Chapter Text
Zagreus put on his most winning smile and reached out a hand to wave at the adoring crowd filling up the stadium.
After enough of these matches with Theseus, Asterius, and now his own sister, he had to admit he was beginning to understand Theseus’ obsession with the thrill of it all. More and more of the shades had begun to display Zagreus’ banner, and he had slowly but surely become the fan favorite, at least in a general sense. Best of all, the increased fame came with increased opportunities for Zagreus to sharpen his wit on the demanding crowd.
He was about to try out a new line he’d been cooking up when the roar of the crowd suddenly rose, and he saw the now-familiar flash of saffron and spectral green across the arena, heralding his sister’s arrival.
“Well met, Sister!” Zagreus called, waving to her. “Have you seen my biggest fan lately?”
Zagreus truly did miss the little shade who always used to cheer him on, though Melinoë had assured him the shade was now quite content to be serving under Skelly—or, the Commander, as she called him.
“He’s doing well, and sends his regards!” Melinoë called back, crossing the arena to meet him.
Zagreus would have to take her word for it; his sister was the only one he knew who could reliably communicate with nearly any shade, even those who had lost both form and voice.
“Do you have it? Doubled the recipe like I asked?” Zagreus asked, lowering his voice as he embraced his sister in their customary greeting. It might not have been the most private place to meet—just about as far as possible from it—but at least the roar of the crowd would allow him and his sister to converse without fear of being overheard.
“Yes, I have it, and no, I absolutely did not double the recipe like you asked,” Melinoë said as she pulled away and began to reach into her satchel.
Zagreus’s face fell.
“I need two doses, Melinoë. Giving them just the one would be more an insult than a gift.”
“Peace, Brother, I have made the two you requested. I’m merely pointing out that you clearly know less than nothing about alchemy. ‘Double the recipe’ indeed. If Hecate had heard you say that, or gods forbid, Medea—"
“All right, all right, I get it,” Zagreus said, hands raised in playful surrender. “I know nothing about alchemy.”
“Less than nothing,” Melinoë corrected.
“Less than nothing,” Zagreus agreed.
Melinoë smiled with approval as she produced the two small bottles from her bag and placed them into Zagreus’ hands.
“Huh,” Zagreus said, turning one of them over a few times. “They’re, uh… greener than expected. And kind of wicked-looking. You’re sure these will work? An entire night at least?”
Melinoë shrugged, a mischievous gleam in her eyes.
“Worked just fine for Icarus. I should know, I was with him the whole night.”
“Right. I’m going to choose to believe right now that it was a wildly entertaining night of board games, lyre playing, and various feats of strength.”
Melinoë laughed, raising a hand to her lips.
“Well, there was certainly wrestling,” she said.
Zagreus closed his eyes and tilted back his head with a deep sigh.
“Why, Melinoë? Why? I did not need to know that about my baby sister.”
“No need to act so prudish, Brother. After all, isn’t sex the whole point of this gift you asked me to prepare?” Melinoë asked.
“I—well, yes,” Zagreus admitted. In fact, the moment he’d heard about this new draught Melinoë had learned how brew, he had thought of the plight of his two dearest shade friends. By his reckoning, there were none more deserving of this gift than them. “Though surely sex cannot be the only thing a shade might miss about their mortal body?” Zagreus continued. “Eating, for one thing. Drinking. Feeling the warm breeze on their skin. Cuddling.”
“If Icarus is any example to go off of, your mentor and his lover aren’t likely to spend much time eating, drinking, and ‘feeling the warm breeze on their skin’ before they get right down to the cuddling,” Melinoë said with a smirk.
“Yes, well, can’t say I’d blame them,” Zagreus said. He held up the small, round bottles. “What do I owe you for these, anyway?”
“Oh, no need to worry about the cost. I have a good stock right now of the ingredients, and it doesn’t take terribly long to brew,” Melinoë said with a light shrug.
“Really?” Zagreus asked, surprised.
Melinoë nodded.
“I’ve already brewed a small store of them. Kept under magickal lock and key, of course.”
Zagreus’ thoughts turned to his many shade acquaintances, most of whom would jump at the chance to have a mortal body again, if only for a night. Come to think of it, most any shade would likely feel the same.
“Such indulgences could become a real problem for Father if not closely safeguarded,” Zagreus pondered aloud.
“That is a concern, unfortunately. And we don’t know yet how addictive this draught could be—which is why I beg your discretion in this selfless endeavor,” Melinoë said.
“I don’t think we need to worry about addiction with Achilles. He’s rather content for a shade, especially considering he was once a legendary hero. But I know he’ll appreciate it, so…thanks. Truly.”
“You’re welcome. Now set those down somewhere safe so I can give you the thrashing you’re begging for,” Melinoë said, Lim and Oros now gleaming in her hands.
Ever since the renewal project had gotten underway, Zagreus had begun to bring extra supplies to one particular meadow each time he passed through Elysium. Patroclus was usually there to receive them, though Achilles was sometimes present as well.
The current result of their efforts was a large tent that now housed a variety of rugs, a small table and chairs, a mirror, and a neat pile of blankets and pillows in one corner that served as a bed. Though neither of the two shades could sleep, they did enjoy reclining there together when Achilles was off-duty, relishing the comfort and privacy of their increasingly personalized quarters.
That was where they lay now, eyes shut as they each indulged in their own private daydreams.
It was Patroclus who opened his eyes first, reaching above Achilles' right brow to gently caress a lock of hair that was noticeably shorter than the rest.
They had never openly discussed Achilles’ self-inflicted mark of grief—Achilles still hated to speak of the circumstances of their untimely deaths—but Patroclus had made him aware through subtle means that he knew what Achilles had done, and that he loved him all the more for it.
They were lucky, though perhaps some would say blessed, to have retained the likenesses they’d held at the time of their deaths. Over the years they had both experimented with cutting their hair and even scarring their skin. The result was always the same: they would revert back to their original form within a few minutes. Even if their physical bodies were completely destroyed—a discomforting, though painless experience—they always returned less than a day later, whole and unchanged.
For Achilles it meant his hair would never even out; he would go on bearing that subtle mark above his brow until he ceased to exist.
Achilles stirred and opened his eyes at the familiar touch.
“Feeling nostalgic, ζωή μου?” Achilles asked.
Zoí mou, he still called Patroclus. My life. The sentiment behind the words held true even in the afterlife.
Patroclus met his gaze with a level of intensity he very rarely displayed.
“Tell me something you regret,” he said. His words were a demand, his tone a gentle petition.
Achilles searched his lover’s face, studying each furrowing line like an old poem he’d read before. This one spoke of things left undone.
“You know I do not prefer this game,” Achilles reminded him, sitting up. Such conversations were painful to Achilles—or as close to pain as a shade could get.
“I know.”
Too proud to even to say “please,” Achilles thought. But he knew his lover. The fact that Patroclus hadn’t retracted the request even upon acknowledging Achilles’ discomfort meant that this was of great importance to him. Forget please; Patroclus may as well have been begging.
Achilles resolved to respond quickly, lightly, and then to listen. It was the best way to save himself the pain while still filling the role that Pat clearly needed from him.
“I regret that I did not climb enough trees in my youth,” Achilles answered, solemnly.
One corner of Pat’s mouth twitched upward, which Achilles counted as a decisive victory over his lover’s usual stolidity.
“An ill regret indeed. And doubly tragic for how easily it could have been avoided,” Pat said, matching his solemn tone.
Achilles replied with an easy smile, a gesture Pat never needed to work hard to earn. Then he waited patiently.
The curved line of Pat’s mouth thinned as he resumed his usual neutral expression, and several more seconds passed before he spoke again.
“You were a father,” he said, looking down at his hands, clasped together in his lap.
A simple statement of fact, but Achilles was caught off-guard nonetheless. They never spoke of the princess from Skyros who had borne him a son. It was a regret Achilles had long since made peace with, a thread of his past that Patroclus had never once blamed him for.
“I had a son,” Achilles gently corrected. “I was never a father.”
Patroclus nodded slowly, thoughtfully.
“Is that your regret? That you never fathered a son?” Achilles prompted when the silence between them had stretched too long for comfort.
“No,” Pat replied, easily. He shrugged. “I would have been just as happy with a daughter.” A subtle injection of humor, though there was no hint of mirth in his tone or expression.
“But you wanted to father a child?” Achilles pressed.
“I wanted to father your child.”
Another brief silence.
“Did you not know I was only playacting on Skyros?” Achilles asked, hoping his wit was sharp enough to slice through the thick emotion in the air.
All he earned was a bitter laugh from Patroclus.
“Low of you to mock me while my soul is laid bare before you, Pyrrha,” he said, pointedly using the name Achilles had borne while disguised as a woman.
“You’re right, that was thoughtless,” Achilles acknowledged. “But I was playacting in more ways than one on that island. I never loved the princess—only you. Always you. And I would have gladly had children with you, had the gods been willing to put a hand in and bless our union. It is far from the strangest request they have accommodated.”
The bitterness faded from Pat’s face, and Achilles could only hope that confiding this regret had brought his lover some modicum of peace. Just when Achilles had thought the brief exchange well and truly over, Patroclus suddenly spoke again.
“I have told you a real regret,” he said. “Will you extend the same courtesy to me?”
The words came to Achilles without thought.
“I regret every night spent without you in my arms.”
“Then let us not regret this one.”