Chapter Text
I never meant to do this, dearest.
You were going to die in war, I was going to live and take care of your child. Pyrrus, it Neoptolemus or whatever they call him now. Continue your legacy with him. You were going to die in my arms and leave me something for the rest of my empty life. Maybe even something as cliché as an “I love you,” or a last wish.
Or perhaps I would’ve fallen over on your blade instead, if I loved myself more than your legacy. Yet, even after all this I do not find this last thing to be true.
Oh, the sweet sting of life. Why did she have to leave me first?
It is the greatest tragedy that my still heart thinks itself deserving to feel.
In death, I deny myself a name. What is in a name, afterall? Temporary. What is the realm of Hades? Eternal.
So in these letters, I will not even allow you yours. I’m sorry, dearest. You will live in my memories. Fond, but bittered by your love for honour being bigger than your love for your people.
Well, you’re still here a shade or a god ascended strictly speaking. What did you choose?
It’s hard to believe you still exist when you're just a distant memory to me. I wonder if you honored my wish of keeping our bones together. You said to consider it done. You really did look sorry. I forgave you, I think I did.
It’s almost like you never happened.
I envy our mortal bones, if you are to be trusted, together forever. Prehaps that is one thing you got right. Prehaps not.
I wonder, sometimes.
Where are you, dearest? I guess you wanted life more than you wanted me, for you are not down here.
I don't blame you. I could never. I just feel betrayed, I guess.
Maybe you claimed immortality. It’s been decades.
I can see it now: You stand high on Olympus, your mother on your right. A place for your father on your left, empty from the mortal. A crown of gold locks sits upon your head, you need no laurels but the hair that adorns your neck. You're as large as Thetis now, with a cold distabt look in your eyes. Patroclus? Never heard of him. You reply when they ask of the Myrmidon.Phoneix? Now you're just making things up. Nevermind that. They go right back to screaming and singing of you, the great God of….? What are you of, Dearest?
The curve of your ankle and shift in your thigh, your tall frame and ribcage that incases your heart. The imaganative ichor works perfectly. The red blood on your shield is not your own.
It’s funny, we used to be everything. We were gods, dearest. We were invincible as long as we were together.
That was the mortal mistake, then.
I ran up to you as fast as my legs would carry me. I pressed your beautiful, long, murderous fingers to my forehead, then my temple.
(That’s the weakest part of your skull).
“Please, Dearest. Everyone is dying out there. Our comrades, our brothers are losing their lives out there because you refuse to fight. For what? A petty feud?”
But of course, I uttered your name. You, my Dearest love. Philatos above even my father.
It wasn't often I care about what I am expected to. Not said petty feuds, war spoils, even death count eventually. I don’t love the embrace of death like you do, but war is war and I guess I never cared of war, unlike you losing innocence for war at Aulis.
So maybe you sensed something in me.
Yet, you still did not yield.
“You know I can't do that, Pat. Agamemnon dishonored me by taking Briseis. How can I fight for him?”
Pat. Short for Patroclus. That is what they called me in life. But Patroclus? He is nobody to me now.
I squeeze your hand. “I am upset too, dearest, but you have to understand. They're dying out there. They’re going to burn the ships. What would you if Antilochus died? Phoenix? Me?”
Your expression softens, but you still do not say anything. You’ve always spoken of your hate for the King of the People, sacrificing his own daughter and taking all the best spoils,
“What if I went out in your armour instead?” The desperation starts to show. I will make you let.
“What if you…die? You can't go out there, not now. They're so close the Myrmidon ships,” You’re kneeling now too, yet you still feel higher than me. A weird feeling, considering all-the-shorter-than jokes I used to make.
“You know I’m capable. I won't die, Dearest. I’m not just a manquien of death in your story,”
Prehaps I was.
“...I..fine. Just…drive them back, then go no further. Promise me this. And. Don't die, okay?”
“Okay,”
It seemed like a silly paranoid thing to say at the time. I suppose I also did not realise the details of the prophecy that plagued your thoughts.
That was the last time you touched me. Strapping on a leg plate, like it was any old day.
“Myrmidons! This is your chance, quit pining for home and take it. The hour has come, so give it your all,”
You retreat to our hut.
That The Greatest of The Myrmidons would fall as Great Aristos Achaion saw the Chariot of Helios travel westwards.
The Greatest? The Gods flatter me.
It’s all a blur, really. Automedon steers, and the Trojans cower away at the sight of who they think is Aristos from afar.
I held a spear in my left hand. Of course, it is not your spear. No fully mortal man could lift it.
Its all slashes and stabbing, Horrendous, melahonic sounds. Blood spills like an offering of rich red wine. Were you proud, Ares? War was an art. I relished in the way their bodies fell and guts splattered. It almost felt like they were running into the spears. I never did care see the fight ad anything more, but here I’m almost starting to understand you, dearest.
Now, I just think fighting is overrated. The fruitless battles for temporary glory in an eternal land. A “heaven” they call it.
It might be more bearable if you were with me. Why did you leave me?
Automedon steers towards the burning ships. Odysseus and the other Danaans are using stakes to ward off any flames. I jump off and rush in, slashing and jabbing as much as I can, never a moment's rest before the next flame lights up my vision.
“Shit” I hear someone next to me say.
Fire.
The Acheans get right on it, throwing sand and water furiously upwards.
Automedon motions for me to get back on.
“MYRMIDONS!” I bellow. “Have you no more will? Win honour for your home!”
There’s a brief roar in response, the sound of metals clashing never ceasing.
Great, I thought. Odysseus and the others have managed to put out what they can of the ships. The Trojans have largely withdrawn. Time to get back and eat our portions.
Oh, but the high walls of Troy. They made me forget. If only I came back at that moment.
You know, dearest, I never realised how high they truly were until that moment. Took the beauty in. The beauty of destruction, of something made by the Lord of the Sea and the Bright One themselves. Oh, Ares, aid me.
And I hate that moment so much, but it's all I have. And there is no hate without love.
They were right there. It’s mine. Mine to take.
When the world gives you a chance, you don't deny it. When Heracles walked into Hades and captured Cerberus, he didn’t ask for permission.
“Onwards, Automedon,”
“But Ach-”
A flash of annoyance trickles over my back. “Damn that! If He truly cared to take Troy himself, he would've yielded and given up the defying rage he loves so much to fight for it. Onwards,”
Those were the foolish words that came out of my mouth. And of course, I uttered your name.
I know now in hindsight, that you didn't care about Troy, but about my life. But I was blindsided.
The glory could be mine. All I had to do was reach out and take it.
Poor Automedon had no choice but to obey.
“Shame, men! Face this man in battle with me, for all the sorrows he had brought upon us,” This was Sarpedon, son of Zeus.
Be jumps off his chariot.
I mirror him with no notice given. No notice needed. I’m playing Aristos Achaion.
Blood rains from the heavens.
He aims at me. Misses. I strike his driver in the belly in retaliation.
However, his spear hits a horse on the chariot. Automedon swiftly cuts it off the reins.
He tosses a spear skillfully, but it flies harmlessly over my left shoulder.
I aim now, not in vain as it flies towards Sarpedon’s heart and stops it.
I plant a heel on his chest and withdraw the ash spear along with the last of the man’s breath.
There is a familiar yell in the distant. Epeigeus.
A rage fills my heart. I jump back on the chariot, where Automedon doesn't bother to ask anymore.
My hand makes contact with the almost indestructible wall. The dust moves and settles beneath my touch. I wanted more. I wanted all of the stones to crumble beneath my touch. For Epeigeus. For the Myrmidons who miss their home so much.
The thickness of the great barrier couldn't have been more than Agamemnon’s frankly over sized tent. I go for it.
Suddenly, my hand is lodged in between one of the bricks, my legs catch up and I’m advancing upwards. Then another. The moves are easy, I am not in my own body. Was it immortal inspiration?
How cruel that would've been.
The great mistake. I’m starting to think it was more than one.
Tragedy is very orderly, after all. Where everything goes wrong.
It was divine. There is no other explanation. I cry out in what can only be described as bewilderment.
An invisible, larger-than-life hand forces me back down. It vaguely radiated light,
I don't know what possessed me to challenge a God.
Perhaps it was something, a bit like you. Like you were really there, by my side as I stand proud, too proud in your armor. I was a part of you.
I was your other half when Zeus spilt humanity. I’m sure of it.
Thank the gods we found each other. Curse the ones who would seperate us again. Was it you? Why aren't you here with me?
The touch was haunting. Heavy and strong, but effortlessly. Still, it was not enough.
I try to rise again. Here is where I, as aforementioned decided to try challenge a fucking God.
How foolish.
They are quicker this time. I’m on the floor faster than I can blink. It’s either great Lady Artemis or Lord Apollo if 9 years has taught me anything.
If a lifetime as therapon of a demigod was anything. It’s in your movement, dearest. Graceful, you never seem to burn in the sun or trip, your ears and teeth inhuman.
Divine doesn't begin to describe it.
And I truly don't know why, dearest.
But I tried to ascend the wall again.
I knew Helen wouldn’t come with me. I knew I wouldn't have been able to take on everyone. But I was not listening to facts and logic. I swear on my blood that no longer runs that I’ve changed.
But does it matter?
Sometimes I wonder.
I’m thrown again, but just as I’m about to go again, like Sisphyus, fruitless in his trying I am suddenly stopped in my tracks.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Apollo, a glowing Gods cast in the purest marble and gold. He is perhaps one of the most beautiful things I had ever laid eyes on.
The rich red blue and red fabrics that sit nicely atop his dark skin. Earthly green laurels that show a misleading scrap of humanity adorn his high head. His hair is woven from the finest gold, dare I say, finer than yours.
But perhaps most of all, is his chestplate. It is purer gold than ichor itself, imprinted with a large gleaming sun. But it shines a thousand times brighter than anything I’ve ever seen.
The world, my world revolves around Apollo, as the earth does the sun.
So he finally decided to show himself, I remember thinking.
His is the face of dance, youth and poetry himself, for there is no one more fitting. Strong, reassured hands tenderly hold a gleaming bow, accompanied by a bag holding Artemis-reminiscent silver tipped arrows.
Phoebus Apollo stands tall behind the walls of Troy, the wall we’ve been fruitlessly attempting to take down for the past 9 years.
And I thought I could do it?
He almost looks like he’s crushing the city.
He reminds me of you.
Except you were not the one to kill me, dearest. No matter what you told yourself that night I visited you a shade anew.
“DO NOT TRY ATTEMPT TO SCALE THE WALL AGAIN, PATROCLUS, OR FEEL THE WRATH OF THE GODS. It is not your destiny. It is not even your great commander Achilles’,” And his voice is like music. An acapella of many voices, all his.
He need say no more. I was foolish, but not this foolish, pray.
Hopping back on the chariot, we charge forward. Bones sickeningly crunch and I know those soldiers will be sleeping with the fishes. I’m parting the red sea. I’m an artist, you were my muse. I’m honouring the art of war. I had a rhythm, perhaps I fancied myself an Orpheus. Perhaps it was the fact I just saw his father. Troy’s Defender.
Troy’s Defender. The other one, anyway. He’s in the way.
I knew it was not my destiny to kill Prince Hector of Troy. But prophecies could be changed and averted, right?
Not by a mere mortal like me, I now realise. It’s all too clear as I write this in hindsight, a shade.
“HECTOR! Face me!” I demand, fueled by grief for my fallen comrade.
That was the mortal mistake.
“Yield, Great Patroclus. Why should I?” He pauses. “But you are an honourable man. So be it,”
I throw my spear at him. It flies out of my hand but does not hit him. Hector runs in to make a move. I dodge the swing of his decorated blade.
A thousand little war tales forged in the finest metals flash above my head.
Hector unleashes a flurry of slashes. But my attention is now on Apollo. Beautiful, awful Apollo.
Even in wrath, he’s impossible. The way his hand draws, effortlessly, reminds me of you. The way his shoulder-length blonde hair seems affected by non-existent wind like Zephyr is his personal windmachine.
Impossible. Just like you. Must be your divine, Nereid roots. Or prehaps your more distant centaur ones, or your relation to the Storm Bringer.
Gods, you were impossible. How can you get to know someone so fully in such a short lifetime?
Phoebus Apollo draws his bow and shoots.
And I will never forget the touch of his divine arrow.
To enforce a prophecy.
It strikes me in the temple. That’s the weakest part of your skull. It knocks off your helmet. The plume smacks me in the face.
It blinds my sight and knocks me out of my bloodthirsty oblivion. Thoughtless. How could I have been so foolish?
I see nothing. Not black, not an infinite white. Not a crimson red. Not the back of my eyelids.
Nothing.
I would die and this would be the last thing I would ever see or neglect to.
Oh Lord Ares, I know you favoured the Trojans. I shouldn’t have called upon you, an Achean.
But pray, why have you done this?
It penetrates deeper than any spear I’ve ever been struck or merely grazed with combined. In his divine hands, the cowardly bow and arrow becomes everything. This arrow could kill a hundred men in three, no, one swoop.
It could become a front-line weapon.
I’m panicking. It’s all over.
Yet, through all the agony, there is almost nothing. There is nothing. Because this is impossible, I don't believe it and I almost want to thank him for it.
Someone is screaming. Maybe it’s me. I’ve been beheaded, probably. Dead.
Is this nothing to the gods?
I have lost all concept of time. Prehaps they have spared me and left.
Of course not. The notion is ridiculous.
There’s a sharper pain in my back now. A mortal wound. But it is nothing more than a scrape to me now. For I had experienced the wound of Apollo.
I wait for more scrapes and scratches, but there are none.
Coward. I thought.
I could've saved been more cowardly myself.
I fall to the floor, dying the sands an evil, dark crimson. A bloody banquet for Hector, who looms over me.
“Patroclus! Best of the Myrmidons! You have fallen to my own hand. Where is your great Friend to save you now?”
Best of the Myrmidons. That was me.
And of course, he uttered your name.
Fallen to his hand. This is not entirely true.
“Hector. You were merely the third to strike me down. You’re doing easy work. You will live to regret this day, long as you live after my Dearest comes for you head,”
And of course.
There is another alarmingly sharp scrape in the midst of nothing.
He peers down at me, expression masked and unreadable to me behind that glinting helmet.
I stare into the abyss.
The abyss stares back.
Then I remember: Just…drive them back, then go no further. Promise me this.
I failed.
I failed all of us, I failed myself.
I failed you, Dearest.
For it was the will of the Gods.