Summary: When Patroclus, a 12 year old trans boy and adopted son of a rich billionare, accidentally kills someone at his father's country club, he gets sent away to what he thinks is a camp for troubled children. But when he's greeted by a good-looking boy clad in armor named Achilles, he realizes this camp isn't what he thought it was.
Notes: Warning for side character death and Patroclus's abusive father
I don’t try to be a disappointment, I really don’t. But here I am, packing my things as my adoptive dad yells on the phone downstairs. He’s sending me away to some camp for troubled children. I’m sure it’s some kind of conversion camp or something like that. He was pretty angry with the situation, plus he wasn’t very happy when I told him his daughter was actually his son.
How did this all happen? Well, it was late afternoon at my dad’s country club. I had argued with him earlier that day, wanting to wear his old suit and tie instead of the dress he wanted me to wear. But I stood looking hideous in the ugly white dress he put me in.
My dad has a ton of rich friends, all of them live in our gated community. It’s kind of like a kingdom with my father being the king. You’d think since I’m his child, I’d be this spoiled brat. I don’t really think I am. My father doesn’t treat me any different than the people who work for him. It’s because I’ve always been different from the other children of rich parents. The boys are smart and good at sports. The girls are lady-like and proper. I fit in with none. I’m not good at sports, and I’m not exactly lady-like or proper. I can be smart at times, but it's not often.
On this day, I was sitting under a tree, away from all the other kids. The country club has a nice path leading to the golf course, surrounded by trees. All the other kids are eating in the outdoor seating area. That’s where everyone under 18 sits. But not me. I’m near the path, sitting on the concrete under a tree, playing DnD by myself. I’ve figured out ways I can play alone.
But as I was in the middle of my game, a kid a little older than me, probably around 13, walked over. I barely knew the other kids, they never wanted to hang out with me.
“Playing your satanic game, Patricia?” He says before grabbing my dice. I hate it when people touch my stuff. It’s mine.
“Hey!” I try to reach out and take them back but he holds them out of my reach.
“Why’d you cut your hair? You look more like a dyke than before!” He laughed. I hate it when people call me that. I’m not a lesbian, I’m a boy. And I don’t even like girls.
I stand up, trying to get my dice back, but he holds them up too high. He continues to call me names and laugh at me. Tears are welling in my eyes as I get more frustrated. My father doesn’t like to admit it, but I am autistic. Simple things like this make me extremely frustrated and I often don’t know how to deal with it.
I feel a sudden rush of adrenaline and anger. I often don’t know how to deal with my emotions. I press my palms against his chest and push as hard as I can. He falls backward and his head lands on the hark rock I was using as a table. I see his eyes bulge out before he stops moving and blood starts to pour from the back of his head. There’s no way. He’s not actually dead, right? But the way he’s not breathing makes me doubt that.
The events that happen next are a blur. The kids from the outdoor seating look over and see the blood. They run to tell their parents and all the adults come out. My dad rushes out and starts yelling at me. I can’t hear him though. I feel lost in my head and numb. A sharp stinging pain in my cheek snaps me out of my trance and my father grabs my wrist tightly and drags me back inside.
I got locked in my room for a while since I refused to say anything other than “I didn’t mean to”. After my dad calms down a bit, he explains that I’m going away to a camp for troubled kids. One of the adults gave him directions to a camp that would take care of me until I turned 18 without having to go through any legal business that foster homes or orphanages require. They said to send me there and he wouldn’t have to worry about me for the rest of his life. It was the only way we could avoid legal problems.
It doesn’t take me long to pack my things. I have a few boy clothes that I bought on my own, a binder, a few sports bras and my bandages that I sometimes use to bind. I have a horse stuffed animal from when I was younger that I refused to give up. My dad doesn’t know that I dug through the trash to get it back when he tried to throw it away. I hide it underneath my clothes.
It’s around 2 AM when the car arrives to take me away. My dad doesn’t wish me a safe trip. He just stares with disappointment as I enter the car with my duffel bag. I hug myself and stare out the window as the car starts. It doesn’t feel real, incidents like these take me a long time to process.
I fall asleep in the car for a couple hours until the driver wakes me up to tell me we arrived. But when I look up, we’re in the middle of the woods.
“You have to keep walking after the path ends, that’s what the directions say,” my driver tells me before getting out of the car and opening my door. I frown, I hate walking by myself.
“It’ll be alright, Patroclus, this will be good for you,” He says. He was the only one to ever call me by my chosen name.
I give him a small smile, but stay silent. I step out of the car with my bag hanging by my side from the shoulder strap. He closes the door behind me and begins to drive off. The sun is starting to rise now, making it easier to see where I’m going.
After trudging through the forest for a while, I came upon a clearing where a tall tree stood on top of a hill. I keep walking, hoping that it’ll lead me to this camp. I’m glad the shock of killing someone is still affecting me, I can’t go into a shutdown right now, not in the middle of nowhere.
I’m out of breath by the time I get up the hill. Athletics have never been my thing. Though, I decided to take a break under the tree and rest a little. I sit, throwing my bag down next to me. I felt like falling asleep right then and there. But after about 2 minutes of sitting, there's a group of kids with bows drawn and ready to fire that surround me. My heart races. What the hell is going on?! Why do kids have medieval weapons?!
“Wait!” I suddenly hear a voice yell out. A boy with medium length, yellowish blonde hair and tan skin runs up the small hill in front of me, stopping the group. He’s wearing what seems to be a red bandana on his wrist. The archers glance over at him, but have their bows still locked onto me.
“He’s passed the barrier. He’s a half-blood,” The boy says. The group lowers their weapons and the boy walks towards me. What did he mean by the barrier? Or half-blood. What even is a half-blood? He has a sword at his hip and a shield attached to his left forearm. I feel so overwhelmed, I want to pull at my hair and hide. But my adrenaline is keeping me from doing so. The boy reaches a hand out to help me up. Hesitantly, I took it. His skin was soft yet rough around the tips.
