An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Achilles gently smiled as he saw the book. It was a small smile, no teeth, just the pulling of a corner of his pink lips.
“You read Roald Dahl too?” Achilles spoke quietly into the air.
Of course he did. He devoured those books like there was no tomorrow. Matilda, James and the Giant Peach, The Witches, Boy, everytime he went to the library, he would search for his books. That copy was a birthday gift. He couldn't remember who gave it to him, just that once he got it, he forgot all about his cake and presents and immediately went to read. His mother had to drag him back to the party.
He smiled. Memories. They were all he had left.
“Looks like that's one way we're similar, Patroclus.”
Well, he couldn't really-.. Wait.
How did Achilles know his name?
Back again to the perusing of old items, Achilles placed the book gently in one of the three piles he had made. Later he would divide them even further but for now, three piles.
How did Achilles know his name?
