift.
“Orpheus, I take it?” Hecate asked dryly.
Patroclus started and looked more intently at the man. Achilles had spoken of him often, of the music that would echo through the halls of Hades’ house.
The man, Orpheus, bowed deeply at the waist. “At your service, Mistress. I know it wasn’t exactly by your leave, but I hope you’ll find that we have value to bring to the crossroads.”
As he’d spoken, a single file line of shades had begun to follow him inside the gates. First behind him came a beautiful woman clutching tight to Orpheus’ hand. Surely she must be Eurydice. Patroclus had to fight a swell of anger that they had not been parted in the turmoil. He knew it was uncharitable. After all, Achilles had told him of their own journey back to each other. He did his best to swallow it down, but the burn of envy still remained.
Hecate was observing the long line of shades who were still filing in behind Orpheus. “You brought all these shades with you up through the whole of the Underworld?” She asked, putting words to Patroclus’ own amazement. “How many of you made the journey?”
Orpheus shrugged, looking a little embarrassed. “I do not know, Mistress. I only led the way out of the dark, each shade made the decision for themselves whether to follow my path.” Hundreds of them, perhaps, who had followed Orpheus’ lead to the gates. After hearing the man sing, Patroclus was hardly surprised that Orpheus could inspire such courage.
“It must have been a hard road,” Hecate said. Clearly even she had been moved by the man’s song.
Again Orpheus shrugged. He did indeed look worse for wear, ragged and worn, his shade going soft at the edges. But his voice was steely when he replied, “I’ve walked worse.”
Hecate chuckled, humourless. “I daresay you have. Come, and be welcome at the Crossroads.” In her arms, the princess stirred but did not cry out.
Hecate left with Orpheus and Eurydice. Patroclus stayed on the bench with Odysseus and Diomedes for a long time, watching every single shade file inside. No one spoke, but it was clear they were all waiting, watching, unwilling to put words to the hope in their hearts. But the final shade entered and neither Achilles nor Penelope was among them.
“You’re Patroclus, aren’t you?”
Patroclus looked up from polishing his armor. Eurydice was smiling down at him. It had been a few days since she, Orpheus, and the parade of new shades had arrived. She was looking a little more substantial now – her edges were solid again, her eyes sparkling.
“I am,” Patroclus said. “Would you like to join me?”
He had set up on the edge of the training grounds. He liked watching the gods train, and the strange skeletal man who trained some of the shades was a surprisingly good conversationalist. He cleared some space beside himself, and Eurydice lowered herself gracefully to the ground at his side. “I heard a lot about you from Orphy,” she said.
“I’ve never spoken to Orpheus,” Patroclus said. The look in Eurydice’s eye was entirely too knowing, and it made Patroclus feel flayed open and exposed.
“Well, of course not,” Eurydice answered easily, “but you know what I mean.”
And Patroclus did. Of course he did. “We have some… friends in common, I suppose.”
Eurydice looked pleased at this description. She pulled a pomegranate from a pouch at her hip, tore it open, and offered half to Patroclus. He accepted, and they ate in silence for a while. Across the grounds, the rhythm of sparring blades felt familiar and oddly soothing. Patroclus closed his eyes and tipped his head back. In moments like these he could almost imagine he was back at war. What a strange thing to long for.
“Orphy told every story he could think of on the road,” Eurydice said, as though sensing the course of Patroclus’ thoughts. “Yours was a favourite. He’s got a gift, my Orphy. And he’s all heart, in his way. But he’s not always great at reading the room. I didn’t think he would come talk to you, but I thought someone should.”
Patroclus’ eyes snapped to her. His shade flickered once, violently. “Did you–” he could barely speak past a sudden lump in his throat. “Did you see him? On your road up through the Underworld?”
Eurydice gave him a sad look. “Not directly, no. We were in Asphodel when the attack hit. We got lucky, in that way. If Orphy had been at the House, none of us would have made it here. But, well, shades talk, you know? The whisper is that the denizens of the house are still alive. That flashy little prince, his lovers, the House’s faithful… the rumour is that Chronos has kept them like trophies, held them suspended in time.”
It wasn’t much to go on, but it was more than Patroclus had had in months. He let out a slow breath. “I believe it,” he said at length. “I believed it already, though I appreciate the kindness you have extended me. I believe Achilles still lives– so to speak, anyway,” he added with a wry smile. “I will not fall to despair this time. I will not give up hope, for his sake and for mine.”
“They always said you were brave,” Eurydice said.
“Brave Patroclus, indeed,” Patroclus said, with no little bitterness.
It had been a long time since Patroclus had felt he’d done anything to earn that title. And he understood now, more than he ever had while he was alive, what little he had done to be worthy of the term in the first place. His bravery in life had been a wild, reckless thing. He had the fearlessness of mortality, an unfounded certainty that he would survive the war, that he would return home, that he could defy the will of the Fates, and the gods, and anyone else who stood between him and glory. Was that bravery? Patroclus wasn’t so sure, now.
“Bravery isn’t always about war,” Eurydice said, again with her piercing insight. “Take it from someone who knows: keeping faith can be harder than any battle. Sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is keep putting one foot in front of the other.”
The years passed, and it didn’t get any easier, but it did become familiar. The Crossroads would never be home, with its chilly air, and bare cot, and huddled masses of shades. But there was plenty of work to do, there were people to care for, and there was reason to keep his feet under him.
Patroclus missed Achilles like a missing limb, a missing half of his own shade, a persistent wrongness that dogged at his heels every minute that ticked interminably forward. But he kept faith, pushed forward, and tried to remember Eurydice’s words.
It didn’t get easier, but he kept going anyway.
It took ten years for Odysseus to finally crack.
As the years passed, Patroclus had been watching him dive from one task to another with a bared-teeth fervour. Training the young princess with a blade. Or disappearing with Hermes, when the Olympian would crop up without warning for a fast exchange of information. Or preparing his endless reports for Hecate. Odysseus had hardly ever seemed to stop moving for ten years. It made some sense – Odysseus was not the kind of man who took well to being under confinement. Patroclus did not have to imagine how helpless he must feel, trapped as they were in the Crossroads.
On the evening when it finally boiled over, Melinoë herself had come to Patroclus. She was small and nervous at the mouth of his pathetic little tent. She was a young girl these days, still far too young to come into her birthright, but old enough now to realise that the whole of the Crossroads was waiting for her to be ready.
“Princess,” Patroclus had jumped up from his cot, giving her a quick bow. “How can I help you?”
“Odysseus is sick,” the young goddess told him. Her two-tone eyes were wide and a little scared.
Patroclus followed her quickly, until she brought him to where she had left Odysseus. As soon as Patroclus took in the issue, he sent the young princess straight to bed, promising he would look after her mentor.
Odysseus was deep in his cups, tucked into a dark corner of the Crossroad’s tavern.
“Brother,” Patroclus greeted him, sinking into the chair opposite. Warily, he took in his friend’s slumped posture, his dull eyes, the sheen of transparency at the tips of his fingers. “How many ambrosia have you had tonight?”
“Not enough,” Odysseus said, his voice slurring at the edges. He took another deep gulp from the cup in front of him.
“I see,” Patroclus said, though he didn’t entirely see, not yet. He watched quietly for a moment, not wanting to push. Insensible to Patroclus’ presence, Odysseus finished his drink and flagged down the bartender to bring him another. “Has there been ill word from Hermes or Artemis?” Patroclus asked, trying to gently probe at the edges of Odysseus’ sour turn.
Odysseus grunted, shaking his head. “Nothing from either of them for days. And nothing for us to do in the meantime but wait. Trapped like lions in a cage.”
He emptied his fresh cup and signaled again for another.
Patroclus frowned. “Don’t you think you might have had enough for tonight? You’re scaring Melinoë.”
That, at least, seemed to get Odysseus' attention. He let out a short moan, dropping his face into his hands. “That girl deserves better than me,” he said.
“Of course she does,” Patroclus agreed. He thought suddenly of Zagreus, his face flushed with pleasure when he told Patroclus the news of his sister’s birth. The man had been so excited, so brimming with joy, at the idea of a sister. He’d wanted nothing more than to watch over her as she grew, to watch her come into her strength, to train her, to care for her. He’d been robbed of the chance, and she had been robbed of a first-rate brother. “That girl deserves the whole of the Underworld. But you’re who she’s got,” Patroclus said, not feeling terribly inclined to join Odysseus in his wallowing. “Melinoë looks up to you, and she’s preciously low on role models these days. So perhaps you might consider pulling your head of your ass, for her sake.”
“I know,” Odysseus said quietly. “You’re right.”
“It’s been known to happen,” Patroclus said.
“Truly, I don’t know how you do this,” Odysseus continued, speaking more into his cup than to Patroclus.
“Do what, Od?”
“It was never like this, before,” he said, his gaze lost somewhere far beyond Patroclus and the Crossroads. “When I was at war, it was good. There was a cause and glory and work to do. And then later, when I was travelling home. It was horrible, and there were moments… but I never felt so… like this. So pointless, so stuck. Is this-” finally Odysseus looked up, tears shining in his eyes. “Is this how she felt, Patroclus? The whole time I was gone and she was just… waiting. Is this what it was like?”
“I don’t know,” Patroclus said quietly.
“It took me ten years to return home to her,” Odysseus said.
And suddenly, Patroclus thought he understood.
“She will return to you too,” he said, “it might just take her a little longer–”
“She left me,” Odysseus said, his voice cracking down the middle. “I fought for years to come home to her. The things I saw, the men I lost… all I had to hold onto, for years, was the memory of her love. It was the only thing I had. And then we were finally together and safe, and it was good. It was so good. But still she just… left.”
Patroclus hadn’t known Penelope well. By the time Patroclus had come back to himself, Penelope already had one foot out of Elysium. Something in her heart called her away, and Patroclus could not pretend to understand what. He did not know what had driven her down into Asphodel, or why she hadn’t made the journey back up with Orpheus and Eurydice.
Eurydice had confided to Patroclus one evening that they had met Penelope on their road up to the gates. They had invited her to join them, but Penelope had declined. She’d been alone in the Mourning Fields, and offered no explanation for why she felt she could not follow them up. Patroclus had not shared this news with Odysseus, but he wondered if he might have found out from someone else.
Whatever journey Penelope was on, he suspected it was not mere indifference keeping her from Odysseus’ side. Still, he was not sure that any such assurances would be able to reach through his friend’s grief and longing. There was certainly no such platitude that could have swayed Patroclus during the depths of his own despair.
Odysseys’ eyes were still glassy when he spoke again. “My whole life and well beyond it, I have known Penelope’s mind like my own. A single look, the smallest of expressions, and we were aligned. She has never been a mystery to me, not once. But now… She is so far away, she has been gone for so long. She has never felt farther from me. I cannot reach her mind the way I once did.”
Wisdom was not Patroclus’ strength. He would be happier with a spear in hand any day, but he would do his best. “Our afterlives are long,” he said eventually, “and you know better than most that even with the best of intentions, the road is rarely a straight line.”
Odysseus seemed at least a little mollified. He nodded, his gaze distant again. “True enough.”
“This is not what any of us imagined for our afterlives,” Patroclus continued, “but I do not believe this is the end.”
“Do you believe Melinoë can accomplish the task Hecate has set for her?” Odysseus asked.
“I do,” Patroclus said. “You do too, or you wouldn’t be spending all your energy teaching her how to take a blow and roll with the force of it.”
“I suppose I do,” Odysseus conceded. “Though I admit the wait is proving… taxing. I had never before appreciated how much worse it is, to be the one left behind.”
“It is not much better to be the one doing the leaving,” Patroclus assured him.
“No, I suppose it isn’t.”
The night passed, and the next, and the next. With each passing year, Patroclus found himself watching the princess with growing anticipation in his chest.
She wasn’t ready, not yet.
But soon.