Chapter Text
He looks at me with those famous eyes, a glance like a javelin hurled into my heart.
I see. He conquers. I am taken with him, instantly.
He is younger than me, two or even three summers perhaps, not more. The beach where he stands glows with the gold of sundown, and my eyes listen to the light as it plays upon the seawater and his hair. There is a soft song of the marram grasses rising around us with the breeze. He speaks to my soul without even a whispered word as he stands there, watching me. Water drips from his fingertips back into the sea.
You, it's you, I want to say, but his beauty chokes all those words from me and I am as mute as a statue of marble set into the dunes for the bitter, salty air to chew away at.
The seafoam clings to his legs when he steps out onto dry sand as if the ocean itself is loath to let him depart. He is alone and I wonder how they can leave him by himself like this. At least his pedagogue ought to watch over him. But the shoreline is empty save for him and me, as I hoped it'd be. I came to be alone.
"You've interrupted me," Achilles says when he is close enough for his voice to carry all the way up the beach where I am perched, watching him.
"My apologies," I reply, not really surprised at how stilted my words come. "I did not realize you were here."
His eyes are still darkly arrogant, still piercing, still cruel, but there is a glisten in them that reminds me of Polaris – the brightest, the fairest of all stars. A gust of wind grips his hair and in a wave of molten, dripping gold, like sunlit seawater, it curls about his cheeks and suddenly he is the sun, aureate and glowing. I can see his earnest face, the silver shadows upon his chiseled jaw and cheeks, sharp as the sickle of the moon
He is light, pure and beautiful and bright, celestial and ethereal.
"You are new to my land, so I will forgive it," Achilles says haughtily and crosses his ivory arms before his chest in a boyish gesture of defiance. "When I am by the beach, my mother will be with me, and nobody is to disturb us."
Yes, I've heard of his mother – a nymph, a nereid. A sea-goddess. The divine ember in his hair and in his eyes is reasonable now. Mist lingers above the water near the shore.
"I did not know," I say.
"Now you do." And suddenly, Achilles laughs. It's the brightest, most pleasurable sound I have ever heard in my life. I want him to do it again, and again, and again, until I am drunk on it. "Patroclus, that is your name. My father told me. Welcome to Phthia."
Achilles has none of the shyness of the other boys his age, but I soon find that he is lonely. The other children of Peleus' palace are attending drills and lessons all day, every day, and his duties differ from ours. There is nobody who accompanies him save for the old counselor who guides him through the halls and does not permit Achilles to linger with anyone. Sometimes when we are passing him by on our way to the exercise court, I can see him stalling if our eyes happen to catch one another, but I quickly look away then. All men must lower their eyes in deference to the prince. When I am too enraptured with him to do so, the old advisor lays a bony, shaking hand on Achilles' shoulder and urges him on.
One time, he becomes aware of my imprudence. He speaks to the man who supervises our weapon drills about it.
Later, when the other boys are lined up after practice to wait to be dismissed for dinner, the instructor orders me forward. I do not fight the leather bands he ties my hands with, nor do I flinch at the tearing of my tunic when he yanks it from my back and shoves me to my knees to bind me to the wooden stake in the middle of the court.
The boys murmur. They have not seen nor heard any insolence from me today, and I am not the worst of them at exercise. There is no reason for them to see me punished, but I know. I remember my misstep from earlier. To not avert my eyes when the prince passes – it is an offense not easily committed.
The first lash does not break my skin. The second comes close, and on the third, I feel the first trickle of blood down my back. Behind me, the boys whisper, but they fall silent at the fourth whip. On the fifth, I am shaking, and on the sixth, I mangle my tongue and lips with my teeth, but I am determined not to scream. The humiliation of it would be too great. The whip cracks again as it is thrown back to gain momentum. I spit out a mixture of slimy foam and blood and ready myself for the next lash, trying to keep myself from fainting. Instead, I try to picture which part of my back or shoulders it will strike in preparation for the pain – the pain that never comes.
"Halt."
His voice is bright and ringing like a bronze bell and I hear him coming down to the court, light-footed as a cat. His steps are nearly soundless were it not for the crunching grains of dust beneath the soles of his bare feet.
"Why is Patroclus being disciplined?"
"Prince Achilles, for his disrespect toward you," the instructor says. The whip is still raised behind him. "He presumed to walk by you without lowering his gaze."
I see anger illuminating those jade-green eyes like a strike of lightning, sudden and sharp, but then my head lolls forward against the wooden stake. I feel weak, exhausted, and Achilles hovers over me protectively. His presence cradles me, lulls me into safety.
"He is allowed. Patroclus is my therapon," Achilles says, his voice rising with rage.
My head spins. Am I? His hands, softer than mine, and smaller, untie the leather straps around my wrists. His hair falls about our faces like a curtain of gold, hiding us from view. He does not look at me, but the tip of his tongue creeps between his lips in concentration until the ties come undone and he snaps upright again like an arrow released from its string.
"Prince Achilles, I did not know," stutters the instructor.
I can see him trembling pitifully and truly, he is not to blame for his fear. If the gods are volatile and pettish already, then their children are worse. Whoever knows Achilles knows of his famous temper. He is fickle and capricious; his mood can shift as quickly as the weather out on sea. What has started as a peaceful, calm day might turn into a rampant storm within a few breaths – I have seen the fits he throws at times.
"You know now," Achilles hisses and I can hear waves breaking against rocky shores in his voice.
I do not question it.
A few days later, when the welts on my back have raised with scars and are no longer oozing, Peleus formally brings me to Achilles. He is lounging on his bed, golden beauty that he is. One of his hands dangles over the edge of it, listlessly caressing the glossy fur of a large dog. It's a beautiful animal that rises upon sensing us.
"Achilles," Peleus says. The hand he rests on my shoulder feels brittle like finely-shaped ceramic. I feel like I might break it if I shrug it off. "Patroclus will accompany you from now on. Pay him your respects."
"Patroclus."
Achilles' head rolls to the side and he regards me. I imagine a smile on his lips, but there is none. He is as arrogant and cruel as ever. The dog has trotted toward us. Peleus leaves the room. His work is done – I am assigned to attend his son. Achilles is in my care now and I'm best advised to do my work well. The welts on my back still ache.
He calls upon his dog, but the animal does not listen. Angered, he sits up, his every move graceful as a dancer's. Although he captivates me thoroughly, I find the time to kneel down and pet the glorious animal that wags its tail about my legs now. It's not a hunting dog, this is solely a companion for a bored and lonely prince, and it's a young pup yet.
"He never listens to me," Achilles says, his sensuous lips drawn into a pout. "I've been asking Pater for a new dog."
"And you assume the next one will listen to you simply because of the crown on your head?" I cannot help but ask.
He sits, his mouth opens and closes. It reminds me a little of a fish thrown onto the dry shore for a moment, and it makes me smile. I have left Phthia's mighty prince speechless. Then, Achilles falls back onto his bed and rolls to the side, taking no more note of me.
"Come," I say and offer my hand for him to take. "I will show you how to train him. He will listen."
One of his jade-green eyes peers at me from a narrow gap between his folded arms and the bedding he rests upon. I wait, patiently. He does not know the company of other boys, and he is skittish with me now, building his walls of conceit and superiority to keep everyone out while he sits among them and wishes he were not caged up as he is.
Slowly, Achilles rises to his feet. He does not take my hand, but he does follow me. The worst of midday's heat is over and slowly, the servants and guards emerge from the shade they've sought to escape the glaring sun. The dog pants softly as it trots beside us, but it is eager to play and run when we reach the olive grove. Nobody has time for leisure now that the temperatures are bearable again – nobody except for Achilles and me.
"Show me then," he says, arms crossed as if in disbelief.
The dog obediently follows Achilles' every beck and call in a few days' time.
Although hesitant at first, Achilles begins to take what I offer – my guidance, my advice, and finally, my friendship. He's fresh and wild like a summer storm, whirling around me day and night. Haughty prince that he is still with all but me, I cannot help my love for him, and he grows to me as well.
In the morning he leaps onto my bed to wake me, nose pressing eagerly against mine with sweet laughter when he manages to startle me awake, and then he sits with his back to my chest while I brush his hair and tie it for the day. The skin on his nape is bronzed and burned from the sun and I'll softly kiss it before dismissing him from my arms. Before I do, he will simply not get up.
We have breakfast in his room alone, making games for ourselves while we eat. Catching olives that we toss back and forth, guessing in which closed hand we hide the pit of one. I help him dress and he stretches like a sun-drunk kitten beneath my touch as I fasten his belt and see that the simple chiton falls nicely about his shoulders, white as the waxen petals of the lotus swimming on the ponds in the olive grove. Then, he leaves for his weapon drills. I am not allowed to follow when he goes, but he always returns at midday, flying into my arms. He knows I will catch him; I promised and he trusts me.
Autumn hurries past and winter arrives with bone-crushing frost. Achilles hates the cold and at night, he slips from his bed into mine to share it. I am yet taller than him and my embrace warms him until he is content and rests, my arm a pillow for his head. He's so at ease when he sleeps beside me. I can see the dreams chasing one another behind his closed eyes, colorful and radiant as his beautiful mind.
He is such a child at heart, yet already Achilles is becoming more of a man faster than I can bear to witness.
In spring, I watch him grow into his limbs, long and slender as they are, stretching toward the sun like young birch branches. He is taken aback by the change, I can see it, but he is also deeply content with it. Vain – that, he is too.
For hours he basks by the ponds in the garden and absent-mindedly regards his reflection like Narciss. Anyone who bears witness to it would call him self-absorbed. Yet here I am, and I adore his beauty as much as he does. When he startles upon my call because he has been lost in his mirror-image in the pools, I laugh and weave him garlands of daffodils to wear among his golden hair as we walk the halls.
The last thing he takes from me is the hand I have offered for so long now.