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‘In the darkness, two shadows, reaching through the hopeless, heavy dusk. Their hands meet, and light spills in a flood, like a hundred golden urns pouring out from the sun.’
.
Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.
I could recognise and read back the sharpness of my breaths. Our hearts no longer beat blood in Hades, but if it still did, I would also hear the pounding and pressure deep in my chest. It had been too long, Patroclus was dead much longer than I ever was, yet his spirit traced nowhere in the underworld. Even in death, I yearned, grieved, clutching the darkness below me, craving for the other half of my soul.
I had spent too much time alone, but at the same time was grateful for the solitude. My mind expanded and reminded me every day of the war. The lives I had taken, the women robbed of their lives, the choices I made. Was I honoured, or just remembered? Remembered as the son of a sea nymph, promised to lead Troy to victory, to win back mighty Helen, and return her to her fiery husband Menelaus.
But I knew some, most, would look down at my name and scoff. The men who I fought side, would point a finger at me if asked responsible for half the deaths of our army. But this mattered no longer, whether I am remembered as a coward, a bastard of a man, the mightiest of the Greeks, Aristos Achaion, no label would strike me. There was no more land to walk upon and leave behind a trail of red when I was done.
In this chamber of reflection, Patroclus always came back to me. What did he think of me now? Was I corruption of war and torn worlds to his pretty eyes? Or was I still liking the boy on Pelion to him; tranquil and pure, promising he’d make me the happiest.
As the souls of the men among us travelled below the earth, I longed for answers. The first man to travel down was Ajax, his broad and almost monstrous appearance was one not to miss. His face, once driven with power and control, had washed over with shame and defeat. He came down only a few days after my arrival, and I could tell he wished not to talk about his demise, blinded by humiliation. We remarked each other, but didn’t greet with honour. Ajax was a stern man; it was easy to see the dispersed look of tension and anger on his face.
“Where is Patroclus?” I had asked in unbearable impatience, cutting our silence after letting it stretch for too long. Ajax’s expression didn’t shift, he was as still as a statue, carved from talented hands and clever minds.
“I do not know.” He responded, his voice quiet, sounding like he wished to be left alone. I listened to that silent and unspoken request. There would be no use demanding an answer. I could feel the fury, the wrath boiling in me again, but Ajax looked as lost and sad as a weepy child. I turned.
“Tell me if you hear word of him. Please,” and then I was gone.
Days blended into weeks, and I was still yearning. Every new Achaean soul that’s life had been ripped from them, I examined, questioned, anything to find my Patroclus. I should have been in Elysium, but I felt no worthy there. Patroclus was worth more than the divinity of the afterlife, he deserved a pure land, just for him, rich with blooming lands and fertile life, a colour to the night sky. I’d be considered fortunate to even step one foot near his presence.
I was familiar with the faces that passed; Ajax the Lesser, who ravaged Cassandra in front of a grand temple of Pallas Athena and was dragged into the sea from the wrath of Poseidon. Agamemnon joined us when he was murdered by his wife, Clytemnestra, avenging her daughter Iphigenia. So many sturdy souls. Most couldn’t bear to look at me, I might as well have all the blood of the lost Greeks marked on my body. Not a hero, but a monster worth slaying, yet I already rest in the ground.
One of these souls, I didn’t recognise at first. He looked young, too young to be among the dead, but he stood and talked like a man. No older than twelve or thirteen. Our eyes locked, I got a better look at his face; a curled-up jaw, green eyes that had a tint of blue, sharp and dragged, and his hair, a fiery red, thick with unruly curls. I was looking at my own blood. Pyrrhus, Neoptolemus, my son. I do not know if he recognised me, we had never once met. As quickly as his soul traced the underworld, he left to delve deeper into Hades, perhaps into Elysium. He looked no older than twelve or thirteen. Guilt flooded my veins, I was not his father, I never had been. What father allows his son to pass into the gates of Hades just as life starts blooming over him?
I fell; knees prickled against the meadows, and I felt the familiar, hollow feeling that gathered in my chest when I lost my beloved enveloped me.
“Philtatos” I whispered, tears staining my cheek and uncontrollable. I was no man worthy of Elysium, not even Asphodel. I deserved to be chained up, in the deeps of Tartarus, where I’d suffer eternally, granting the souls of who I deceived some sense of serenity. But oh, how I hurt the one I loved the most. Forever, that would sting deep into my stale heart, deeper and more powerful than a punishment in Tartarus would grant me.
Perhaps, Patroclus had passed into these eternal lands long ago, and is hiding from my presence, fearful of how I may tear him apart more than he had already been ravished. His soft eyes, forever gentle with gratitude, I’d never get lost in again. His soft curls, that were especially defined on the top of his head, I’d never caress with my fingertips. I had watched him grow, change, watched years of training and war label him, all those features becoming even more radiant. That was gone, and it was all my fault.
“Where are you, my beloved? I am sorry.”
It was just past the month mark of my arrival, and I was under a worn-out tree. Souls of the dead had greeted me, honoured me, treated me like a mortal god. But now, these souls had travelled on to be with their families, their beloveds, serenity, while I felt the heavy disconnection of my own soul. At this rate, I had learned to accept it, this new fate in death; I had lost Patroclus, in both worlds. The tree I lay under was close to the gates, never too far from potential hope. Manifested in me, he’d crush me in embrace, we’d kiss gently and softly, before tears dragged my words.
In the distance, a new soul, bright and searching, had stepped beyond the gates; feet patting quickly against the dirt.
I closed my eyes, picturing the days back on Pelion, with Chiron, the serenity of that soft face I’d stare at every night.
Patroclus’ always looked younger while he slept. Dropping the act, his tinted cheeks would rest, slightly plump and flushed. His eyelids were the colour of the lush dirt, hiding the life behind those beautiful, deep brown eyes. One curl would always rest in between his eyes, and I’d always brush it away to feel the softness of his skin. Now my hands had nothing to caress, only the empty breeze that slipped between my grips.
Achilles.
The waves crashing onto the sand, the sun burning and penetrating our bare skin on the spread beach. Our splashes and laughter, tangling limbs and stolen moments. Patroclus’ hands rested upon my shoulders and neck, while mine caressed his soft face, water droplets falling down our slicked bodies. We’d kiss, kiss some more and fall, over and over again.
Achilles.
Under our tree, the summer air crushing around us. He kissed my hands, rubbing my bruised knuckles in care and admiration. Patroclus’ fingertips caressed against the rough skin.
“I swear it.”
He would make me the happiest hero, I knew it. I made him swear it. I could be painted in blood, wounds outspreaded on my skin, torn to shreds, all to make sure we would be happy. Together.
But such strong promises could not protest fate, and now I was to blame for broken oath.
The pounding became more violent in my head, my eyes still closed shut, to almost prevent me from running back to reality. The memories, the life we once had, what we could have had, ran all through my soul. Obscurity dancing through my mind, a life of—
Achilles!
Suddenly, I was crushed with the heavy pressure of a person, forcing my sleepy eyes to jolt. All I saw from my position was dark curls, sprouting in a familiar pattern. Strong arms wrapped around my waist, crushing me with its tight embrace. The mysterious figure looked up at me, the face scarred but bloomed with content. Patroclus.
Several things happened at once. A strained mix of a gasp and a groan escaped my throat. I did not believe it was him, my throat swelling with the beginning of tears. I did not blink and froze for longer than I should had. Patroclus cupped my face in desperation, soft trickling drops escaping his eyes.
“Achilles..” Patroclus called out, as if I was far away, our noses touching slightly. His hair fell on my forehead. My hand reached out to feel them; I was still in disbelief of this scene. Perhaps the furies wanted me in death, and this was to drag me beyond Tartarus. But the familiar pattern of hair, the curl that fell longer than the rest, none could mistake him. I crumbled.
In an instant, I clung onto Patroclus with all I could, and tears flowed out of my eyes like a river through a storm. I wept into his shoulder, loudly and neglectful of my surroundings. I shed a child’s tears. My arms could not settle on Patroclus, one would rest on his upper back, while the other travelled lower, clutching harshly on the chiton he wore. Patroclus shifted slightly to his side, to make our embrace more comfortable, and wept with me, but his tears were not as messy and erratic as my own.
I mumbled whatever came to my head, I was lost in guilt, sorrow, the relief that coursed through my deceased veins. I’m sorry, I’d murmur, Patroclus, I’d cry out; Pat, I’d whisper, when the tears stole my energy. I could feel his warm skin, and I greedily drank him in.
When I gathered the need to look at him once more, the air brushed against my face, making me feel the dried tears. My hands slowly pulled away from his chiton, slightly shaking with emotion. He had looked far more peaceful than he had in those dragged ten years spent in the ruins of Troy, younger even. A very, slight smile tugged on his face. He looked ethereal. Patroclus pulled me in, resting his slightly damp forehead with mine, a gesture I hadn’t realised I missed so much. Our fingers tangled into one.
“I’m sorry.” I dragged out of my throat in a whisper, tears still swelling in my eyes. I repeated the phrase several times over, becoming more ceased and dragged as my head lowered to press against his chest. But it meant all the same.
Patroclus didn’t answer, not immediately. Perhaps he too was in shock or thinking past the wreckage of these years. The years of war had changed us, and this was the first in many we finally were apart from the lands of Troy.
“I know you’re sorry.” Patroclus whispered, still holding me in comfort. The guilt in my chest rose, and my grip tightened. I would have said more if he hadn’t continued.
“But I did not mourn for you, beg for approval just to forgive you.” He said in a reassuring manner, like how a parent would comfort a child. His fingers twirled around my frizzed-up hair. I revealed my face once more, staring deep into his expression.
“It should have been me—”
“Achilles.” Patroclus said, demanding me gently to silence, or to at least loathing words. My lips sealed. Tears began to build again, barely holding back as I saw the glisten in Patroclus’ eyes.
I leaned forward. My lips united with his, and my hands gripped his wild hair. Patroclus’ hands drift to my neck, a shiver running over me at the familiarity of the touch. Memories once more flooded me, the days and nights spent tracing areas we had many times before, ignoring and forgetting the outside world. Now there was no world to remember.
“I love you,” I whispered as my lips worshipped his jaw and neck. I felt him shiver, ripen. He quietly spoke,
“I love you too, always.”
No more words, and we were gone.
In this moment, our limbs became tangled and lost. We yearned for touch, more contact, each other. A low groan came from the back of my throat, desire, a feeling war had once fuelled. But the desire and need for Patroclus was always different from the satisfaction glory ever gave. The tree was further enough away from the gates, hidden from newly dead’s view.
We were panting, as if we were running for miles, and our cheeks were flushed with a dark red. I was pressed against the bark, the uncomfortable feeling of sweat building all over me, taking me. Our hands were almost as curious as the day we first ever did this, admiring every curve, rise and fall of our bodies. Those same marks, scars, they had lightened but never left. I kissed his neck, and all over, unsure if they’d even mark.
Our clothing was quick to be gone, tangling the fabrics off each other, our hands ceaseless.
I cannot remember the last time our hands were ever this fondling. For months, years, we dedicated our blood and sweat to Troy. Crushed skulls under out feet, blood-stained armour. My hands were rough, calloused, and carried the lives of countless Trojans. Patroclus remained the only human among us, and his hand stayed soft, warm and delicate. Feeling those hands run down my chest and belly, it was a relief once more.
My head fell into Patroclus’ shoulder when his skilled hands enveloped me, caressing below my abdomen, as I was feeling his back and the curve of his spine. The hoarse cries that left me only fuelled him. We were both princes in life, but in death, we could be anything. Achilles, Patroclus, husbands, philtatos, anything.
Patroclus knew what I liked, his hands played me like a lyre. The rhythm was familiar and overwhelming, heat drowning both of us. He gently rubbed my back in a soft motion with the empty hand.
“Achilles, come closer,” Patroclus gently whispered to me, continuing the peaceful movements of both hands. One praising the above, exploring old trails, the other stroking like the softest linen. I revealed my eyes once more, becoming more aware of Patroclus’ flushed state. His breathing, the pattern I knew., the sweat that slicked his body, I could feel it against my own. Tears swelled up again, and a strain of a moan and whine ran from my mouth. A feeling gathered.
My hands rested on Patroclus’ collarbone, the sharp and rigid bones striking against his skin. Our lips sealed once again, our breaths mingling. My hands rested on his thighs, the prickled skin, and let my hands wander. Hearing his hitched breath, I knew I got him, but I was further gone.
The feeling gathered before I cried out into Patroclus’ throat, letting him drink in the noises of my pleasure. We separated, panting and wet, my hands still worshipping my beloved. In a second, Patroclus had forced me down onto the grass, staring at his face. I had watched Troy melt away our last signs of boyhood, it was gradual, but he would forever be beautiful. I knew all about him; I could read him all in one.
Our souls recognised each other in a way our bodies couldn’t, despite the everlasting pleasure it gave. His deep brown eyes rested the same way they did on Pelion; relaxed, youthful, content. My legs gently wrapped around his hips, we were so close that our sweat and slickness was unable to be discrete. It never had to be.
“Please never listen to me again.” I say to him, smiling at the sight I was blessed to see. He laughed.
“We’ll see about that.” I heard him say with a laugh.
And in one movement, we were one. No pain, just a strange, mellow feeling that bloomed into satisfaction. Patroclus cried out, and the noise carried a beauty that a hyacinth couldn’t mimic. He always made that noise, a muses blessing.
Our arms slide and fill any empty space that remained. If we weren’t already close enough, Patroclus made sure our chests were firm together. My mind was muddied and cloudy, and the noises I made were embarrassingly pellucid.
It may had been my plagued mind, but I had forgotten we were even in death. The feeling, every time we had done this, still stayed, never changing. The strong urges still felt humane, Patroclus still was as beautiful as he always was, nothing had changed. If my heart kept beating, it would well be racing against the fabric of time.
The pressure of my beloved’s body had pressed me towards the ground of death, my head and neck uncomfortably resting against the bark. It is enough, I can see all of him. Patroclus always had always looked at bliss and serenity in this stolen moment, and so had I followed.
But now, all I could do was weep as my hands wandered and gripped harshly, forgetting it was skin that grazed my fingers. A moan left my throat, a mixture of grief and pleasure. It was humiliating, I was like a young girl weeping at her mother’s feet.
Patroclus leaned forward more, one hand feeling my hardened face, puffed and exhausted with tears. His own deep brown eyes glistened.
“I’m right here, I got you,” He whispered, promised. I nodded, and the continuous motions that our bodies shared swifted.
“Stay,” I command, whisper like a prayer, my arms unable to remain still.
Stay. Stay. Stay. I said this multiple times, or perhaps I repeated his name over and over again. If we could stay like this, eternally locked in time and place, then a new life sounded agonizing.
I could tell Patroclus was climbing higher, matching the urges and cries of my own body. We cupped each other like hands, heat claiming us all in one. My eyes shut as I felt Patroclus shake, gripping my rough flesh, pain never felt. A second or two later, I reached the same peak, and we were both gone.
The intense desire was replaced with bliss, a calming recovery of a shared peak. Our breaths shook, and bodies collapsed. I felt Patroclus’ wild hair press against my chest, my fingers reminded of the texture. My chest rises and falls, eyelids heavy.
“We’ll be okay,” He stated, promised. The reassurance in the voice dropped my eyelids to cover my eyes.
I repeated the same words, feeling cowardly. Even in death I could not form my words. There was so much I wish I said, but I didn’t know where to start.
In a shuttered whisper, a shiver of wind, I spoke.
“I’m sorry.”