Chapter Text
Once, there was a golden hero, blessed by the gods, destined to be remembered for millenia to come. At the hero’s side was another, as close as a shadow and just as impossible to separate. And like a shadow, this companion was never meant to leave a mark in history— no great tales, no acclaim, no glory— but they were integral to the tale of the hero nonetheless. In the end, despite the hero’s promises, neither got the ending they wished for.
This is not that story. This is the story that came after— the story of another pair of hero and shadow, equally doomed by fate: Achilles and Patroclus. Aristos Achaion, Best of the Greeks in battle, and the physician who would rather see peace than war.
Both fated to die upon the battlefield of Troy.
But though this is not that first story, some understanding of it is necessary to see how it has been influenced by it. For that first hero was not blessed by Zeus, not by Grey-eyed Athena, not touched with the prophetic gifts of Apollo. Instead, it was Hestia, most humble of the Olympians, who gave her a burning golden ember from the hearth of Olympus, blessing a mortal for the very first time. The ember scorched her skin and caused her blood to burn with red and orange flames, but it also gave her great power, beyond what most godly blessings could impart, for every gift was meant only to heal— and never to hurt.
When her story ended in tragedy, as the stories of so many heroes do, her shadow came into possession of the ember. She was not meant to bear its blessing, so it caused her far more pain than it had the hero, but she welcomed the burns stretching across her skin. After the funeral rites had concluded, the shadow vanished from history, but not before declaring before Hestia that she would bear the ember only until she found another who not only met the standards of the first hero, but could use its powers to save those they loved, as she could not.
Hestia, in turn, promised this: “Whoever you give my blessing to shall be protected. They will heal far faster than any ordinary mortal, and should some fool come to take their life regardless, my protection shall be removed from their hearth, and their safety, home and happiness will fade along with it. However, in return, the bearer will be unable to take lives themself, even if they can bear to try.”
As she spoke, Atropos, the Fate who cuts the thread of life, halted her shears mere inches from two newly measured threads, one bright and strong, one ordinary.
“It seems… it is not time for their end yet. Fate is no longer certain; all we can do now is watch to see how the tapestry weaves itself. It is not wise to intervene now.”
_____
Three hundred years later…
On the worst day of Patroclus’ life (so far, anyway), he woke to find the place beside him cold, and Achilles gone. At first, he simply assumed the other boy had risen early, his sleep disturbed by the news of war they had received upon returning from Pelion, and the decision he would have to make now: to die young and glorious or live until he was old and faded.
But Achilles was nowhere to be found in the palace, and Patroclus did not think he would have gone any further on his own. 'Where could he be?' Patroclus wondered. 'Has he gone off into the woods to consider his options without anyone else to sway his decision? Or… No, there is another option.'
Thetis. Patroclus cursed. Of course Achilles would ask for his mother’s council; he cared greatly for her opinions in anything not involving Patroclus. Of course he would go to her now. Patroclus resolutely ignored the sting of hurt that Achilles did not speak with him first— it was only natural to turn to family.
That did not explain why he had not returned, however. Half the day had already slipped by while Patroclus searched; Achilles should have been back by now, unless…
Unless Thetis did not permit him to leave.
Suddenly, an old fear gripped Patroclus, constricting around his heart like a vice. He hoped he was wrong, but…
But if he wasn’t, perhaps only Peleus would have the answers he sought. While Thetis disdained the man and largely pretended that their marriage had never happened, Patroclus did not believe she would fail to inform him of this. He turned on his heel and raced to the throne room, finding Peleus mercifully alone.
“Your Majesty,” he said evenly, once he had taken a breath to calm his breathing, “Have you seen Achilles? I can’t seem to find him.”
'Please let me be wrong, please let me be wrong…'
Peleus’ expression did not change, but the corners of his eyes tightened, betraying his pain.
“My son… has been taken by his mother to the caves beneath the sea. She informed me that it was against her wishes for him to fight at Troy, and if she had no choice, then she would send him as the closest thing to a god she could make him.” Whatever expression Patroclus made at his words, it was enough for the old king to give him one of pity in return. “I am sorry. I trust you know what those caves do to a man—”
An old nightmare, of Achilles, as beautiful as ever but colder than the harshest winter— his eyes gone black and dull, devoid of love and compassion— he looks my way and does not know me—
“—and I give you my sympathy, for I know how you cared for him,” Peleus finishes. Patroclus blinked, drawn back into the conversation, away from the creeping despair of his thoughts.
“I thank you, Your Majesty,” he answered, struggling to school his face into impassivity, “for your time and your answer. I—” He took a breath, forcing back the tears threatening to fall. “I am afraid I must be going now.”
“One more thing,” Peleus called as Patroclus turned to leave. “You were Prince Achilles’ therapon.”
'Were.' It was funny how one word could burrow so surely into a heart, lodged firmer than any arrow and burning like poison the whole way in.
“Yes,” Patroclus managed to say around the sudden grief he felt for one who was not yet dead, but might as well have been, “I… I was. What of it?”
Peleus regarded him levelly. “I have no other heirs, and while my Myrmidons are chomping at the bit to snatch some scrap of honour and glory from Troy, I am old, and tired of war. It is best to leave such things to younger men.”
'Or you are just a coward whose love of fame no longer outstrips his love of life,' Patroclus thought uncharitably, and felt bad almost immediately for taking out his anger and fear on Peleus, even if only in his head.
“What do you mean to say?” Patroclus asked. Distantly, he noted with surprise the flatly polite tone of his voice, as if every flash of pain, grief, rage and despair had been buried beneath a deceptively calm surface.
“As his therapon, you are qualified to lead in the place of the prince,” Peleus said simply. “You are more than qualified, in fact— trained under Chiron just as he was, and knowledgeable of the intricacies of diplomacy and tactics. From what I have heard, you even have a prodigious skill in healing. While I cannot force you, it is my wish that you serve as the leader of the Myrmidons during the siege of Troy. What is your answer?”
Patroclus stared at Peleus, shocked. While he had known distantly that he was meant to assist Achilles when he became king, he had not considered a truth that seemed obvious in hindsight: despite lacking in comparison to Achilles in all but healing, his position guaranteed that Patroclus was practically the only option in his absence, as Peleus had no other heirs.
He stayed silent for a moment, thinking it over. 'I have no wish to spill the blood of others. If I had been given the same prophecy as Achilles, I would turn down glory in a heartbeat. But… if I do not go, who will lead the Myrmidons? Besides, in war, every physician counts. By going, I could save hundreds— no, thousands of lives.'
But even as Patroclus tried to convince himself, he knew these were not the only reasons he was considering accepting. 'Thetis said she would only let Achilles go to Troy when he had become the closest thing to a god she could make him. In that case…' Patroclus inhaled deeply. 'It might not be right away. It might not even be for years. But Thetis will not deprive Achilles of the glory he craves.'
'Achilles will come to Troy.'
Patroclus met Priam’s eyes. Taking a step forward, despite feeling as if he would collapse from the sudden weightlessness of the hope that filled his chest, Patroclus declared, “I will go. I will lead the Myrmidons as you wish.”
'And, perhaps, see Achilles again, though he will no longer be the boy I love, but a god in human skin, uncaring and unfeeling. If I cannot have even that cold comfort… then, once the war is done, I will go to the Underworld gladly, and perhaps find solace there.'
____
From the shadows, a weary traveller observed the king and the boy quietly. She did not know who the prince they spoke of was, as she cared little for the affairs of the great and powerful, but she recognised the pain in the two individuals before her, especially the boy’s, as well as his clear unwillingness to cause pain for others, and the knowledge that if he wished to see this prince of his again, he would have no choice.
She knew his thoughts, for she had once felt much the same. The grief in his eyes was especially familiar.
'Perhaps, after all this time… I have finally found someone else to take this gift which rests on me like the weight of the sky does upon the shoulders of Atlas.'
Finally, the conversation concluded, and as the king retreated, she stepped towards the boy.
'Well, as the poets say… if you never try, you never know.'