Chapter Text
A\N: I cannot get EPIC out of my head so I guess I'll have to keep writing Greek mythology fanfic. I've even gone and tried to comprehend the absolute mess that is the Iliad so that I could write this. The Iliad, itself, is a bad fanfic. Like seriously it barely makes sense, the blood and fight scenes are endless and Achilles has crazy mary sue energy.
This is basically the Iliad from Poseidon’s POV, but with many tweaks, humorous additions, creative liberties, and an overall expanded role for Poseidon. I hope you enjoy!
Chapter 1
.o.o.o.o.o.
A thousand Achaean ships were beached like whales on the shores outside the magnificent, walled city of Troy. It was night, the moon was out over the water. Lights from candles and oil lamps lit the darkness surrounding the camp and hasty fortifications. Humans congregated in and around the ships, buzzing like flies around bloated carcasses. Apollo’s miasma had settled over them all, causing them to cough and vomit. The cries of the sick and the weak traveled like a song out over the calm sea. A single warrior waded into the shallow water, alone in the dark among the rhythmically crashing waves.
No one could hear his silent call apart from the god of the sea.
Behind the warrior, a shimmering mist from the surf coalesced into the form of a tall and striking man- a looming shadow whose eyes glowed with the same bioluminescence of his waters.
“Is your demigod lover’s mood too foul to lie with you tonight?” the god taunted the warrior in a voice as salty and bitter as the ocean. The young man turned to behold him, neither perturbed nor frightened that a god had suddenly appeared. His eyes smiled in a way that his mouth could not. He was relieved that his prayers had been answered, for he would not have considered his selfish request worthy of being heard. Certainly not after the rift that had opened up between them nine years ago, at the very dawning of the Trojan War.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d want to see me.” His voice, while deeper now, was just as musical as Poseidon remembered it.
“My grudge is against Achilles, not you,” the god of the sea reminded him. It didn’t need to be said that this grudge had indeed extended, somewhat, to Patroclus due to his close association with the other man. The murder of Poseidon’s son, Cycnus, at Achilles’ hand had immediately put an end to Poseidon’s favor of Patroclus and their ongoing trysts. Nowadays, Poseidon was certain Achilles had plotted it all in advance, purposely seeking out Cycnus on the battlefield and using the murder to drive a wedge between the boy he harbored feelings for and the god that stood in his way.
But then, Patroclus was a boy no longer. He was a man- a fully fledged warrior with a name that was becoming more and more well-known as the years passed. Poseidon reached out and cupped the youth’s chin with his cold hand, noting the thick stubble he found there. In the past, when he’d taken this beauty to bed, his chin had been as smooth as a woman’s.
“I don't know what you see in that arrogant brat. So foolish is he that he’s gone and made himself irrelevant with his fit today. What use is a warrior that won't fight?”
“He’ll change his mind. He won’t be able to watch the others ride out without him. He can’t resist the lure of greater glory,” Patroclus said, not looking to defend or slander his cherished friend. Poseidon gave a skeptical hum.
“I heard he threatened to sail home. He’s welcome to try. I’ll make sure his equally conniving, nereid mother comes to beg me for his corpse. Don’t think I’ve forgotten her sabotage. If not for her meddling in the coup against Zeus, you would now be addressing me as ‘god king.’” A warm hand came up to rest against the cool one still gripping Patroclus’ jaw.
“I’ll address you as god king if it pleases you, Milord,” Patroclus said, slightly breathy, slightly playful. Immediately, Poseidon’s anger began to falter. The boy was going to try and seduce him and he wasn’t sure if he should allow it. “I wonder… am I fit to warm the bed of a god king?” the warrior continued.
“No. Nine years ago, perhaps,” Poseidon lied, letting go of him and turning away. The young man did not seem to believe him and was going to test his luck, regardless. He circled around the sea god so that he was in his line of sight once again.
“Ah, that is a shame. Is there nothing likable about me anymore?” he quipped lightly.
“Fishing for compliments?” Poseidon growled. Patroclus dropped to his knees in the sand in front of his god and Poseidon knew he was in trouble.
“Fishing in your bountiful waters has always earned me a… rather large catch,” the youth replied while an adorable blush colored his cheeks. The heat of arousal surged through Poseidon as he roughly took hold of the warrior’s golden hair, fingers digging into his scalp.
“Siren,” he bit out. The water surged up and claimed them both in its cold embrace.
.o.o.o.o.o.
Afterward, with the both of them stretched out on the beach, nude as the night was black, Patroclus had his fair head resting beneath his godly paramour’s chin with a hand splayed across his chest. Like this, Poseidon was more aware than ever just how much taller and sturdier the youth had become, the passage of time felt ever so keenly.
A silent lament. These mortal pets lived and died much too fast.
“We’ve been here nine years and things have never looked more bleak,” Patroclus spoke in a husky, worn voice, “Milord, I know you’ve no love for Troy. Is there something we can do to earn your divine support in this conflict?”
Poseidon was ready to reject the boy immediately. The death of Cycnus, alone, was enough for him to not get involved on the Achaean side of this conflict, but there was more than that, still.
“I built the walls of Troy with my very own godly sweat and ichor. What makes you think I'd be in favor of tearing them down?” Poseidon said quietly. Patroclus lazily traced circles upon his lover’s chest.
“King Laomedon never did compensate you, did he? You’ve complained of the matter several times to me, cursing his name, those of his descendants and his city,” the warrior replied readily. “Is Priam not a son of Laomedon?”
Poseidon berated himself for his inability to keep his mouth shut, boasting and venting to his lovers when lulled into a properly good mood. It did not matter, however. Poseidon had decided that the only thing he wished to see happen in this war was the death of Achilles.
“Wars, even those as long and drawn out as this one, are but short betting games to immortal beings,” Poseidon cautioned the youth, “They hold no greater significance. They are sport, and you should remember that this conflict, in particular, was spawned due to a squabble between goddesses over mere vanity. ”
Even though Poseidon said this, he was aware that this war had gone on long enough and had involved enough of the civilized world that it now had the attention of all the major gods and goddesses on Olympus. It was no longer something quite so insignificant.
His hand trailed down the mortal’s sun-kissed neck, brushing the sand from the colorful, claiming marks that had been left there, the fresh ones from Poseidon, and the healing ones from another.
“A man knows better than anyone how fleeting of a thing beauty is,” Poseidon continued in a quiet voice, “It’s meant to be treasured while it’s there and remembered fondly once it’s gone. It seems human women and goddesses alike fail to comprehend this, and persist in the delusion that they shall be beautiful in body and soul for all eternity.” Patroclus propped himself up so that he could better regard his god through hooded eyes.
“Had I been given the golden apple and had I been given the same choice as Paris, I would have declared you the fairest, Milord.”
“Relentless flatterer,” Poseidon chastised, “You would then have brought the ire of three goddesses upon your homeland rather than two, and probably Zeus’ as well, for he would seethe to realize mortals considered his brother more desirable.”
Patroclus offered a brave laugh at the image and Poseidon, too, found himself smiling in satisfaction. The moment passed quickly enough, though, and both of their gazes turned back toward the sea. Patroclus became pensive once more.
“I am beginning to feel as though our efforts are wasted here.”
“They are wasted so long as that ill-tempered lover of yours decides he bends his knee to neither king nor god,” Poseidon observed.
“Is it hopeless then? Is there no path to victory?”
“Am I a prophet, now?” the sea god asked. He used a finger to tip the young man's chin up once more. “The night isn't over. Return to your tent. Soothe Achilles’ temper the way you’ve learned to soothe mine and perhaps he will repay your efforts in the bloodshed you wish of him. His woman’s been taken from him. It’s your time to shine,” Poseidon advised. He really wasn't inclined to put any more thought or effort into this war problem. He stood from their bed of sand, feeling the ocean calling him back to his duties. He offered a hand to his lovely mortal, who grasped it gratefully and used it to help himself up. Once standing, the young man held fast to Poseidon’s arm.
“Thank you, Milord,” the mortal said sincerely. Poseidon narrowed his eyes, wondering how this human could still be so pleasant when Poseidon had freely enjoyed what was given and still denied his pleas for aid. The youth would probably try the same thing later if Poseidon was not firm.
“Don’t call me again unless he’s dead. I don’t like tasting him on you,” the sea god replied. Patroclus opened his mouth to respond but then closed it again and smiled in gracious defeat.
“As you wish, Milord.”
.o.o.o.o.o.