#*wtsoa

[orthogonals]

aristos achaion

ii.

dark hair and darker eyes, skin brown and buttered so he’s a prince then, why ducked head why slumped shoulders? i watch over tips of heads and glittering plates, a pout tilted a fierce frown not suited for the smooth nut-soaked brow, clenched teeth don’t belong in a face made for smiles my feet take the space his leaves the toes slot up perfect in small hollows, one by one our pieces fit and flow and follow and i can only find anchor in sure words measure music by upturned palms and lifting lashes

he tastes milk-rich and fig-sweet our mouths warm wine his lips pulsing and pliant he smells like crushed olives the crisp skin of red apples hung low on the tree, sweat slippery under the length of my skin safe in the dip of my body his neck the tang of salted sea

he’s the dark earth and the lapping line where water kisses sky, the wind spoken in sighs the oars supple on rise the light that shines in all men’s eyes he’s all that’s good and everything right 

he slips inside the gaps of my feet away from warm covers mountaintops safe. a thousand ships sent a thousand faces chant his brow set his hands white and i may dance in gore turn grass to graveyards but he cannot stain he cannot eat living flesh jumping breath in pillars of flame parts to collect he brings light without the fire spines creak limbs stutter i bend throats and hearts he mends punctured sons peeled fathers brushes dust off my armor wipes blood from my shoulders cleanses death off my tongue in secrets and shudders

stone does not bend stone does not break i am not clay i’m marble the columns lifting rooftops what walls wish they were made of i do not hang limp off the muscle of someone’s shield arm (outside could be winter, cold stealing gasp after gasp legs flail screams fail no longer my people i will not halt this wrath. not even for him.) anything, anything, anything but i love him as a rushing sea until earth’s ends meet but give this i cannot he’s always known how to turn a no he shutters down a sheen of gold he offers white hands ready for red but this is battle not bed outside i have no power to protect my healing spring my dreamless rest a touch, words whispered, firm hands steady stance and suddenly i’m smothering him in my armor covering a smiling face with my helmet beating urgency in sound tasting him telling them i trust you with him be careful. come back.

dark curls chest shorn a starburst of blood on a canvas of sweet lips soft hands firm skin unseeing eyes a scream claws itself out of me a living thing where’s the nearest edge i want to bleed until i am still like he is cold lips wilted hands cloying skin closed eyes he feels nothing like warm sheets and clean water and gentle cloth but i hold him and drink him and wear him over my skin breathe him in think of olives and apples over the putrid odor of flesh bubbled beneath the sun because that’s not him he’s the best of all men

i give chase as i am born to do birthed as a weapon let’s see how i gleam what are gods and fate and custom if food and drink and sleep mean nothing i present him a body dragged scraped and battered i wish i could look the same just broken bones ground and scattered i will fight until the wisps of our charred bodies caress, until dirt joins us together (we swore, remember? together this time and the time after next, this life and the life after that, this world and that world and any world that dares come between)

i wait for him. i will wait until the sky drops and shatters, until the seas dry to dust under cracked feet. (for love is love is love and he’s the blood that maps my body, the second half of my heartbeat.)

i

— w.g

[orthogonals]

Hey, I saw that you are taking prompts. I very much enjoyed your Achilles/Patroclus story so I'd be thrilled if you wrote more in that universe. Maybe a take on their relationship from another person's POV (eg Briseis, Thetis, Chiron...) Or a crossover with Merthur? :)

Thanks for the ask! Achilles/Patroclus always sends me in an emotional spiral. I wrote this for “their relationship from another POV,” hope you enjoy!

~A note on prompts: I won’t have much time to answer the in the coming months, but still feel free to send them in, and I’ll get to them when/if I can!~

through their eyes

rating: T

words: 1509

summary: Aristos Achaion, they called him. Plucked from the spilled blood between Thetis’ thighs and granted a prophecy by the Gods. He flashed past the other boys, quick as an intake of breath, and Peleus’ face shone. Menotides turned to Patroclus.

“That is what a son should be.”

–

Five times Achilles and Patroclus were the subject of observation during their lives, + one time they weren’t.

read on ao3!

i.

The games beat a broken path through Opus, a thousand calloused feet rubbing the dry dirt raw. Menoitides directed the affair with customary severity, ordering servants out to break rock and clear track until even the seething sun had taken rest. He held a hard nub of determination that his games would hail as the best of the generation, would bear glory upon his shoulders. Glory to rival the glow of Apollo himself; glory enough to erase the festering blight of his weak son, his simple wife.

The youngest boys formed their line, eyes glinting with excitement and the thrill of victory. Peleus’ son stood half a head shorter amongst them, impossible to miss. He reflected light like a piece of glass in the sand. Beside him, Patroclus fiddled dumbly with the wreath. Menoitides clenched his teeth until his jaw clicked.

Aristos Achaion, they called him. Plucked from the spilled blood between Thetis’ thighs and granted a prophecy by the Gods. He flashed past the other boys, quick as an intake of breath, and Peleus’ face shone. Menotides turned to Patroclus.“That is what a son should be.”

And when Menotides exiled Patroclus to Phthia, shame and anger warping inside him, he spared the stupid boy only one parting wish— that he might learn something from Achilles’ shadow.

ii.

The fire cast Peleus’ chambers in a mute glow. Dim crackling filled the spaces between his words, a second voice mingling to tell the tale.Peleus sat deep in his chair, arms dangling like grapevines. Day by day, age seeped further under his skin, to his bones. He hardly felt like the man who had served Heracles and rode with Jason.

Achilles shuffled in the shadows, his eyes a glint of green from the dark. Peleus traced Achilles gaze to Patroclus, who had tilted his mouth in a sweet grin. Achilles’ teeth flashed white in return, and the smile was almost unnatural to see on his son.He remembered youth, of quick heartbeats and rushing hot blood. Of furtive glances at the sweat-coated curve of muscle that stretched across the back of his general. But Achilles, great as he might become, was not yet a man, had not experience nor understanding.

A hand shot out and circled around Patroclus’ ankle. Achilles’ snicker, half-covered, rolled into the air from his corner. Peleus did not miss the light brush of Achilles’ thumb against Patroclus’ heel, the softening of Patroclus’ face.

He called for an end to the night, carefully slipping mention of a servant girl who wished to bed Achilles. The sudden shutter of Achilles’ face confirmed all that remained unspoken.

iii.

The wind stirred the trees and sent air unfurling, crisp and clean, through the leaves. Chiron shifted his tail at the breeze, nosing the scent in the atmosphere. Rain was due by nightfall. He inclined his head towards the boys, a lecture on weather-reading in mind.Achilles and Patroclus were crouched in the grass beyond him, huddled so close that their hair brushed. Chiron heard their soft murmurs of conversation as they probed the ground for herbs. Their fingers touched and lingered among the green blades.

It was unusual for a hero to have remained so long in the crags and caves of Mount Pelion, more unusual still to have done so with a companion. Chiron never asked his heroes to go, yet the day always came when they donned armor and rode to battle.Young Achilles was birthed with greatness sighed above him, sticking on lips like honey. He would take whatever measures necessary to make the words true. Chiron knew Achilles, saw his unerring limbs and swift feet. Saw his blank eyes, the mark of all heroes.

Blank for all but Patroclus, who melted Achilles like brown sugar over fire, shifted his balance from half-god to half-human. Such a thing was as rare as juniper in spring, and Chiron could do little but to protect Achilles’ link to humanity.

Chiron called for them, amused as they leaped back from each other with pink cheeks.

iv.

Briseis lingered by the tent, the flap of the entrance thick and coarse beneath her fingers. The flat bottom of the plate pressed, heavy and cool, on her hand. She glanced at the berries rolling about on its surface, ripe and fat with juice. Their thick skins, washed clean, gleamed in the fading light like pearls. Her pulse thrummed in her neck. She would ask Patroclus today. The berries bumped off each other as she reached to open the tent.

A soft moan stopped her hand in midair, the ties still loose in her palm. She redid the ties with practiced ease, hissing quietly, and quickly backed away. Another sound joined the first, followed by an unmistakable sigh: “Achilles.”

Briseis stopped, eyes wide as the emerging moon, filled with a horrendous wonder.

A response. “Patroclus,” each syllable drawn out and rounded, the word infused with sweetness.  More moans carried away by the evening air, stretched sighs that faded even as they reached Briseis’ ears. She willed her legs to move and carry her away, but they were frozen, stuck to the ground.

Finally, after the sun had slipped from the sky, came the sounds that peaked and tapered away slowly, leaving only breath behind.

“Patroclus.” Achilles’ clear voice, somehow warmed. “Therapon, philtatos.”

“Dikos mou,” Patroclus replied, the words sounding muffled by skin. She listened to his gentle kisses, her Greek proficient enough to understand what he had said.

Dikos mou. Mine.

Briseis left, haunted by the sounds of Patroclus’ love.

v.

The ground hummed as Patroclus spoke, the throat of a melody. Thetis felt his pain course through the earth, making the grass shiver. He spoke of her son with words soft like cotton, as yielding as a freshly plowed field.

Humans were weak, rarely logical and far too easy victim to their emotions. Thetis expected Patroclus to rage of his anger, speak seething of the gods. To lament Achilles and curse his hubris. To give bitter insult to Neoptolemus, his refusal to give Patroclus proper rest.

Instead, all she felt from him was love, strong and coursing.

Below, Achilles’ sorrow speared through her in waves. Hades did not welcome those of Olympus, and her son ached like a limb, a part of her own body. Patroclus’ words washed over the grief that laced her skin, hers and Achilles’ together, soothing as a balm of yarrow.

As always, the salty spray of the sea sang to her, crowded the edge of her senses. But for the first time, she closed her mind to the waters and let herself listen. The hill vibrated beneath her feet.

She scooped away the stone like jam, carving the name with one dark fingernail. PATROCLUS. Together, with her son. In writing as in life, as forever in Elysium.

She smiled as she told him.

~vi.~

Agamemnon whirled towards Diomedes, face white and contorted.

“They have no sense of propriety.” He spit out the words through gnashing teeth, fury tightening his lips.

Achilles and Patroclus giggled at Agamemnon from behind an oak tree, fingers laced together. Patroclus gave him a hard eye roll, and Achilles blew a raspberry before quickly ducking back behind the trunk. Their laughter carried over, tinkling like windchimes.

Agamemnon clenched his fists until his veins popped. “This needs to stop. I will go to Hades himself if I must.”

Diomedes gnawed eagerly at his leg of lamb, letting out a chorus of appreciative moans.

“DIOMEDES!” Agamemnon stamped his feet. “Useless slob!”

Diomedes finally extracted his mouth from the half-eaten roast, lips slippery with oil and bits of herb plastered around his face.

“Give it a rest, Mem.”

“I will not—”

“Just because you got in a spat with your old lady—”

“DO NOT MENTION CLYTEMNESTRA!” Agamemnon toppled dangerously at the intensity of his yell, face coloring from white to purple.

“Look.” Diomedes sighed dramatically and placed a greasy hand on Agamemnon’s shoulder. Agamemnon immediately ducked away, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

“You’ve been on about this for, like, three thousand years of their time.” He pointed a finger upwards with emphasis. “When you first started ranting, we were still pissing in holes. In Elysium. Now, we have state-of-the-art toilets with bidets. Bidets, man.”

Agamemnon blanched, eying Diomedes like a particularly stubborn piece of mud on his shoe. “You talk about toilets. While eating.

“Just. Why don’t you go bother Odysseus and Penelope for now? They’re also looking pretty sickeningly happy.”

Odysseus and Penelope waved at them from the distance, and Agamemnon threw up his middle finger.

“Or, go to the sauna or something. You’re always less stressed after a spa trip.”

“Ugh.” Agamemnon grumbled, throwing another stink eye at Achilles and Patroclus, who were now sitting on the ground and giving each other butterfly kisses. “Fine. But I will get them. Mark my words.” He backed away slowly, keeping a menacing stare trained at Achilles. A rock caught his heel, and he stumbled over himself, tripping and falling with a thump.

Elysium echoed with laughter.

[orthogonals]

aristos achaion

i. 

green eyes and nimble feet and skin kissed golden from the rays of the sun i can feel him even here, the slightly-warm too hot burning of the gaze of a god and a brow too soft for marble heads and a jaw however sharp however hard too gentle to wear blood and bear battle

he tastes honey-thick and fig-sweet and our lips brush and bumble and break and bruise he feels petal soft and summer warm, buds blossoming in flush under tongue and touch and a grip beneath fingertips

he’s the whispering rain and a sky clear enough to swim in, the stretch of saplings in spring the earth that blushes green the light that shines on all things he’s of what poets sing

slender arms and swift legs and steady hands, a dance among all the bloodied bodies we’ve yet to bury spear for a lyre sword for a lute, he’s golden beneath the sun but it’s not him just his armor a mother a daughter a punctured son a peeled father, each arch and give a flame choked to ash the field around him dims but maybe that’s because he glows when he twists he shimmers as he leaps he rises and floats and he’s the brightest wildfire to lick this parched grass, what’s a candle to a star what’s a spark to a constellation? he scorches the earth but i cannot see

(outside could be fall, autumn leaves shock red and tumbling i cry i plead still the tears bring nothing) anything, anything, anything but lips blear and burn and bring a no formed between a stone forehead creased, a chin jut out the dull edge of a used blade i know him as i know how to speak and to think and to move and to breathe, i know marble cannot sway but perhaps it can shift with words ripped and dripped in false shine the reflection in gleaming teeth gutting eyes his voice a beat in my ear his hands a salve on my skin his lips a press through his helmet. his armor does not shine in the sun for me. but i love him even when the sun lays dying.

these hands that once split a boy and now cut sores from studded thighs and groans from seized shoulders crack and spill once again, sharp stone rough grip white bone nothing so tough as animals, the flash and blur the victory ditty of the best of them all who makes men swarm, gives flood and brings tremble

the looming pith borne on a chariot of clouds, the rock whetted to a tip tearing past rough grip white bone and i would go but for the air that billows through him like dust on a throne, i would go but to keep his summer heat his tender spring his life the life of all things his name the last on my tongue

i burn as he burns, i shrink as he shrinks, time taps an incessant miser a magnanimous thief we mingle in flakes of burnt blood, the dust of our bodies the ash of our bones, together as i told him as we swore when we were both whole and we didn’t leak (together this time and the time after next, this life and the life after that, this world and that world and any world that dares come between) 

she scratches in my name, dark nails white shale stone cold as sleet i go. (i will always go where he waits, tear through skies and seas ‘til we meet. for love is love is love and he’s the flesh beneath my skin, the second half of my heartbeat.)

ii

— w.g

[orthogonals]

a little fic

We sat by the lake. The wet grass flicked droplets of dew at my feet, and the newly woken sun beat down on us softly from above. I gazed at Patroclus from the corner of my eye. Rustling leaves scattered the sunshine to a thousand rays, and pinpricks of light danced on the rich brown of his cheeks. His eyes were closed, his face tilted forward. The dark lashes fringing his eyelids gleamed as if dipped in oil.

I felt something swell inside me, a feeling unnamed. The dim blood and unceasing battle of the fields of Troy could not reach us here. Our fingers brushed in the thickets of grass, and only the hum of the forest stretched between us. I think moments like this are what keep me sane.

His tunic hung loose off broad shoulders, slipping in the breeze. I traced the exposed panes of his back with a long glance, and blood pulsed in my ears like the swish of wine in a krater. That expanse of flat muscle was as familiar to me as the breath in my body, but my desire to touch and to taste never ceased.

We came to Troy so that all men might know the Aristos Achaion. We came to Troy, and we built our lives warily around the space filled by my foretold death. But I cannot imagine the life of a shade. I cannot imagine Elysium without this. Without him.

Hector’s death still lingered in the haunts of my dreams. The image was always the same: I stand before him in a grove. The laurel twists us in like shadows of the night. Cold fury and piercing agony wrestle inside me as waves crashing on rock, the anguish so fierce that a dull ache remains in the morning.

I am ruthless as the spear flies, its glinting tip carving a path to Hector’s throat. He falls.

Hector is dead, and I know my death will follow, as swift and sure as the course of a river. I cannot feel anything other than relief.

I did not tell Patroclus of these things. We did not have time enough to worry.

Patroclus sighed from beside me, a soft sound like birdsong. He bumped his knee into mine.

Caught by a sudden mischief, I pushed myself over, wrestling him into the slippery dew. His eyes flickered open, catching the dance of the light. A smile played sweetly on his mouth. He drew me in close and brushed his lips against mine. The wash of his scent, dark earth and apples, squeezed my breath somewhere high.

“Patroclus,” I said.

“Achilles,” he replied, his voice coloring my name like a melody. He smiled, crinkling the corners of his eyes. Unruly curls framed his face, his body a lean line beneath mine.

The feeling seized me again, filled me until I thought to burst. I gave a sly grin and lunged forward. Patroclus yelped and squirmed as I pressed kisses to his forehead, his nose, his cheeks. The air tinkled with his laughter.

Our foreheads rested together, and his thumb rose to brush my face.

“Whatever may happen,” I begun, and my voice cracked. I took a shallow breath. “Promise that we shall always be together.”

That we would find each other, in life and in death.

Something solemn swam in his gaze. He tipped his head up and whispered his words like a secret.

“We cannot be kept apart, for we are two halves of a whole. I promise.”

[orthogonals]

in the moments after

Rating: T Fandom: The Song of Achilles (Madeline Miller), The Iliad (Homer) Word Count: 741 Summary: A shade has no real physical body, not even in Elysium. Here, we are granted only a sense of the corporeal—the rush of spring water on sticky skin, the scent of fresh earth, the tickle of grass beneath our feet. But all that we are— appearance, voice, dress— comes from our spirit. I am nothing but soul, and half my soul is missing.

What happens after they reunite in Hades, from Achilles' perspective.

[read on ao3]

In the moments before, I know. I cannot say how any more than a spider can tell how to spin a web or a goat how to climb. I felt it like the quiet before a storm, when the air hovers still and the birds hush in the trees.

A shade has no real physical body, not even in Elysium. Here, we are granted only a sense of the corporeal—the rush of spring water on sticky skin, the scent of fresh earth, the tickle of grass beneath our feet. But all that we are— appearance, voice, dress— comes from our spirit.

I am nothing but soul, and half my soul is missing.

Like the others, he comes shrouded in shadow. I cannot distinguish the shades, all blank faces who wear darkness around their shoulders. But I know, and my phantom heart drums an impossible rhythm into my throat. Something buzzes and kicks in my stomach.

I run. No man can run faster than I, just a smear in the idle landscape that stretches past sight. He may not want me. I am prepared to drop to my knees.

I run until the air thins, until the promise of his presence buzzes against me like licking fire. He stands unmoving in the distance, silent, a dark monolith piercing the sky, and a spear of trepidation slices through my chest. I cannot see his face.

Before I have drawn near, I halt, blood coloring my cheeks. Elysium has hidden her souls, but she has yet been kind— it seems not weeks since Paris slew me with his arrow. Patroclus has strayed past time in the world of the living, and I cannot bear to reason why he might have done so. Whenever I ponder this, I feel as if drowned in cold water.

But we reach our hands out at the same time, a mirror reflection, even with steps of distance still separating our feet.

When our fingers twine, light breaks and beams through the cracks in our bodies. It is the light that Elysium could not bring, bursting forth with a glow brighter than that of thousand suns.

I can see his face, and I weep.

*

The slope of a rolling hill, pristine and flushed with spring, arcs up behind our backs. Patroclus holds me against his chest, our arms tangled together. His chin rests heavy on my shoulder.

“I sent you to your death.” My voice croaks, scratchy from the tears I have shed, raw from repeating this line. There is a gaping tear in my heart; I cannot forget.

He gathers me in tighter, his words a warm brush against my ear. “You could not have known.”

“I could not see past myself.” I could not sacrifice my honor, what I had spent ten years building. The glory for which I had bargained my life away. Ten years of service, of bloodstained armor five days every seven, of countless Trojans slain and countless Greeks saved, and I was treated like no more than a worm crushed underfoot.

But no amount of honor or glory merited the expense of Patroclus’ life. Of Patroclus’ blinking eyes in the morning, the heat of his body against mine at night. Of slow smiles and soft words and sweet kisses. He was the one thing I could not afford to lose, and I suffered righteously for forgetting.

“The blame is not for you alone to carry.”

A huff of laughter escapes my mouth. I tilt my head back to catch a glimpse of his face. His almond-brown skin, radiant with life, his dark eyes, open and watching. Alive. With me.

“It was my pride and my fall. Who else can take the guilt?”

He shrugs, leaning forward and kissing the tip of my nose. “Honor. Glory. They were woven into the fabric of your life from the beginning. You knew no further.”

He speaks with candor, even as he cradles me in his arms. I do not feel insulted.

“You are wrong.” I say, idly rubbing the smooth skin at the junction of his thumb and forefinger. I lift his hand and press a kiss against his palm. “I knew you.”

He laughs, a delighted sound, and lazily traces patterns on my neck with his lips. Desire mounts and rushes across my skin, the crest of a wave, making me shiver. I manage to tell him before the want spills over.

“I love you.”