Chapter Text
Warm night — the air perfumed with olive blossom and dried blood. Waves lapping at the shore, drowning out the sleeping moans of the other soldiers — minds drifting in dreams to their homes, their wives, the lives lost and sundered to the endless grind of bodies atop the scorched sand. A voice somewhere from above, familiar. Half-sleeping eyes open and rise to meet a face framed in golden light. Flaxen curls spill forth and down, mingling with the dark ringlets which fall around his own shoulders. Sadness in the features, etched into the lines of the skin, kiss-stained corners of the lips turned down. He leans upwards, catches that sadness in his mouth, swallows it.
Time passes, quiet returns, broken only by a voice hushed, near-silent in the crackling air.
“Pat, the war won’t go on forever.”
“That is exactly what I fear.”
He watched them lope across the grass, spears aloft, in pursuit of some antlered creature. Not a deer exactly. A half-remembered image of one, perhaps, poorly rendered by an unskilled artist. It was the wrong colour, a sickly grey, with an undercurrent of lavender that seemed to iridesce in the eternal noon-sun of the fields. It evaded them on six legs — That can't be right either — pulling up clumps of flowered soil as its hooves tore past. Patroclus met its eyes — at least, the pair not tangled in the twisting bramble of antlers above its head — silently wishing it well in its evasion of their speartips. The cohort passed out of sight, their scattered formation betraying their individual desires for glory — to be the first to plunge gilded bronze into that ashen, otherworldly flesh, to draw forth the ambrosial blood from within.
If the deer got loose they would turn their weapons on each other, tearing and rending their bodies until there was nothing but blood on the grasses. And then they would return, bodies resculpted from the clay, un-life coursing through them once again. It was a theatre he had become accustomed to. He left them, continuing along his way, feet stuttering slightly as his faculties returned to the task at hand. The walk was familiar to him. How many centuries had he passed travelling back and forth between those two spaces? Time was not as it was on the surface. The hours passed by unmarked, the ersatz sun remaining aloft, unmoving, spilling forth its blazing heat without respite. The vault of the firmament seemed lower somehow — far from the cerulean infinity of his vaguely remembered life — betraying their location beneath the rocks and the soil and the bones of he and his fellows. He had never bought the idea of Elysium as paradise — the finality of its nature antithetical to the utopian vision of freedom they had been promised as children, as young warriors. How could one be truly free, if there was never an option to leave? Even as a child, he had thought it a cruel act of the Gods, to bless them with the curse of eternity, ever yearning for the cool darkness of the void.
It was hot, as always. Patroclus' rest — he had stopped calling it sleep some time ago — had been fitful, plunging him as it so often did into the depthless recesses of his memories. He remembered the unconscious dreaming of life, the sudden transitions between sleep and waking. Things were different in death. What passed for sleep in the realm of souls was a mere shifting of perception. The mind would drift, the surrounding world slipping away, fading at the edges, blurring into a zoetrope of half-remembered sights and sounds plumbed from the depths of memory. It was impossible to tell what was real, and what was imagined. The scale of time rendered things irrelevant. Patroclus had spent enough time dead to fill one hundred of his lifetimes on the surface. Yet still, eternity awaited.
His glade was as he had left it, as it always was. He paused to inspect the statue — half-crumbling, seemingly resistant to the cleansing, restorative aether which repaired all matter — trying in vain to discern a recognizable face among the cracked and faded marble. It was a daily ritual, approaching meditation, as much for his own peace as anything else. He understood little of the metaphysics of the realm, save for that which was explained to him as he was escorted upwards through the realms of Hades. He remembered the figure who drew his formless soul from the murk, the rough hands — a bluish pallor to the skin, not unlike that of the fervent warriors of Elysium, although brimming under the surface with the same divine light as all other immortals. Her demeanour had been cold, disaffected, her features sharp. Her sentences were short and staccato, betraying nothing more than was strictly required of her. Patroclus had been too dazed to respond — awash in the unfamiliar return of his senses after such a time in the pits.
"The world will shape itself to your command", she said. "To an extent."
She paused to catch his eye, as if to make sure he was listening. He nodded, fearful of the hand which rested above the handle of her whip — that cruel length of rope with which she had so deftly beaten back the crawling wretches who had clung to her, begging for their salvation, as they had ascended towards Elysium.
"I understand."
"You are free to do as you wish. Should you come to harm, your body will be restored. You need not eat, although provisions will be provided."
"Thank you."
They had paused at the gates to the realm — reaching towards the mountainous sky, lacquered in bronze, the glittering portal into the final heaven of the deserving. And still, something clung to the front of his mind.
"Why am I here?"
He watched a smile pass through her features. It wasn't a gesture of mirth, more of cruelty, a joke at someone else's expense.
"A bargain was struck, a contract signed. His paradise, for yours."
His mind reeled. A name swam beneath the surface, eluding his grasp. A face forgotten in the interim. The depersonifying mists of Tartarus had snatched his memories as keenly as they had dissolved his form. They returned to him in fits and starts, missing faces, gaping holes ripped into the tapestry of his story.
"Who?"
Her smile solidified, something in his pained expression and plaintive voice striking a chord within her. His suffering was exquisite.
"I am not at liberty to say."
His response confused her. He didn't attempt to beg, to grovel at her feet for succor. There were no tears, no screams, no agony. He merely accepted her conclusion, and turned once more towards the gate, which had opened before him.
"Is it true what they say about the river which flows through here? That it can erase memories?"
She nodded.
"Drink the waters of the Lethe and your memories will fade. The effect isn't immediate, but it is irreversible."
"And what becomes of those who do?"
Her smirk returned.
"You'll see."
The Lethe was quiet that day — he hadn't quite yet quit the habit of surface partitions of time, despite the difficulty with which one marked their passing in Elysium. Regularly, it babbled along beside him, accompanying his thoughts with the myriad discarded histories of so many heroes. Snatches of conversations, revelry, violence. How many idyllic childhoods had passed under Patroclus' eye, only to fade into grey nothing once more?
He set his eyes on the grass before him, familiar in colour and texture to that which one might encounter on the surface. He ran his fingers among the blades, seeking the soft, cool earth beneath, pressing his palm close. The glade was shaded by a number of trees — wine-coloured branches weighed heavily by unripe fruits the likes of which Patroclus was not familiar with. In his home he grew plants, coaxed herbs and vegetables to bloom and flourish with all the requisite tenderness required of him. Although food was provided to him in abundance, to eat that which he had procured for himself out of the ground had been a minor joy in the depressing monotony of his non-existence. What time he spent not meditating in the glade, he passed in the garden, knees in the dirt, cloak discarded to feel the warmth of that artificial sun against his skin. Sometimes, up to his knuckles in alien soil, skin aflame and sweat coursing down his body in rivulets, he would feel as though life had returned to him, the weighted coverings of death sloughed off and forgotten. Fleeting as those moments were, he appreciated them all the same.
He had wondered often of the other shades — not the thoughtless barbarians who stalked the rolling fields endlessly in search of new foes, repeating the same insipid ballet of violence they had rehearsed in life. Rather, he contemplated those, like him, who had not given themselves over to the Lethe. He knew of some who resided as he did, carving out their own private spaces among the statues and fountains, whittling away their eternities in solace. He knew of others who sought glory still, desperate to emblazon their names upon the lips of those countless shadows who populated the coliseum. Surely that had already been achieved? Surely to reside in Elysium was glory enough, to be recognized as a hero of the ages, second only to the gods themselves in your power and acclaim? And yet, he watched those former kings throw themselves into the pit over and over again in seeking... something.
It was fruitless, in any case. No one had defeated Theseus and his Bull since they had made their debut so long ago. Patroclus had been privy to their arrival. The former king of Athens had arrived alone — his divine musculature threatening to burst forth from his skin, not as dark as Patroclus but not far off. His hair sat like strands of delicately placed sunlight, swept back as if by wind. He was beautiful, of which there was no doubt, but loathsome and brash in his attitudes. He was devoid of manners, having approached Patroclus once with the sneer of a self-assured youth. His rebuff of Theseus' challenge to a fight had left the man bewildered, spluttering in dismay until Patroclus had bid him farewell and departed. Later, the shades had whispered among themselves of a pact which had been made with the lord of the realm. A partner for the young king, a companion from life whom he had wished out of the depths of Tartarus. According to the shades, the bull's freedom had come only upon Theseus' ascension of the throne of Elysium — a fragile construction concocted by the gaggle of prideful old beggars among them, desperate to reinstate themselves in death as they had been in life. He had fought with a dogged determination, so the tale went, slaying and slaying again all who opposed him until his position was secured, at which point the bull was drawn forth to walk among men.
Something in the story had pricked at Patroclus' mind, the notion of a soul such as his own lifted at the request of another from the dark depths. According to his escort all those ages ago, that had been the reason for Patroclus' arrival in Elysium. An intercession on his behalf. But there had been a price, or so she had said. Yet what price had Patroclus paid? An un-life spent among dead kings and fallen warriors? An eternity alone? At least in Erebus there had been silence, darkness, peace. It stirred anger in him, that whomever had spoken for him had left him so, grasping at empty air for answers which swam beneath the impenetrable veil of time and memory lost.
Always in his dreaming his mind returned to the same spaces — beaches, endless dunes rolling from horizon to horizon, bordered by the restless ocean. And always the other, the featureless face which drew him ever closer, the hands reaching for him, the body which lay against the image of his own.
Who were they, that nameless shade?
In Elysium, peace was a luxury seldom afforded. Patroclus was lucky. For the most part, he was left to his own devices, undisturbed by the vainglorious shades and their near-constant taunts to battle. He had cultivated an air of mystery with which he could cloak himself. The stories ranged in content — some days he was a forgotten warrior of the first ages of man, the most senior resident of Elysium; others, he was a philosopher, a prophet of the gods, granted the gift of paradise in exchange for his contributions to humanity. No matter what was believed, the cumulative effect meant that he was of little interest to those petty figures and their ceaseless fighting. He carried a weapon — all in Elysium were gifted with tools of their choice, should their desire for blood present itself — yet had seldom laid a hand on it, merely as a warning against those still foolish enough to challenge him. He had arrived with a spear — a relic from his life, given form once again in death. One day, in the throes of a shameful memory of violence and despair, he had awoken with a singular purpose, driving the speartip into the stone, shattering it irreperably. As the mists had gathered, preparing to undo his action, he had commanded them to halt, to let it remain as it was. It was by that forgotten spear that he now sat each day, contemplating the soft murmurings of the Lethe.
It was one such day — beneath the shade of those ever-fruiting trees, eyes fixated on the tumbling dance of a waterfall which had sprung up since his last visit — that his carefully managed peace was disturbed. It began as noise — a clangorous racket breaching the eastern walls of his enclosure. He turned slowly, eyes on the gates, watching for movement. The noise halted — the sounds of swordplay and pained howls growing silent as quickly as they had started up — and there was a beat of stillness before the door sunk into the ground, revealing the intruder. Patroclus rose instinctively, eyes trained on the figure, body still. He was a boy, at least in his appearance, lean and strong. His body was bloodied, dark hair matted with the glistening, starry ichor that ran through the veins of the Elysians, his stance slumped as he leaned on his sword — larger than his own body — for support. Patroclus eyed him wearily, understanding implicitly that this figure did not belong in Elysium. He straightened, eventually, taking a deep breath, before looking up, his eyes locking with Patroclus. There was a moment of stillness, before the sword was raised, grasped in both of his hands as he took up a fighting stance once again. Patroclus raised his hands calmly, palms splayed wide, bowing his head forward in acquiescence.
"You needn't raise your sword against me, stranger. I do not wish to engage you in combat."
He saw the figure's eyes — one green, one scarlet — narrow in suspicion.
"I don't believe you," he called. His voice was brimming with youth, self-assured despite his misgivings.
Patroclus shrugged.
"I don't know what else to tell you. I have no interest in killing or being killed."
He watched the boy contemplate his words — could practically see the wheels of his mind turning over themselves — before he slumped once more, nodding.
"I-... Thank you."
Patroclus said nothing, watching him make his way towards the western gates, saw him inspect the glyphs above the doors, foreign to Patroclus' understanding, yet which seemed to bear meaning to his guest. Satisfied, or rather not, the boy turned, falling to sit by the rocks at the base of the waterfall, allowing the spray to collect in his hair, washing away the starry remains of his adversaries.
"You are not from this place, are you?" Patroclus asked, returning to his original seated position, no longer fearing the strike of the boy's blade. He lifted his head from the cool waters at the address, a grin forming at the sides of his mouth, far from the mirthless grimace of Patroclus' former escort.
"What gave me away?"
"The fact that you lowered your weapon after I made it clear I have no desire to fight you. I find the shades of this realm are as pugnacious as they are devoid of any humour or manners."
"I only understood a few of those words but I'm going to choose to believe you were complimenting me."
He couldn't help but laugh, a soft chuckle tinkling like music out of a mouth which after so long had forgotten what laughter felt like. The boy opened one eye to observe him, grinning right back.
"My name is Zagreus. What's yours?"
"Unnecessary for our conversation, I should think."
"That's a real mouthful."
"You're very funny, Zagreus. Although, I fear I must ask you what brings you here, for it is obvious you do not belong."
Zagreus sat up, back against the rocks, hair dripping onto his shoulders, and eyed Patroclus wearily.
"I'm trying to escape."
"From Elysium?"
"From the underworld. I'm trying to find my mother."
Patroclus could hear it in the boy's words, the defiant, assured determination which betrayed the truth of his statement. It sent heat coursing through his middle, unlocking some private memory from within — a voice carrying that same weight, projected across a crowd of men, enraptured by the sound, enthralled by its power. That same voice lowered, speaking only to Patroclus of hillsides and groves and fields of wheat, just beyond the churning tide of war. He swallowed, suddenly uncomfortable, and stood once more.
"You are an Olympian."
The statement left Patroclus' lips as if of its own accord, some universal truth unfettered by his thoughts. Zagreus nodded.
"Sort of. My father is the lord of the realm."
"You are the son of Lord Hades?"
Zagreus nodded again, curtly, the sound of the name causing a wincing twitch to pass over his features. Patroclus felt dread grow in the pit of his stomach. He pictured the lord of death barrelling through the fields, his dark shadow looming over Patroclus, demanding retribution for having aided in his son's escape. He swallowed, returning his gaze to Zagreus, who had stood.
"I fear you may have doomed my soul, young Zagreus."
Confusion coloured the boy's features, his head tilting, before recognition finally bloomed behind his eyes.
"I wouldn't worry about Father coming to torture you, Sir. He hasn't left his desk in millennia."
"I see."
"If anything, it would be his emissaries, but even then, I wouldn't worry. His chief torturer is currently floating in the Styx, to the best of my knowledge."
"I would imagine you had a hand in that?"
"Yes, and I'm sure she and her whip will be waiting for me the next time I see her."
At the mention of the whip, Patroclus' thoughts returned to the figure who had carried him out of Tartarus, the stone-faced woman and her torturous smile. He balked at the prospect of meeting her under less pleasant circumstances, feeling as though a lead weight had plummeted from his throat into the depths of his being.
"I must ask that you leave me, Zagreus. I do not wish to become fodder for the house of the dead. My existence here has been peaceful, and I request that you do not disturb that peace."
"I-" he began, raising a hand as if to reach for Patroclus, before sighing and dropping it to his side. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to drag you into this. For what it's worth, I don't think they would pursue you. You wouldn't be the first to have aided me in my journey. I apologize for intruding."
He turned to leave, Patroclus suddenly guilty at the drop in his shoulders. He grimaced at the twinge of sympathy that flared unwanted in the centre of his chest, reaching into his pack for another of Elysium's gifts.
"Hold on, stranger. Let me give you something."
Zagreus halted, half-turned on his heels, as Patroclus held out his hands.
"Take some of this," he offered, passing Zagreus a vial of some aetheric liquid — black as night, flecked with stars, "It's the essence of a hydra’s blood — or so I've been told. It will heal some of your wounds."
Zagreus accepted the drink with a nod, clasping Patroclus' fingers in his own in a gesture of solidarity, before setting off again. He watched him as he paused at the gates, before choosing the leftmost — bearing the sigil of a blue trident. Soon, the sounds of violence returned, accompanied by an echoing voice, which resounded through the fields as clear as day calling to Zagreus with all the bluster and bravado of any of the kings of Patroclus' realm.
Quietly, Patroclus packed himself up, returning to the solitude of his abode, retiring to his garden until the fear which gripped him had abated.
At one point, glancing up from a bed of blooming hyacinths — each blossoming head the colour of ripened grapes, some mimicking the dappled blue sky of home — he spied a crumpled heap, floating down the Lethe as it passed beyond the boundary of his abode. As it approached, he inhaled sharply. It was the boy — body broken and twisted, stained red, recogniseable only by his mis-matched eyes, bulging unseeing from his destroyed face. Patroclus watched as he was washed away, swallowing his shock. He wasn’t unfamiliar with the sight of death — not least in his life, never mind in Elysium — but in that moment, he felt himself overcome by some unnameable sorrow. He ducked his head once more to the soil, conscious of the deep gouges his fingers had scored into the earth where his fists had clenched around it.
After such a time in Elysium, Patroclus understood implicitly that life and death were merely interchangeable states of being, between which one could flit seamlessly at will. As such, it was no surprise to him when Zagreus tumbled into his glade once again, some time after their previous encounter. It had been brief — a sheepish, embarrassed exchange of words, with Patroclus handing him yet another trinket to aid him in his journey. The whole exchange had left him feeling somewhat like a mother hen, clucking nervously over her charges.
Despite his prior request to be left alone, it seemed that the mechanism of the Fates had other designs for he and young Zagreus, who seemed to reappear at startlingly regular intervals, often bruised and beaten, dripping in fluids. It was unseemly, but Patroclus had to admit that the company made for a distinct change in pace.
“I’m sorry I keep showing up,” Zagreus had begun, once, “I don’t know how much you understand of the geography of the place, but it sort of leads me in the same direction each time, more or less.”
The two of them were seated, Zagreus propped up against yet another of his varied arsenal of weaponry — a shield bearing the mark of, according to Zagreus, Lord Zeus of Olympus himself. The atmosphere had been still, the silence of the air broken only by Zagreus’ sudden exclamation at the appearance of a harmless butterfly — cornflower blue wings almost translucent in the sunlight. It had taken some coaxing from Patroclus for him to leave it, bewildered and amused by his obtuse reaction.
“How do you mean?” he had replied, passing Zagreus yet another of his infinite stores of Cyclops meat to distract him from the insectile terror flapping in his periphery.
“The glyphs above the gates, they guide me.”
There had been more, but most of it had evaded Patroclus’ understanding, and so he had merely nodded.
“And so, is there a glyph which tells you that I will be here?”
Zagreus smiled.
“Yes.”
“And so you deliberately betray my wishes to be left alone on a regular basis?”
His smile faltered, sensing more than humour in Patroclus’ tone.
“I-... Yes, I do, I’m sorry.”
“I was joking, mostly. Much as I might prefer the silence, I must say you are a great deal more polite than the others who reside in Elysium.”
“It’s just… I enjoy it here, with you. The peace. It makes a nice change.”
“Peace was never something I knew in my mortal life, and so I do find myself seeking it almost exclusively in death.”
Zagreus nodded, tearing into the meat with a zeal that reminded Patroclus once again of that forgotten face from his past — enough to bring a quirking smile to his lips.
“Were you a great warrior in your life, dear Sir? I hear that is the requisite for residence in Elysium.”
Patroclus swallowed, his mood suddenly soured, tongue scraping the inside of his cheek. He forced himself into a grimacing smile, heaving his body up to stand, Zagreus following him, expression guilty.
“I think it’s time we called it a day, Zagreus. I have asked you repeatedly to respect my privacy, and yet still you insist. If our quiet arrangement mystifies you so, perhaps it would be unwise to continue.”
He watched hurt crest over Zagreus’ features, could hear the scolding voice in his mind imploring him to be kind to the child. He bowed his head and retrieved his shield, sliding his arm into the hold without meeting Patroclus’ eyes.
“I apologize. I will leave you.”
He turned, and departed without another word, leaving Patroclus slightly cold, wishing he had perhaps been kinder.
“You needn’t turn everything into an argument!” the voice said, anger flaring outwards from him like waves of crackling heat from a fire.
“I am not responsible for the reactions of others! If they find my words objectionable, perhaps they should look beyond their own myopic visions to see my perspective.”
Silence fell between them, the other shucking garments in a quiet simmering rage, unwilling to push things further. They bathed, separately. They ate in silence, their distance closed only briefly as food was passed along. It was only later, lying in their shared chambers, the night’s cool air carrying the scent of jasmine blossoming in the court gardens, that his hand found the other’s.
“I am afraid,” he admitted, “I know the stories, I know your place within them, your role to play. This war will be the end of you.”
“We write our own stories, Patroclus. Perhaps ours shan’t end in sorrow.”
“You speak as though your words alone might defy the Fates.”
“Perhaps they will.”
Zagreus didn't return for some time. At first, Patroclus had been glad — free once more to exist quietly on his own terms, to pass his eternity as he had wished, in solitude. Yet, as time wore on, and the endless days laid themselves at his feet, he began to miss those exuberant intrusions, Zagreus' distinctly cheerful disposition, despite his extraordinary circumstances. He still heard him, tearing his way through Elysium on a regular basis, at times coming close to Patroclus' chambers, yet always turning away at the last moments. Word had gotten out of his multiple defeats of Theseus and the Bull, sending rippling waves of gossip throughout the land, quickly dispelled by the braggart king's assurances that the boy was merely a foul demon summoned by outside forces to disrupt the rigid hierarchy of Elysian life. In other words, Theseus had deftly absorbed Zagreus into his own mythology — the perfect heel to the young king's golden narrative. With every slaughter — Theseus’ pained groans as the Bull fell to Zagreus’ sword, or the howled laments of the Bull himself rocking the walls of Patroclus' enclosure, many chambers away, calling for his fallen King — the crowd grew paradoxically more intoxicated with Theseus, their cheers ever louder as he reappeared for his next fight. For Zagreus' own part, his body could still be seen floating in the Lethe on occasion, often punctured by some cruel spear, his face caught in a grimace somewhere between disappointment and shock.
Despite his failure to convince the shades of Elysium of Theseus' inadequacies, Patroclus was distinctly aware of the effect that young Zagreus was having on the psyche of the Golden King — as his fan club had named him. Once, clipping the tender stems of the herbs sprouting in between his flowering plants lest they begin to jostle one another for primacy, the humming ambience of Patroclus' home had been disturbed by the nearing sound of two pairs of stomping feet. Rising from his kneeling position in the dirt, he spotted them — the sunshine-haired youth and his hulking companion, whose horns bracketed the false sun where he stood over the other, who sulked at the bank of the Lethe. The Bull stood with his hands on his hips, the muscles of his broad back practically glowing in the light. Periodically, his tail would swish, swatting away insects where they crept from the tall rushes up towards the hem of his peplum.
"Asterius," he had begun, addressing the Bull — he hadn't been aware the Minotaur possessed a name. "The things he said, that… blackguard , they… they weren't true, right?"
Even from so far away, Patroclus could hear Asterius' snorting reply, his phrases curt, words thick and difficult when spoken through a mouth not built to articulate them.
"No. You know this, King."
"Then why do you question me so? Until that demon's appearance, you never found fault in our training, our strategies. And yet now upon his words I find you enthralled, and suddenly you are dissatisfied with my performance. What has changed?"
Patroclus began to feel as though he was intruding upon something he wasn't supposed to see.
"This is… not true, King."
"Do you deny your dissatisfaction?"
He watched Asterius lean back as if struck, his bovine ears twitching, his broad lip pulling back over his teeth in a snarl.
"I am diss-" in his anger, his tongue stumbled over the phonemes. He paused and continued, "I am unhappy with our defeats. That is all. I believe you are being unreasonable."
"Unreasonable?" Theseus replied, voice rising to a shout, standing to confront Asterius, who took an uneasy step backwards. "How dare you! You-"
Theseus swallowed his words, presumably at the sight of Asterius' face, which was out of Patroclus' view. He could see the bull flex his arms, hands balling into fists at his sides, stance widening.
"Perhaps it is best if we train separately for a while, King. I do not wish for you to say something you might regret."
With that, Asterius had stomped off, hooves dragging up dirt behind him, pausing only to let the gates open before him. Theseus watched him leave, face pained. As the bronze of the gate swung back into place with a resounding clang, Theseus became suddenly aware of Patroclus' presence, his gardening tools in hand, his face unreadable.
"Leave me, shade! Your king desires privacy at this moment!"
Patroclus cleared his throat, gesturing to his plants, to the modest home behind him.
"This is my residency. And I'm not a shade."
He thought for a moment that Theseus might lunge at him. He wasn't carrying his spear, but Patroclus had no delusion over the outcome of a fistfight between them both. He watched the king contemplate his options, before he sighed, waving him off.
"I… apologize. Please, just allow me a few moments. I will leave you after."
Patroclus nodded, turning back inside the shade of his room, gently washing soil from beneath his nails.
Quietly, barely audible over the splashing flow of the Lethe, he thought he could hear crying.
"Do you ever dream about me?"
"Not really. Sorry," he added, unable to see the look of dismay that fell over Patroclus' features, yet aware of the halting of his ministrations, "I don't dream of very much other than the war, anymore. Each night, I find myself beset by maps, strategies, prophecies, body counts. Even in sleep I cannot escape the sneering faces of those so-called kings outside. Dreaming of you would be preferable; yet, nothing."
Patroclus sighed, continuing to run the brush through those golden locks, dragging out knots perhaps more roughly than was necessary — each slight wincing grimace indescribably humourous to him. His lover, born of the gods, the greatest hero of his age, teary-eyed from a comb.
He placed a kiss on the back of his neck, pausing to breathe in the scent of his skin — sun-baked clay suffused with the oils of crushed flowers, mingling with the uncertain whisper of sea salt.
"Maybe I should sleep closer to you," he offered, trailing a finger down his bare back, "Perhaps it might entice your mind to think of me."
The other met his insinuations with a huffed laugh.
"You couldn't sleep any more closely to me than if you crawled into my skin."
"I've thought about it," he replied, not sounding unserious. "I thought at least then I might be able to be with you always."
"You are with me always, whether in body or in soul, you know that.”