Chapter Text
The height of battle never scared Patroclus, adrenaline washed away any fear and replaced it with a burning thrill. It was easy to fall into a trance when felling man after man with practiced ease. It was no wonder so many men gained immortality from battle, it was the closest way one could get to being a god. He and Achilles danced a beautiful waltz of death side by side like famine and plague; one taking down whoever the other missed and keeping a close eye on each other's weak points. Their calculated movements were poised, elegant and practised. To each of Achilles' offensive attacks came Patroclus' steady defence. Every step they took was a result of their marriage into a single mind, advancing across the battlefield as one unit. Behind them their pack of Myrmidons slaughtered Trojans in a frenzy as wolves do when among a flock of sheep. Patroclus drove his spear through the belly of a man, his glittering armour dented with the force of the impact. He wrenched the spear out along with the entrails that got caught on its tip. He felt Achilles' presence not too far ahead, diving into the fray as he loved to do. He hurled his spear into the crowd, his swift feet pounded against the blood-soaked earth as he struck down a flurry of Trojans before catching up to where the spear landed—it had impaled a chariot driver right through his head.
Patroclus cut his way through the horde of men, attempting to catch up to his frantic demigod. The metallic scent of bronze mixed with that of blood. War cries morphed into agonized screams as metal met flesh in a lethal kiss. One spear came from behind and whistled overhead, piercing its intended target's elbow and pinning him to the ground. The Trojan's arm bent unnaturally, the searing pain only made worse by his desperate writhing. A Mycenaean soldier swooped down like a vulture to slit his throat before yanking the helmet from his head to keep as a prize. The chaos that surrounded Patroclus only grew more anarchic when another wave of Trojans pushed the line forward. Somewhere in the distance he could hear Diomedes let out a rallying cry, his thundering voice directed by the spear of Athena herself. Within the whirlwind of battle he could just barely see Achilles' golden hair whipping around with every sharp thrust or clever dodge he made. Keeping his eyes on the fluttering beacon, Patroclus tried to move in to his defence but a sea of men at arms proved difficult to wade through despite his quick work of them. Using his sword he slashed a man's thigh open, his femoral artery gushed like a fountain as he convulsed on the ground. Patroclus did not bother to finish him off, he would be dead within minutes. More Trojans surrounded Achilles, godlike as he was, he was still one man who could only take on so much. Aeneas was among one of them, a demigod in his own right to match him. His attacks became quicker, sloppier, trying to fend off rather than kill. Patroclus could only imagine the panic that started to well in his blazing eyes as he was unable to see through the horde.
"Achilles?" Patroclus loosened a frantic shout from his tongue. The name failed to keep its head above the raging sea of clattering noise.
Upon catching sight of Achilles again, Patroclus' stomach swooped. He nearly choked on his own bile when he saw a Trojan sword pierce right through Achilles' shoulder. The world narrowed. The only sound was that of Achilles' pained cry and the only sight was his eyes rolling back, pupils hiding behind his eyelids. One of the Trojans had ripped his helmet off and used the pommel of his sword to knock him unconscious. The last Patroclus could see of him was his limp body being carried into a chariot that took off back behind enemy lines.
"Achilles!" He called desperately, swallowing down a sickening feeling and forcing his aching legs to carry him onward.
His charge forward was halted when a stray chariot came barrelling in front of him. The driver laid limp in the seat and the horse brayed at the arrow lodged in its flank. The steed trampled bodies on the ground, some dead and others wishing they were; one of its hooves snapped the arm of a fallen Cretan soldier, his screams joining the chorus that surrounded them. By the time the horse and chariot galloped away Patroclus had lost sight of Achilles. It had only been a moment, a mere second in a battle that stretched on for hours, and like that he had disappeared. Patroclus froze. All energy and hope drained from his limbs in an instant. Only his eyes managed to dart around, praying for some sign that this was a trick from the gods—a mere distraction to temporarily throw him off. Every thump of his racing heart was foreign. It was not his own, not without Achilles. Each breath he took felt like a dagger had been driven through his chest, his throat became strangled on tears he refused to shed. A large shadow suddenly engulfed him like the wings of an eagle. His view of the carnage was blocked by a massive wall of bronze and muscle. Looking up, he was met with the tall, impenetrable frame of greater Ajax.
The prince of Salamis held his massive shield in front of them, turning his head to lend Patroclus a concerned look. His brow furrowed the way his cousin's so often did. "Patroclus, what happened? You look like you gazed upon the rawness of a god."
Patroclus did not want to speak, to make what he saw real. He wished the ground beneath his feet gaped open and swallowed him whole. "They took him."
"What?" Ajax could barely hear his words over the commotion.
"They took him." He repeated. Defeat swelled into rage inside his body, he launched himself forward as if he were a lion ambushing its hunters. Ajax threw his hand out, using his godlike strength to hold back Patroclus' divine fury. "They took Achilles. Those bastards took Achilles! Dragged him off like he was some prize to be won!"
Horror struck Ajax's features, his amber eyes widening. He opened his mouth to speak but not a sound came out before Teucer was at his side.
"Agamemnon has called for an immediate retreat!" The archer reported through panting breaths. "Zeus and the other deathless gods have not blessed us with a victory today."
A bolt of panic surged through Patroclus. Ajax instinctively tightened his grip around him. "No! No, no, we cannot retreat! I have to find him, we cannot leave him!" His voice was hoarse, thick with tears that forced their way down his cheeks against his will.
Teucer glanced towards Ajax, holding the same expression his brother had previously. Ajax swallowed, tongue heavy in his mouth. "The Trojans carried off Achilles. We— I…" His thoughts trailed off, overcome by questions and anxieties too great to be spoken.
The three of them were silent, still as a crystalline lake as crowds of men hurried past them in search for the safety of their shoreline camp. Teucer inhaled a steadying breath in an attempt to cease his shaking hands. Nothing more could be said between them as a cloud of grief smothered their words.
The rolling of chariot wheels signalled the arrival of Automedon who halted in front of them. Balius and Xanthus snorted, their frothing mouths champing on their bits as if they knew of the state their master was in. Immediately Automedon could sense that something was the matter, he put his hand of Patroclus' shoulder.
"What happened? Where's Achilles?" He looked around to find no sign of the warrior.
Patroclus shrugged him off and silently stepped into the chariot. His expression was neutral like that of a dead man's, staring unblinkingly at the walls of Troy that sat on the horizon. At the back of his mind he could hear Teucer whispering in Automedon's ear. The charioteer gasped, stricken like the rest of them. A few more words were spoken before Automedon returned to his spot next to Patroclus.
He picked up the reins, sparing a glance towards his friend. "I'm sorry, Pat."
Patroclus did not turn around to address him. "Automedon." He said, voice flatter than the blood-trodden ground beneath his feet. "Bring us back to camp."
Automedon obeyed with a flick of the reins. Patroclus observed the victorious Trojans retreat to their own tents and behind their walls, their triumphant cheers and jeering taunts echoed in his ears like screeching harpies. He knew this day would arrive; the day the prophecy would make him bid farewell to his Achilles and helplessly watch as he walked into the jaws of war. He only wished it had not been so soon, that he could have seen one last sunrise with him, shared one last drink or heard one last ringing laugh. Perhaps if Patroclus had stayed closer to his side, or if he summoned more Myrmidons for support, or of he had simply thrown himself into harms way and spared Achilles another few moments, perhaps he would not be grieving a life that was born to die.
Rumour travelled fast within the Achaean camp. Confused whispers galloped through the air faster than the Prince of Phthia's divine horses. Automedon yanked them into a rearing halt as a colony of Myrmidons swarmed around them in one bright, shining horde. When Patroclus dismounted he was met with a chorus of questions and worried looks. They trailed behind him like children lost in an Agora searching for the familiar colour of their mother's skirts. He pitied them, more than anything. The Myrmidons were a hive, and they were utterly lost without their queen. Without a word he sifted through the parting crowd to reach the nearest dais where he could finally address them. A grim silence fell like night upon the gathering. Patroclus stood proud before his men, wearing the blood on his armour as a sign of vengeance rather than defeat. Now was not the time for weakness. It is not what Achilles would have wanted, it is not what he needed.
"Brothers," Patroclus' voice rang out, clearer than a tolling bell. His demeanour was calm, firm, an urgency that was blanketed in a level-headed facade. "The worst has fallen upon us. Our prince—the man who has cared for us as a lion protects her young—our Achilles, has been taken prisoner by the Trojans."
Bewildered gasps and an outpour of murmurs rippled through the gathering. Patroclus let them have their moment before raising his hand to settle them, there will be a time for tears later.
"For those who wish to know how such tragedy could occur…" His throat caught at the memory. He blinked, swallowing his anguish. "A battalion of Trojans, led by Aeneas, managed to overpower and wound him. He was dragged away soon after." The final syllable was cut off by a deep inhale that failed to ease the crack in his voice.
The shock died down into something more sinister, a simmering wrath that boiled within each and every one of the men. The sliver of space left between them was filled with muttered curses and the snarling of wolves gnashing for their pound of flesh. Restlessness quickly set in amongst them, their gleaming armour setting the ground aflame in their rage.
Patroclus fed off of their ire. There was an obscene catharsis one felt when sharing outrage within a congregation; a singular scream is emboldened by a multitude of wails, one sword unsheathed becomes the hiss of an indestructible hydra whose hunger can only be sated through the tearing of tendon from bone.
"If there is one thing that I understand, deep within my heart of hearts—" Patroclus growled. Each word was rumbling thunder in his chest, crackling at the seams with electricity that waited for the right moment to strike. He did not raise his voice as there was no need, intent alone was enough to spur them on. "—it is that Achilles would want all of you. Every single one of you. To make Ares tremble under your fury."
"Death to those Trojan dogs!" A raspy voice howled from the middle of the crowd. Immediately it was followed by bellowing war cries and the pounding of spears against shields. One would have never thought that they spent an entire day in battle, drunk on the allure of retribution as they were.
With another placating gesture Patroclus muzzled their barking and eased their raised hackles. "Save your anger for the battlefield. Rest, train, take comfort in your brothers in arms. We must not be blinded by rage. It is only an advantage when it guides our hands, not our minds."
Eudorus raised his hand from one of the foremost rows. "How are we going to get him back?"
"That is a plan that I will discuss with the other kings. You will taste blood on your spear in time. Recover yourselves now, I will inform you when the plan is set in stone." More questions followed even after Patroclus stepped off the pedestal. There was no more time to entertain the masses, he marched in the direction of Agamemnon's tent.
Automedon trailed behind him, grasping his arm to finally gain his attention. "Patroclus, what am I meant to do?"
A wave of pity softened his features. Since the start of the war it was Achilles who dispatched Automedon's next orders after every battle. He stood there awkwardly like a lone tree after a forest that had fallen from a great storm; playing with a strand of his hair between his fingers.
He squeezed a comforting hand on the charioteer's shoulder, unable to offer him a smile. "Tend to the horses as you always do, my friend. Also keep an eye on the men, they are bound to cause a stir sooner or later."
Automedon bowed his head, diligent as always. "Yes, sir." He ran off without another word.
Agamemnon's tent was a quiet space, but not out of peace. Strict order kept his quarters not a step out of place. Slave women scurried out of sight in fear of catching his unwanted attention, though the clinking of the shining gold and heavy jewelry he decorated them with often spoke about their whereabouts within the shadows. The thick scent of sweat and bureaucracy never left the smothering canvas walls. They were larger than the walls of other tents as he hosted most often, and select objects from the wealth he had accumulated over the years were meticulously displayed around the area. A garish act of power that no king dared to replicate, save for the Gerenian king of Pylos; whose age and wisdom outranked any title bestowed upon a man. Whether this garnered any jealousy within the Mycenaean king was unknown, as he would never let such weakness show. Patroclus barged into Agamemnon's tent riding on brisk footsteps, his cloak billowing behind him. His pace did not slow as he approached the king without an ounce of deference; Agamemnon made to greet him with his usual disingenuous smile.
"Patroclus, my deepest condolences, I heard what happened and—"
He barely had a moment's notice to react before he was being gripped by the hem of his chiton, bloodied hands staining the freshly cleaned fabric.
"And what are you going to do about it?" Patroclus spat.
"Patroclus, I—"
"I asked you a question. King of kings. What are you going to do about the man who will win this war for you?"
Agamemnon finally managed to shove some distance between them. He dusted off his clothes as if it could wipe away the deep crimson stains that have already set. "I have already summoned the kings for a meeting. We shall discuss our plan of action from there." He huffed, trying to regain control of the conversation.
Allowing the wave of anger pass over him, Patroclus clenched and unclenched his fists at his sides, inhaling the stagnant air around them. His eyes lowered in shame, yet he refused to apologize. Instead he took his seat at the end of the table, opposite the head where Agamemnon seated himself. The Achaean leader tangled his fingers together once he rested his hands on the table. He employed a more sympathetic tone.
"I understand, I want Achilles back as much as you do."
"Oh, I am quite sure of that." Patroclus spoke brusquely, scorning Agamemnon with a defensive cross of his arms.
Agamemnon sprang to his feet and slammed his hands on the table, leaning across it in confrontation. "Hold as much anger towards me as you like, Menoetiades, but I am not the enemy!"
Unflinching, a reluctant huff sounded from Patroclus before he quieted.
Finding his composure, Agamemnon sat back down and continued. "The Trojans have put us in a precarious situation which calls for caution and careful consideration. I trust that you will personally enact whichever decision we come to, correct?"
"With full efficiency."
"Good."
Menelaus was the first to enter the tent, he carried his large, ruddy frame the way a bear prowls the forest; lumbering around as dense muscle and fat moved from side to side. The king of Sparta patted a comforting hand on Patroclus' back, firm and sure, carrying the weight of understanding. When their eyes met, all he could see was warm consolation. He sat next to his brother and before long greater Ajax and Teucer joined them alongside Phoenix, the brothers brushed against one another side by side like a river rushing alongside its own banks. They sat beside Patroclus, leaning on each other's sorrow for support. Phoenix decided to stand behind the three, keeping an eye on them like a hen watching her chicks. A steady stream of men entered after that; Odysseus strode in, his face already skewed in conniving thought. Diomedes walked beside him appearing to be unaffected by the news. The unspoken rivalry between himself and Achilles was no small secret, but Patroclus noticed how he stuck closer to the king of Ithaca's side more than usual. They sat next to Agamemnon, silent in their anticipation. Nestor came in next with Antilochus clutching his hand as if he were still only a boy. His hazel eyes were red-rimmed and drying tears still stained his rosy cheeks. He slouched in his seat next to his father, wilting like a flower deprived of sunlight.
More rulers flowed in and once everyone was present Agamemnon cleared his throat, holding up his ancestral staff to commence the meeting. "We all understand why we are here, and we all know that the situation we find ourselves in is critical, so I shall speak plainly. Who proposes an idea to retrieve Achilles from his capture?"
Odysseus raised his hand and spoke with permission. "I fear that we have suffered a crushing defeat at the hands of the Trojans today. It would be unwise to arm once more when our men are wounded and tired out. I suggest we wait a day or two before deciding on our next course of action."
Patroclus shot him a withering look, his tongue unleashing daggers. "Absolutely not! There is no time to wait around idly while Achilles is in their hands. They have whispered his name in fear from the moment we stepped onto these shores, how do we know they aren't already feeding his corpse to the dogs?"
He pointed a shaking hand at Odysseus, unable to tell when exactly he stood to his feet. Patroclus could hear Antilochus' shuddering gasp. Through blurred vision he saw the youthful prince frantically wiping away more tears, but there was no way to close the floodgates once they had opened. Nestor brought his son close to his side, tucking him under his wing and cooing like a dove. The other kings stared at him, unease permeating the room after the outburst they had never seen from the level-headed man. Patroclus slowly retreated into his seat, refusing to let shame quell his fire.
Nestor spoke calmly, attempting to damper the tension. "If they wished to kill him, they would have done so on the battlefield. I believe they are keeping Achilles for a greater reason. Ransom, perhaps, as we have given them much trouble in regards to depleting their surrounding settlements for resources; holding the greatest of the Achaeans above our heads is certainly a sure way to retrieve all that they have lost."
All around the air vibrated with the rumbling of agreeing men, all except Patroclus who still bristled in his seat. Digging his nails into the palms of his hands, he kept his voice steady. "No. I will not accept ransom of any kind. Not if they poured out ten, twenty times his weight in gold; not even if Priam promised me his kingdom and every soul who lived in it. Achilles is invaluable. You cannot put a price on such greatness." Turning his dark, pleading eyes towards Menelaus, he implored the only other man who understood his plight. "Paying a price for Helen would not mend your broken heart, would it Menelaus? It is not only the disappearance, it is the absence. A missing piece of oneself that can only be fought for."
Menelaus flicked his craven gaze towards his brother, caught between his naturally soft heart and the need to lead his men rationally. He shifted uncomfortably when Agamemnon made a small, telling gesture of his own. "The Trojans were… not so open to negotiation, in my case." He murmured, shrouding his words in a silent apology that Patroclus could not accept. What sort of man could not speak his mind yet beg for his weakness of character to be forgiven? This was not the first time he yielded to his brother with his tail between his legs despite his own wishes. Patroclus knew it would not be the last time, either. Menelaus' kindness stretched far and wide, but he never had the strength to cultivate it.
Patroclus made to object but winged words flew to Odysseus first. "I quite agree with Patroclus, although for less sentimental reasons." He scratched his beard while inspecting the grain of the wooden table. "To pay such a large ransom would deplete our economical stores. We would have no resources left and we would be completely vulnerable. This, I am sure, is exactly what they want. Forceful recapture appears to be the most efficient option."
Ajax agreed before raising another question. "Would they be keeping him in the frontline camp or behind the walls?"
"It is hard to say, as both have their advantages. We will send scouts to survey the area and try to find him, reconnaissance is key."
Patroclus nodded. "Then myself and others shall take stock of the Trojan camp tonight."
Odysseus raised his hand, shaking his head. A patient sigh held onto his first words. "These plans take time, Patroclus. I understand that we do not have a lot of it, but that is why we must make the best of what we do have. Give me a day and I will give you a thorough briefing, alright?"
He made to protest more, but Phoenix placated him with a hand on his shoulder. Patroclus gave a curt nod instead. "Alright."
"After we find out where he is located, we plan our mode of attack. Is that clear?"
A chorus of understanding filled the room and Odysseus handed the staff back to Agamemnon. "Any parting words for us, Atreides?"
"Dismissed."
When Patroclus dragged his aching body back to his tent he found that one of the girls—Briseis, if he had to guess—left him a hot bath. Dipping his fingers into the water, he figured it was made some time ago as the temperature had somewhat cooled. Nothing could bring him to care at the moment. Methodically, Patroclus stripped himself of his bloodied armour and clothes, leaving them to rot on the floor instead of neatly folding them and tucking them away. He stepped into the large bronze tub and sank beneath the water's edge. A part of him almost wanted to wait; wait to see those delicate legs turn the corner, to hear Achilles' excited chuckle whenever his eyes landed upon his body, to feel his warm, damp skin press against him. He waited for Achilles to join him, to close the empty void he felt between his legs, along his torso, everywhere that missed the weight of his lover. Patroclus resurfaced, letting go of his breath alongside the memory. He sat there like an anchor at the bottom of the ocean, buried in grief beneath enormous pressure and utterly forgotten. He tucked his knees up to his chest and rested his head against them. Realizing that he was finally alone, Patroclus let all he was holding back run free. A ragged sob wrenched its way out of his throat, breaking the shackles that held it in place all day. All his rage had burned out and all that was left was an emptiness that could only be filled with tears, tears that warmed his cheeks more than the bath water. His heart drowned beneath waves of sorrow.
The water had turned cold by the time Patroclus began properly bathing himself. A sponge slowly dragged across his body like a plow into the earth to wipe away the gore of the battlefield. The task was monotonous, a chore rather than a luxury. When he deemed himself clean enough he moved on to his hair. Untangling the bare minimum of knots before placing the comb down in defeat. Clouded water sloshed as he stepped out of the tub. He dried himself off. Patroclus did not bother with any oils or perfumes. There was no one to indulge for now; neither himself nor Achilles. Laying down on the bed, he did not throw any covers over his body. Patroclus knew better, he knew that there was so chance of sleep tonight. Even as Helios' chariot sunk beneath the horizon and Nyx's darkness cloaked the earth.