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The first of Achilles’ senses to return to him is hearing. He hears the sound of an oar sliding in and out of water and tries to orient himself. An echo, a phantom pain, blooms from where Paris’ arrow fatally pierced him. Relief and sorrow mingle within him as memories slowly trickle back.
Patroclus’ body wrapped in a bloodstained shroud. Blood dripping like tears from the shroud, soaking into the earth. Striking flint for a funeral pyre. Best of men, best of the Myrmidons, reduced to ashes in a golden urn. The relief felt when Achilles exhales his last breath as his lifeless body lands on the ground.
His heart smarts to think of him. It is a deep ache, borne of loss and grief. His memories are hazy after Patroclus’ death, blurred by a vicious rage that ultimately resulted in his own death.
Achilles opens his eyes and finds himself on a narrow wooden boat on a river of blood; the River Styx. At the stern, a tall figure wordlessly rows the boat. Charon, the Stygian Boatman, Achilles realizes. The immortal sentry does not even deign to look at Achilles; his sole focus is on ferrying the deceased. Achilles avoids looking at him for too long, finding his glowing purple eye and the mist seeping from his skeletal mouth off-putting.
Charon continues paddling down the Styx whilst regret washes over Achilles like the blood washing over Charon’s oar . He had led Patroclus to his tragic, untimely death. Achilles was Aristos Achaion, best of the Greeks. The title feels ill-fitting now. Undeserved, unworthy; it makes Achilles feel like a child playing soldier with a stick.
Achilles is lost in thought when the boat docks and jostles him back to the present. Charon gestures towards the dock. Achilles doesn’t need to be told twice and steps off the boat into Erebus.
Darkness slowly surrounds him like elongated shadows engulfing the land at dusk. He joins the throng of listless shades, now one of them, in awaiting further judgement and assignment to Tartarus, Asphodel, or Elysium. The other shades appear to flicker in and out of existence, wavering like a low flame. If Achilles looks at one for long enough, the shade’s form coalesces and he can see an anguished, haunting visage.
Achilles shudders and tries not to think about how many people he had sent to this place.
***
Achilles learns that the dead are good at waiting. In the time that passes in Erebus, he discovers that his body no longer yearns for air, sleep, food, or water. The absence of sunlight and bodily needs make it impossible to tell the passage of time. Achilles avoids speaking to the other shades, preferring to brood in solitude. He waits, and waits, and waits.
He waits until time distorts into an abstract concept an eternity away from tangible, measurable units. The distorted pieces shatter like glass, mend themselves, then shatter again, unable to fully reform in a cycle not dissimilar to the pieces of Time himself.
***
Achilles is at last assigned to Elysium. Given his status as a war hero and maternal parentage, this does not come as a surprise to him. The news is relieving, yet makes him feel apprehensive. Patroclus must also be in Elysium. It would be understandable, although upsetting, if Patroclus does not wish to see Achilles again. Some circumstances and deeds are unforgivable even with the afterlife’s limitless time. The line of thinking is well-worn, fraying at the edges like an old tunic. His still heart aches yet; he supposes that is what drinking from the River Lethe is for.
The Stygian Boatman approaches and Achilles boards without hesitation.
***
Achilles receives a hero’s welcome in Elysium, ushered in by Lord Hades himself. Achilles suspects by his grimace that he is only appearing out of duty. Other shades chant Aristos Achaion as he enters. Achilles wants to shout at them to stop, their perception of him so deeply clashing with how Achilles views himself.
The air in Elysium is cool and fresh, reminding Achilles of his boyhood days on Mount Pelion. Despite the lack of wind, it never feels stuffy. An undercurrent of cloying sweetness hangs in the still air, clinging to Achilles and weaving its way into the threads of his clothing.
Revelry is commonplace with grand banquets held every day, or night; it is impossible to tell in the depths of the Underworld. Entertainment is in no short supply, the numerous stadiums always hosting a match of some sort where shades still strive for glory even in death. The shades in Elysium preoccupy themselves with sparring, feasting, or mingling with other shades to swap tales of their exploits in life. Achilles finds himself unable to participate in the perpetual celebrations, his mind fixated on a single subject.
Paradise just beyond his reach, fingers grazing the edges of a reunion. He dedicates himself to finding Patroclus amongst the other shades. Ancient and recent war heroes and demigods, some forgotten, some the subjects of epic poems and songs.
The River Lethe is ever present, lazily winding throughout the region and offering tempting promises of blissful ignorance. Most shades drank from the Lethe to soothe war wounds of the mind. The blithe and carefree shades are the ones who had imbibed the most. Achilles envies them, their ability to laugh and jest, to enjoy an untroubled existence for the rest of time.
Achilles vows to himself to never drink from the Lethe. It would be a dishonour to Patroclus. To merely forget what he did to him. He continues to search Elysium for Patroclus.
***
Patroclus is not in Elysium. If the ache in Achilles’ heart were a physical wound, it would be infected and poisoning his blood. His heart smarts to such an extent that it possesses his thoughts and makes it difficult to think of anything else.
In his wandering, he hears of shades attending court with Lord Hades to settle disputes and make claims. In Elysium, they’re most often sought to resolve petty grievances. The Lethe does not wash away a hero’s ego, it seems.
Achilles knows what he must do. It is an innate decision that does not require meticulous and conscious thought.
The least I could do, he thinks, is to allow you entry to Elysium. You deserve it more than I do.
***
The House of Hades dwells in the lowest pits of Tartarus. Its exterior is stony and practical with few embellishments, aside from the sigil of the House etched on columns.
The exterior of the House belies the interior. The interior is richly decorated and befitting of Lord Hades, god of the dead and wealth. The main hall’s walls are adorned with red laurels, a sign of Underworld royalty. The floor tiling is detailed with a red reminiscent of the river Styx that flows under the House. High ceilings extend the height of the hall, almost giving the impression of a sky above. Shades mill about, occasionally congregating in groups to lament about their causes of death.
Achilles’ gaze is drawn to the ceiling at the end of the hall. Trees bearing large pomegranates, branches bowing under their weight, grow from high up on the walls. Below them, a vast mosaic depicts Lord Hades ruling over his realm alongside the Furies, Death, and Sleep. In front of the mosaic sits the chthonic king himself on a throne behind a desk. A massive, three-headed hound lies to his right. Cerberus’ middle head dozes while the other heads’ tongues loll out of fearsome maws.
Hades is busy writing on a piece of parchment, barely sparing a glance to the shades he is supposed to be hearing out in court. The line of aggrieved shades is slow-moving, would be completely still if he did not dismiss shades so quickly.
Achilles looks to his right to peer down a long hall. A dark-haired woman floats a few inches above the ground just past the entrance to the hall. Her gown and cloak are a deep purple, akin to the night sky before dawn has touched it. A purple gemstone is centred on her forehead, framing her sharp features. Achilles is taken aback by her ethereal beauty. The Night Incarnate, Nyx, he realizes.
A small child, who appears no older than five years of age, is speaking animatedly to her with his hands waving in the air. His spiky black hair is sticking up in every direction and a wreath of red laurels sits askew atop his head. A crown fit for the prince of the Underworld.
With a gentle smile, Nyx readjusts the laurel wreath and the prince scampers off, his fiery feet leaving sparks in his wake.
Up ahead, a shade is making a claim. Achilles is too far away to hear their plea.
“Claim denied. Next.” Hades’ voice is dismissive and brooks no argument.
Another shade pleads to Hades. Achilles can barely make out what they’re saying, something about flooding in Asphodel.
“Certainly not. Denied.” He grabs a new sheet of parchment from the tall stack. “Next.”
Achilles is close now, only a few shades ahead of him. He hopes that this plan will allay the ache in his heart. His breathing, though unneeded, begins to quicken and sit high in his chest.
The shade in front of Achilles is requesting to return to the mortal realm, citing something about unfinished business.
Hades scoffs. “Absurd. Claim denied”.
Achilles is next. The desk seems to loom over him, a barrier to reaching Patroclus in of itself. The tiling under him is intricate and opulent, depicting a skull surrounded by interlaced golden helixes.
“State your claim.” Hades commands. His white-knuckled grip on the quill is so tight, Achilles is surprised that it hasn’t snapped. Gemstone rings decorate his fingers, a show of the realm’s wealth.
“My lord, I thank you for your audi–”
“Out with it, Aristos Achaion . I don’t have all night!” Hades’ eyes remain on the parchment on his desk. “Or day, whatever blasted time it is,” he adds under his breath.
Best of the Greeks. He still feels unworthy of the title, like it was bestowed upon the wrong person. “I ask that the shade Patroclus be permitted entry to Elysium.” Achilles’ voice sounds foreign to himself, not having spoken for what could have been ages.
“Residence in Elysium is reserved for the greatest souls to walk amongst men,” he replies dryly, as if he is reciting a basic fact.
Indignance coils within Achilles like a viper ready to strike. How cruel and ironic the weavings of the Fates are, that he should receive entry to Elysium and not Patroclus.
“Patroclus was the best of men and best of the Myrmidons. Of all men to live, he should be there,” Achilles says, heat seeping into his voice.
“Do not take that foolish tone with me,” Hades chides as if speaking to an insolent child. “Having had nymph blood in your veins does not entitle you to make demands here in the Underworld. Demigod or not, you were still mortal and thus fall under my rule.”
“I merely ask for an amendment,” he says, putting his hands up in a placating gesture.
“I’ve heard enough. The claim is denied. Next.”
Desperation surges within him like a dam breaking. He can’t fail Patroclus again, cannot bear to even consider it. Loyalty and duty come instinctively to Achilles.
“Wait! Please, I beg of you.” His voice breaks at the end.
Hades’ head snaps up and his eyes meet Achilles’ for the first time. Achilles has seen anger before, knows what it feels like to mete it out and to receive it, but he has never felt divine fury like this. Red irises burn with ire and scorn; Hades’ fiery glare makes Achilles feel like an ant about to be crushed.
Lord Hades is not known for giving second chances. It is now or never. He has no choice but to sacrifice his freedom, gladly.
He takes a knee to a king for the first time in his existence, surrendering his will to another as he stubbornly refused to do in mortal life. “I pledge my eternal service to this House, in exchange for Patroclus entering Elysium in my stead.”
“Blood and darkness, I’ve not the time for this.” Hades pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs.
Moments pass in agonizing silence. Fear threatens to paralyze Achilles’ mind and body.
“And what service do you think you could provide?” he asks derisively, like he wants to hear Achilles out just to laugh at his gall.
“I see that you have a son, I cou–”
“That is none of your concern,” he interrupts, eyes narrowing.
“I was Aristos Achaion. I would instruct the prince in the martial arts. There is no one more fit for the task than me,” Achilles says, his final plea, his last chance.
Hades’ brow furrows; he is about to speak when the young prince comes running out of the east hall. He darts in front of Hades’ desk, heading to Cerberus. Achilles notices his mismatched eyes, one iris red like the river Styx, the other green like the verdure of spring.
Giggling, he dashes around Cerberus’ tail trying to step on it, but the hellhound dodges each attempt. Achilles guesses that he’s trying to singe the tail with his flame-licked feet. The rightmost head leans down to gently lick the prince’s face. He hugs the head’s neck and is nearly entirely engulfed in bright red fur. The infernal hellhound looks even larger next to the small prince.
“Cease bothering the dog,” Hades grumbles. He glances at the prince and for a moment so brief Achilles swears he imagines it, the hardness in Hades’ expression softens.
The short-lived distraction does little to relieve Achilles’ nerves. Hades looks back to Achilles, all seriousness returning to his expression. “Your claim is granted. I will draw up the terms of the pact now.” Hades reaches for a new sheet of parchment and hastily scrawls out the terms. He turns the parchment around and beckons for Achilles to approach the desk.
Heart in his throat, Achilles scans the pact as quickly as he can until he finds confirmation that Patroclus will be sent to Elysium.
… The shade Achilles Pelides shall yield his Elysian residence so that the shade Patroclus may be moved from Asphodel to Elysium…
“You are aware that since you are forfeiting your place in Elysium, you will not be able to return there?” Hades asks.
He deserves it far more than I ever could, Achilles thinks. This is the just thing to do, the only way Achilles could atone for sending Patroclus to his death in his own armour. It is for the best really; Patroclus gets to enjoy Elysium and Achilles will serve as a soldier until Time’s end, as he did in his mortal life.
In response to Hades, Achilles signs the pact. He feels a weight akin to invisible chains encircling him, binding Achilles to the House.
Achilles sighs in relief, his body feeling boneless now that an agreement was reached. Patroclus will spend eternity in paradise. Doubtless that he will drink from the Lethe to forget Achilles and live in peace.
***
Time passes and Achilles has long since stopped paying its passage any heed. He doesn’t notice the unseen weight that tethers him to the House anymore. It has become a part of him, woven into his soul. The wound in Achilles’ heart still aches but it has waned over time, fading into a scar. A faint bid for his attention, ignorable for the most part. At least, until he overhears other shades speaking of Elysium and the pain returns, creeping into his chest. His mind lingers on thinking about Patroclus, like pressing down on a bruise to see if it still hurts.
Achilles dutifully stands watch over the west wing, guarding the administrative chamber and Hades’ bedchambers from meandering shades. Despite the dullness, it brings him some semblance of peace. Besides, he much prefers it to his transient afterlife in Elysium.
His other duties include training the prince. Zagreus is a quick study to any weapon, much like Achilles in his own youth. Zagreus easily matches Achilles’ speed when sparring, revitalizing him with the rush of battle with an evenly matched foe. By the end of their sessions, the floor is stamped with singed footprints.
Their lessons extend to tutoring Zagreus in history as well. When it comes to the Trojan War, Achilles only covers it in broad strokes, never delving into details. He withholds that the war is why he works for Zagreus’ father, who he lost and how that led to his undoing. Quietly, to avoid attracting Hades’ attention, he also teaches the prince about his relatives upon Olympus.
While Achilles’ existence oft feels hollow and melancholic, he finds a sense of purpose in mentoring Zagreus, eventually growing somewhat of a paternal instinct for him.
From his post in the west hall, he watches Zagreus’ relationship with his father deteriorate. As the prince has gotten older, matured into a young adult, Hades’ expectations have only risen beyond Zagreus’ feasible reach. Hades’ patience for the prince dwindles until he has none left to spare. In retaliation, the prince develops a barbed wit, which Hades does not take kindly to. Their spats become more frequent, the din of their arguments filling the House with tension so thick one could cut it with a blade.
There are moments worth remembering, moments that make Achilles’ existence feel a little less empty. He catches Zagreus and Thanatos sharing shy, bashful glances. How the prince smiles brighter, full of verve, after starting a relationship with Megaera. The subsequent first heartbreak. When Achilles decides to start his Codex, writing in all that he’s learned over his mortal life and since then.
The first time Zagreus broaches the topic of escape with him.
Achilles is unsurprised, given the recent climate. Looking at Zagreus’ green eye, he is also unsurprised to hear that his mother is not Nyx, but Persephone, who is hidden somewhere on the surface.
It seems an impossible feat; none have ever left the Underworld without Hades explicitly allowing it. If anybody is able to achieve it, it’s Zagreus. Achilles feels a sense of pride, a trait which Hades shuns.
“Fear is for the weak, lad.”
“Fear is for the weak,” Zagreus echoes.
***
The status quo in the House remains constant, much like the scowl on Lord Hades’ face, brow heavy with the weight of ruling over a realm. The parchmentwork is relentless. The population of the Underworld only ever grows, as all mortals eventually become subjects of Hades. Zagreus toys with the idea of escape
The status quo in the House remains constant. An axiom Achilles believes to be infallible.
Until Zagreus rebels against the status quo by attempting to escape.
Until Zagreus casually asks Achilles if he knows a shade named Patroclus in Elysium.
Until Zagreus comes home not by the Pool of Styx, but through the front door with the Queen.
Until Zagreus breaks Sisyphus’ pact that confined him to Tartarus, rolling a boulder up a hill for eternity.
Until Zagreus breaks Orpheus’ pact that barred him from visiting Eurydice in Asphodel.
Achilles is reminded that pacts are not irrefutable laws of nature. The realization unsettles him. It brings up ideas he thought not possible, ideas that he had long ago banished from contemplation.
Loyalty and duty come instinctively to Achilles. While Hades is with Persephone in the House’s garden, he asks Zagreus to locate his pact in hushed tones. Fear is for the weak. Achilles will readily risk it all for Patroclus.
He pushes worst case scenarios out of his head; the possible consequences of incurring Hades’ wrath for meddling with his pact. With a wave of his hand, Hades could cast Patroclus into the lowest depths of Tartarus to punish Achilles.
Zagreus nods and promises that he will speak with Nyx about locating his pact, no doubt buried somewhere deep in the administrative chamber.
A wisp of hope drifts into Achilles’ thoughts. It nags at his mind, demanding his attention. He had not dared to hope that a happy ending exists for the both of them.
***
Achilles is guarding the west wing one day, or night, when Zagreus approaches him, grinning. A mix of worry and curiosity stirs within Achilles. Even though Hades abided by the other voided pacts, there’s no telling how he would react to Achilles’ pact being tampered with. Tentative hope, cautious like young buds unfurling in early spring, rises in him.
“Achilles! Your pact with Father is officially amended, sir. Specifically, it no longer has any stipulation barring you from entering Elysium during the indefinite term of your employment. On my authority in the name of Hades, thank you for your service.”
Achilles has been bound to the House for so long he had not noticed that the weight was gone. “What, are you… you’re serious. I’m able to go. You’re right. I feel it. I’m unbound. So I can… simply leave… right now.” It feels strange to say, something he never thought he would be able to say. He feels free, freer than he had ever felt in his mortal life or afterlife.
Zagreus continues speaking, yet his words fall on deaf ears as Achilles is too stunned to process it. Zagreus has stopped speaking, eyebrow raised expectantly. An awkward silence hangs in the air and Achilles figures he should reply.
“I… should get going then, although… I am unprepared, I… didn’t think it would come to this. Not that I had no faith in you, it’s just…” he manages to get out, mind spinning with ideas, questions, and wondering what he ever did to be worthy of this.
Zagreus says something again but Achilles only catches “fear is for the weak.”
“...Fear is for the weak. Farewell for now, lad. I can’t thank you enough.” Truly, he did not know how he could even begin to show the depth of his gratitude. He feels a tugging sensation, drawing him to Elysium. Achilles follows, lets it take him, and is brought there near instantly.
***
Achilles arrives in a small glade neatly tucked away from the typical commotion of Elysium. It is quiet, save for the sounds of the Lethe flowing around the glade. Ahead of Achilles lies a short bridge, covered in unnaturally vivid green moss like most structures in Elysium.
Patroclus awaits on the other side. He has not noticed Achilles yet. He sits on mossy stone, head cast downwards, looking mournful and despondent.
Achilles crosses the bridge, shaky legs propelling him forward. His heart feels petrified as if struck by a gorgon’s gaze, unsure if Patroclus will despise him, if he will even remember who he is. He is so close now. Just a few more steps. Fear is for the weak.
Patroclus lifts his head up. A soft, expectant smile graces his features when he sees Achilles.
“Achilles,” Patroclus says, a glint of clear recognition in his eyes. He says his name so assuredly, like it was a matter of when, not if, he would say it to Achilles again.
Achilles simply reaches out and extends his hands to Patroclus. Patroclus takes his hands and Achilles helps him to stand. They linger there, fingers interlaced and foreheads gently touching.
Words need not be said as two halves of one soul are reunited. Achilles cannot tell where his soul ends and Patroclus’ begins, the seams between them blurring. They are enmeshed, each half healing the other’s scarred wounds of grief and heartache. Their lives are renewed like the sun rising once more after a long night.