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Fig Seeds in our Fists

Chapter 2: 2

Notes:

Exams? Don’t know her. Though I have convinced myself writing fan fiction is basically English revision. And TSOA is a modern classic, I think.

Anyway, here is part two my lovelies. I hope you all have a very merry, and safe, Christmas.

 

Warnings: Mentions of injury and death.

Chapter Text

 


A week passed and movement returned to Patroclus’ hands. Feeling crept along his arms and soon he could raise them to tug at Achilles, to stroke the plains of his face and dip into the valleys of his muscles when he changed the bandages thick around Patrolus’ chest. At first, Machaon had wanted to do it, as he had when Patroclus had been unconscious.

 

 

Two weeks, Achilles had told him later on.

 

It explained, partly, the broken state Achilles had been in when Patroclus awoke. 

 

“I don’t think he slept a wink the whole time.” Briseis murmured one evening when Achilles had eventually been persuaded to leave Patroclus’ side to check on his men.

 

 

But Achilles had been adamant he was now going to be in charge of Patroclus’ recovery. And Patroclus knew him well enough to guess why. He had seen the guilt that flickered across his face when he thought Patroclus was turned away. The look that seemed to permanently mar his expression as he helped Patroclus out of their bed, and gently carried him to take some fresh air or relieve himself. Even now, after two weeks since he awoke, Patroclus could move little below his midriff. The limbs didn’t even feel dead, it was as if they didn’t exist, as if his body stopped where the wound began. The wound that still burnt deep through the bandages. Machaon said, miraculously, his organs were mostly undamaged. The broken bones were slowly, but steadily healing. He could sit up, without leaning too much on Achilles for support. As for the rest, only time could tell.

 

And Patroclus’ grudge against Achilles, for sacrificing him for his pride? Patroclus had never been good at holding anything against Achilles. Anger, frustration, it didn’t come easily. He didn’t even know how to feel such emotions for Achilles. Briseis didn’t understand. She still glared at him with her dark, Trojan eyes whenever he touched Patroclus. Which was most of the time. Achilles probably wouldn’t understand either. As with most things now, Patroclus found he just didn’t have the energy to be angry. The time they had remaining to them was blessed. With a wound like his, such moments could only have been given by the gods.

 

 

One night, as the rest of the camp slept, Achilles took them down to the beach. He wrapped his body up in thick blankets, because even though the summer nights were warm, Patroclus found the cold seeped through his skin in a way it hadn’t before. His arms, grown frailer since the wound, clutched at Achilles’ neck, and he let his head fall back in a laugh as Achilles charged through the white foam cantering up the beach. Throughout, Achilles made sure to hold him so gently, the wound, still healing lazily across his chest and back, barely twinged.

 

Later, they lay together on the sand, curled on Achilles’ cloak, tossing pitted olives into each other’s mouths. At some point they moved even closer, even though the game’s aim was to shift further apart with each successful shot, and Achilles’ right hand was moving to carefully tangle in his hair. He propped himself up on the other hand and looked down at Patroclus, face cast in the silver light of the moon. Patroclus flushed as those bright eyes, in the night deepened to the green of a forest pool, flicked lazily across his features. A smile tugged at the edges of his mouth and Achilles returned it with the wide grin of a cat. He shifted so his other elbow came down to bracket Patroclus’s chest and then he crouched lower over him, covering his body with his own and fighting away a slight breeze that had fluttered along the beach.

 

With hands ridged in callouses, yet still so elegant they should not belong to a warrior, Achilles cupped Patroclus’ face, thumbs brushing under his eyes in soft, sweeping motions, the pads as soft as the velvet of a dog’s ear. As he bent closer, Patroclus could smell the soft musk of salt, cedar and something sweet that had accompanied Patroclus throughout his childhood and beyond. His hands reached up to thread fingers through Achilles’ hair and he closed his eyes.

 

“My son.” Achilles was gone before Patroclus’ eyes had snapped open, cold air rushing up where his body had been just a moment before. Unable to move, Patroclus shivered.

 


Achilles half crouched in front of his love, a knife already loose in his hand. It would be useless against Thetis, Achilles knew, and that’s what terrified him the most. If Thetis wished, she could take Patroclus from him again, and he could do nothing but rage. He gripped the knife tighter and moved to block Patroclus from view when her eyes flicked over him.

 

“Silly boy, I am not here to take your pet.” Achilles narrowed his eyes. Standing like a jutted tooth against the smooth horizon of the sea, Thetis appeared diminished. Her once towering form now hung, sagged over, the great rolling darkness of her hair hung limply over her shoulders and the eyes that met his across the sand were sunken.

 

He shifted closer to Patroclus until he could feel his body heat mingle with his own.

 

“What do you want?”

 

Once Thetis would have snapped her jaw in anger at his tone, but now only a dark look passed across her features. She didn’t try to move closer.

 

“Achilles?” Keeping one eye on his mother, Achilles flashed his gaze back towards Patroclus. He had one hand raised, reaching to be pulled up. Achilles scrambled to get behind him and snaked an arm around his back to gently raise him into a sitting position. Then he folded his knees on either side of his beloved and let him lean back against his chest. Patroclus took in a strained breath, and sagged back, already exhausted from such a simple movement. His hand darted across where the wound still lingered. And then he inclined his head at Thetis.

 

“My lady, you have my thanks.”

 

Achilles arms tightened around Patroclus’ waist. 

 

“Philtatos, you owe her nothing.”

 

“It seems your mortal is smarter than he appears,” the words raked through the air like the ocean passing over stones. Her black eyes gazed over their bodies, glinting in satisfaction as Patroclus took another pained breath, “my son, do you truly believe it was the hands of your mortal physicians that saved this boy?”

 

Achilles’ breath hitched before the full meaning of her words hit him. He brought the body in his arms closer and cherished the feeling of it swelling with each breath stolen from the fates. Without the aid of his mother, this body would be cold and swollen with rot. He buried his face in the soft curls of Patroclus’ head breathing in his scent. In the darkness, images of his body, sagging, lifeless, cold, empty, being brought back from the war, still as vivid as if they happened yesterday, tore through his mind.

 

The blood, the smell, the stillness. Stillness which had suddenly erupted into life. His hands trailed towards the wound which still dominated Patroclus’ body. His mother was right. No mortal, no matter how great, could have healed that.

 

“Patroclus was meant to die,” Thetis’ cold voice broke over his thoughts, “it was his death that lead to your own, and thus the fates have been changed.”

 

Patroclus stilled in his arms, “does that mean Achilles is safe? He will survive the war?”

 

“Nothing is certain.” Thetis didn’t deign Patroclus with a glance, her eyes still boring into Achilles, “but such an action will require a gift to the gods.”

 

“Anything, I will give them anything-”

 

“I know.” Thetis cut through sharply, the bloody slash of her lip curling, “but be prepared. The gods have no rule which says they must be fair.”

 

On the next roll of the gently turning tide, she was gone, evaporated with the sea foam which cracked against the rocks.

 

 

They left the beach. The merriment, which had found them truly for the first time since they reached the shores of Troy, had passed. Achilles kept his arms tight around Patroclus, glowering at the night watch guards, who let them pass without a sound. 

 

Achilles carried him into the dim light of their tent, the heavy warmth a chill in comparison to the beating heat which emanated from his chest. He sat on their bed, Patroclus still cradled in his arms, clutching him as if he was the last gasp of light in a world of darkness. He had yet to speak.

 

“Achilles.” Patroclus let his voice burn through the silence, the name hanging heavy in the air.

 

“You knew?” It wasn’t an accusation, but the question left Achilles’ chest in a breathless murmur.

 

“I guessed. It was only logical, after- after what Hector did.” Achilles tensed at the name, and Patroclus suppressed the guilt blooming in his chest. He didn’t want to see Achilles suffer, to take away the last rock of hope he had been clinging to, that his pride had only lead to Patroclus nearly being killed, rather than taking his life altogether.

 

He raised his hand to Achilles’ face. “My sweet, I do not blame you.”

 

Achilles gripped the hand and pressed it to his lips. “You should.” The words were barely audible and Patroclus only knew them through the soft vibrations against his fingertips.

 

Gently, he drew his hand away and replaced it with his lips.

 

“It is in the past.” He whispered when they separated, foreheads pressed together so their eyelashes brushed when they blinked. “The moments we have now are precious, there is no time for grudges.”

 

Achilles blinked, Agamemnon’s name passing wordlessly between them.

 

 

The next day Achilles rode out to Troy, leading the myrmidons behind him in a streak of gold. He charged through the Trojan forces, his god given horses grinding men beneath their hooves, his spear, carved by Chiron, finding every one of its marks. Every day he would return covered in blood, stinking of sweat and grime, and sweep Patroclus into his arms to pepper him with kisses.

 

Patroclus watched the tide of the war turn as the Greeks steadily gained land. Day by day, pain staking metre by pain staking metre, life after life, until they frothed and chaffed at the very gates of Troy. The day before the gates cracked beneath their weight, Achilles held Patroclus’ hand as the bandages were finally removed from his chest, revealing the angry mass of a scar that tore through his body and spread in cracked veins of white and red across his back and stomach. Achilles wrapped him in his arms as Machaon told him he would never walk again, and let their tears mingle as they curled together afterwards on the single bed in their tent.

 

“I love you. You are worth no less, you are more precious to me than any creature in this land. I love you, Patroclus.” He whispered over and over, lips never leaving Patroclus’ ear.

 


 

After that Troy was taken in only a matter of days, their forces cracked and broken, resources gone and people exhausted. 

 

It was a time for celebration after nearly a decade of war, yet under the command of Achilles, the Phthians barely stayed long enough to take their share of the plunder.

 

Briseis sat beside Patroclus, keeping him company as the camp was taken down around them. His and Achilles’ hut, which had stood like an immovable beast in the middle of the compound for so many years, had been defeated in minutes by a small group of soldiers. Fabric was saved for bandages, whilst the rest was burnt. She tossed the end bit of a tent pole onto the fire blazing in front of them and wrapped another blanket around Patroclus’ shoulders. They were frailer now. He had always had a leaner frame, grown slimmer in comparison to Achilles who had spent his twenties fighting rather than helping in the medical tent. Machaon had prescribed gentle exercises now he could move without putting too much strain on the wound, but even so, the muscles in his legs were wasting away.

 

Yet despite all this, despite the fact he could never move unaided again, that even this slight breeze, gentler than the breath of a child, had him shivering under thick blankets, despite the pain Achilles’ pride had driven through him, Patroclus still gazed at him with the tender love he always had.

 

He met her gaze as she watched him, those warm brown eyes seeking the frustration in her face as easily as if he was scanning a map. A hand slipped out from under the blankets and wrapped around her own. They were cold, and bonier than she remembered.

 

He opened his mouth to speak and then his eyes flicked away, caught on something behind her. She turned and saw Achilles in the distance striding back and forth, that cursed golden hair flying brilliantly in the wind as he shouted orders at his men. Even now, when he spoke, she heard only that howling battle cry which had taken her home away. From here, it was hard to believe he was only a half-god. Amongst the Myrmidons he stood taller and brighter, like an ingot of gold amongst coal. 

 

Pretty to look at, but utterly useless, she thought bitterly.

 

But to Patroclus, she knew that ingot was his reason for living.

 

“If Achilles dies, I will not be far behind.” Those words he had said to her so long ago, yet she knew the sentiment had not changed. And probably never would.

 

She knew the man must be approaching when Patroclus’ face suddenly lit up, and then Achilles was there, draping himself over his back like some big, muscular, sweaty cloak, and resting his chin on his shoulder. He whispered something in Patroclus’ ear and he laughed. As if sensing Briseis, Achilles met her gaze from behind Patroclus and narrowed those green eyes. The eyes of a god.

 

Suddenly she wondered, what would have happened had Patroclus really died? Would Achilles have lost his humanity for good? 

 

Yes.

 

A shiver ran through her body. He would have destroyed everything in his path, in his desire for vengeance.

 

 

The blue-grey smudge of Phthia’s cliffs were nearly in sight when the god entered Achilles and Patroclus’ cabin. She must have passed invisible through the ship, because the guards stationed outside made no sound at all, no warning before the grey-eyed woman stood in the door.

 

Something in her face reminded Patroclus of Achilles. That inhuman stillness, the ancient depth of her eyes. The way she carried herself that stood her apart from all men.

 

He dipped his head, “Athena.”     

 

Achilles made no acknowledgment, but watched her warily from beside Patroclus. Athena had been on the side of the Greeks during the war. It was thanks to her wisdom and guidance that they had been lead to victory. Whatever she wanted in return, Patroclus knew Achilles would give. He watched as the muscles in Achille’s jaw twitched. She only had to ask, and he would give up his life. His hand found Achilles’ and he gripped it.

 

“For the life of Patroclus, son of Menoetius, the fates have been changed.” Athena’s voice came out deeper than he expected, colder than the distant stars above them and emotionless as the stone of her face.

 

Achilles gripped his hand tighter, “whatever I can offer, it belongs to the gods.”

 

The spider thread of a smile cracked Athena’s face. Yet it didn’t denote happiness, or even any semblance of what could be called emotion in human terms. Just like the rest of her, the smile of Athena was merely a facade of humanity.

 

Though perhaps they should be grateful she came in this form.

 

“There is nothing you can offer me, Prince of Phthia. Not for the impact it has had on the fates.” Her cold gaze fell on Patroclus and, for a moment, Patroclus felt like he was staring into the depths of the Sun. Then, perhaps indifferent to what she saw in his weak, mortal body, she turned her head up to the ceiling, looking through it to the great cavern of the sky.

 

“Yet, you owe the gods a great debt now, Prince of Phthia. This is all I ask of you. Remember this gift now, even until your dying days.”

 

 

“Your support? Is that all?” Patroclus asked later on when they lay in bed, legs tangled together, his head pressed to Achilles’ chest so not even the finest sliver of air separated their bodies.

 

Achilles only hummed in response, threading his hand tenderly through the long curls of hair at the nape of his neck. His fingers found that spot behind his ear and he fiddled with it for a moment before speaking, “the fates have changed, who knows what conflicts will arise in the future. Perhaps this battle between men is only the beginning.”

 

“A war between the gods?”

 

Patroclus felt Achilles shrug, the muscles of his shoulder brushing against his neck.

 

“I guess we can only see.”