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Summary
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.”Risen from Tartarus by a benefactor whose name and face he cannot recall, Patroclus passes his days under the monotonous sun of Elysium, tending to his garden and meditating by the shore of the Lethe, seeking to piece together his memories.
My own personal take on the story arc of Achilles and Patroclus, from the latter's perspective.
Series
- Part 1 of Mallaeus' Hades Fics