Chapter Text
On the day of the wedding, a headless chicken ran amok. Not everyone could say that, he supposed.
A cough. A rustle.
It was early in the harvest season, an auspicious time for marriage. They had made their first trips to the mulberry orchards. The berries that year were fat and juicy, producing a fresh sweet wine of immense fruit flavor -
“You can just skip that part, ole Chap!”
Chaplain Phoinix raised an eyebrow, a finger hovering over the page.
A crowd of eager young faces watched him, following his every move. “NEXT PAGE!”
He sighed. “Well, how about this one?”
The end of the harvest would be marked by the arrival of new vintages from the highlands, where the cool altitudes ensured the grapes would be tough-skinned and potent; perfect for the making of fine wines -
“NEXT!” one of the boys yelled, and the others agreed.
“What do you expect?” Chaplain Phoinix held up the book. Wine Making for the Average Villager gleamed on its cover in golden letters. “ I don’t get to choose what books we get in. They’re donations.”
“Well, who donated this one? It’s AWFUL. Just like the one about butter churning we got in last time.”
Chaplain Phoinix pursed his lips, making a mental note not to mention anything to Peleus if he asked. “Right! Reading time’s over.” He got to his feet, the loom weights at his belt clattering together.
“Aw, don’t go, Chappy! We didn’t mean it! Read to us!”
“Troublesome lot,” Chaplain Phoinix grumbled, and glared at each one of them. “If you’d deigned to let me finish, you would have found out that there was a love story, buried underneath all those pages of careful fermentation and bottling of wine.”
“A love story, yuck! Read it to us!”
How could he say no to those faces? Decade after decade, he’d seen these village boys growing up by the dozen. They treated his chapel like a playground, playing tag among the pews, hide and seek in the alcoves, tipping over candles and nearly burning the place down. But they wouldn’t be this way for long. Sooner or later, they would grow taller and more solemn. Some of them would be defeated by life, others dancing between the coin toss of luck and misfortune.
It was a cycle. Always a cycle. Phthia nurtured these boys and warmed their backs as they ran. When the time came, they would leave to brave the wilderness by themselves. It was a rite of passage.
Just that morning, he’d gotten up for a forage in the woods, pruning shears at the ready. He’d startled to see a group of dirty faces at his window, waiting silently as raccoons.
“What’s this about, boys?” he asked, cracking his window open and shivering at the dawn chill.
“Have you heard the news, Chap?”
“What news?”
Oh god. Had somebody died?
Was it him?
He had celebrated his hundredth birthday not too long ago, with a lovely cake of buttercream and berries frosted at the tips with icing sugar.
Honestly, he had expected to be dead by now. Even looked forward to it. After nearly a lifetime of service to the church, he’d been promised a special burial package at the rectory graveyard, on a sunny spot under a bed of hyssop. There would be a quartet to play three songs of his choosing and a group of professionals from the Leukopolis Mourners’ Association. It was all very nice.
But he’d waited and waited and Lady Death had paid no attention to him. Perhaps Death was no lady at all. Death was a group of rowdy young village boys. Peering in on him in the small hours.
One of the boys rummaged in his pocket, retrieving a dirt-stained invitation, the parchment stiff and cream-colored and rather proper.
“You are hereby invited,” Chaplain Phoinix read, squinting at the curly handwriting. He straightened in surprise. “A wedding?” He hadn’t been asked to officiate a marriage in years, not since he’d done so for Peleus’s son and suffered a heart attack. He much preferred smaller jobs now, christenings or purification rituals. He’d even taken a step back from heading the sermon at the weekly service.
“I suppose Peisistratus is coming back, then,” he muttered. He hadn’t thought he would see him again.
Perhaps this was the prerequisite before the Lady would grant him entry into the afterlife. There was one more job left in him.
“LET’S DO IT!” he exclaimed, pumping his fist in the air. He had a song ready and everything. He always had a song ready.
The village boys exchanged glances amongst each other.
They watched him striding off into the distance, already rehearsing the sermon in his head.
“Should we … tell him?”
A new member of the clergy had arrived that very day to take over the chaplain’s duties. After years on the waiting list, they had finally freed up a room in the rectory at Mount Pelion, all set to house the chaplain for his remaining days. He would have a peaceful time cultivating plants in the greenhouse and writing songs for his fellow clergymen. It would be bittersweet when he retired, but all of Phthia would be cheering him on.
“Nah.” One of the boys swung his arm around another. “Let him enjoy it just for now.”
***
SQUAWK!
Patroclus scrambled in the dirt. “Grab it!” He was losing his grip, slipping and sliding and covered in corn. “Somebody! ANYBODY.”
Catching a chicken was a game of strategy. And he had placed his pieces on either side of the coop. The problem was, this bird was of a slippery mind. Its intelligence was what had caused Father to identify it as the chosen one.
Who had cared for it since chickhood days and raised it into a capable adult? Patroclus.
Who would be responsible for its demise, gleaming cleaver upon the chopping block? Also Patroclus. Reluctantly.
Achilles had set out in the morning to fetch their guests from Leukopolis’s harbor. And he had been left to supervise breakfast, the house bustling with activity since everybody had arrived in Phthia in time for the wedding.
Thankfully, his parents had made it for their biennial visit - the harvest of sea silk was late this year; they had begun to slow down, anyway. They had wanted to spend more time in their summer house - focusing their attention on rearing chickens.
“I’ve got it!” Father lifted it in the air, wings flapping and all.
“Oh, good!” Peleus clapped his hands, rushing over to examine the chicken. “You’re sure this is the one? It’s on the skinnier side.”
“This is the one,” Father nodded, and marched right over to the chopping block.
“Wait!” Patroclus hesitated. He tried not to look the chicken in the eye. He’d had the cleaver sharpened and ready to be used, and yet - and yet -
He gulped. “I suppose this is goodbye.”
“This is a chicken,” Father reminded him. “Not your son.”
“Yes, but … I’ve known it since it was a chick.”
“What did I tell you about forming attachments to chickens? It’s too late. Hand me the cleaver.”
“But does it have to be chicken soup?!” Patroclus cried. “Surely there is another soup of a thousand blessings for the wedded couple!”
“No.”
“Let’s go for a walk,” Peleus suggested, patting Patroclus’s shoulder. “While your father, er … commences with the slaughtering.”
“Say goodbye to everything you love,” Father murmured. Patroclus wasn’t sure who he was talking to.
*
They went about pounding spices with the mortar and pestle. It would be the first time they hosted a welcome feast at the house, and already the kitchen was rife with the smell of cloves and cardamom.
“Two dozen sticky ginger buns,” Peleus said, counting them on the tray, the oven orange-hot. “Think that’ll be enough?”
“For dessert?” Patroclus asked.
Peleus wheezed with amusement. “Dessert? Ha-ha! It’s a tea time break between courses. I don’t know about you, my boy, but I plan on eating all day .”
Indeed, welcome feasts were an all-day event, with lunch served by the time Achilles arrived, guests in tow. They had stayed up the night before stuffing sausages and preparing the dough to be baked into bread. They had made mint jelly for the roast lamb and flaky crusts for the mulberry pies.
His mouth was watering thinking about all the good things to eat.
It was really a miracle.
That Cousin Clymenus would be getting married at last, to a physician, of all people. Perhaps the man had cured his indigestion. And his wandering heart.
They had received the invitation some weeks ago, much to their surprise. But most of all, Patroclus was looking forward to it because it meant he would get to see Peisistratus, who had made a promise to return for the wedding.
A ship with a red sail, on the high seas.
None of them had expected Peisistratus to embark on the seafaring life. This was the same boy, after all, who hadn’t ever wanted to leave. But he’d taken the leap on a whim. He’d spent the past years dancing between luck and misfortune.
Patroclus couldn’t wait.
***
Father had the chicken roasting over charcoal before it would be boiled. “The secret to a rich, smoky flavor,” he said, fanning the flames. “We’ll boil the stock overnight. It should be ready by tomorrow morning.”
“What if they don’t like it? It’s an island style soup, more a clear broth, really. People here aren’t used to that.”
“Once you have a taste, you won’t ever go back. Besides, it’s good luck.”
Patroclus rolled his eyes. “That’s what everybody said at my wedding.”
He could hear the wagon pulling up in front of the house. “It’s them!”
“Don’t go yet. I need you to sprinkle salt over the chicken skin. Where’s your mother?”
Patroclus shrugged. “You did tell her you could make a better soup than she did. I hate to break it to you, father, but I don’t think you’ll see her again.”
Father glared at him. “Go on, then.”
“I’ll tell her you’re sorry!” Patroclus called, hurrying away.
*
The wagon was being unloaded by the time he got there. There was hardly any luggage, and he remembered that Peisistratus tended to travel with almost nothing at all. Half a fried bread and some rash cream, that was his motto.
He bumped into Achilles on the stairs. “Do you have any small change? All I have are silvers,” Achilles said.
Patroclus went and got the coin jar from underneath the kitchen counter. Achilles counted out a few coppers and paid the wagon driver. They watched the wagon disappearing down the path.
In a moment’s time he was wrapped in Achilles’s arms and pulled flush against him.
“After all this is over,” Achilles said, softly in his ear. “Want to go on a boat ride with me?”
Patroclus smiled, despite himself. “Have you gotten inspiration from our guests?”
“I’ll put a little red banner on our rowboat, how about that?”
Patroclus laughed heartily. “Liar. You said you’d take me to Tortoise Mountain this time last year. And the year before that. And the year before that.”
“Well, we did try that one time but the height was too much for you.”
“I’ve been practicing! I’ve been climbing on the roof every now and then!”
“Third time’s the charm.”
“It’s the Year of the Moth,” Patroclus leaned his head on Achilles’s shoulder. “It’s my year .”
“Indeed it is.”
***
The sticky buns had been left in the oven a little too long. He rushed to salvage them. They were brown and crispy on the outside - warm and soft and gooey on the inside. “Still good,” he decided, biting into one. “Mm. Still very good.”
A hand landed on his arm, and he startled, turning around.
“We missed you at Leukopolis. Even though we were only at the harbor,” Telemachus chuckled, and drew him into a light hug.
“How was it? Oh! Did you manage to see it lit up at night?”
“We’ll have to make a detour,” Telemachus replied. Patroclus had only really gotten a chance to talk to him once or twice over the years - but already, he seemed a permanent fixture in their lives.
“So where’ve you been this time around?”
Before Telemachus had the chance to answer, there was a series of footsteps on the stairs and he was being crowded in the doorway. “Who’s in there?! Hello, it’s me PEISISTRATUS.”
“I’m well aware you’re in my house, Peisistratus,” Patroclus said, even while his heart did a little tap dance.
“Hang on! I need to SEE YOU.” Peisistratus squeezed past Telemachus and all but threw himself at Patroclus. “AAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”
They had their arms around each other in a millisecond, jumping around the kitchen in unison.
“The buns!” Peleus reminded them, pulling the tray out of the way. “Anyhow, it’s good to see you, boy.”
“Didn’t I tell you I’d never leave my BEST FRIEND behind?!”
“You left me behind for ten years!” Patroclus objected.
“Come and sit down and have something to eat,” Peleus said, waving Telemachus over, who joined him. “This is going to take a while.”
“Can you believe Cousin Clymenus is getting married?” Peisistratus demanded, holding on to Patroclus as though he’d never let go.
“Yes. Are you sure you want to go to the wedding, seeing as he was almost your betrothed and all?”
Peisistratus snuck a glance at Telemachus, who was too busy sampling a bun to notice.
“I did write home saying I would go,” Peisistratus sighed. “But there shouldn’t be any awkwardness. I mean, it was so long ago.”
Patroclus took a step back for a proper look at Peisistratus. He’d stopped growing some years back, they’d always been of a height - but he was a lot browner from his days under the Ithacan sun. It suited him.
“Well, if you say so. It gives us an excuse to catch up anyway. How long did you say you were staying?”
***
On the morning of the wedding, they went to the marketplace to buy peanuts, just like old times. Peisistratus spotted a group of young village schoolboys tailing them, some making rude faces, others staring in curiosity - and stuck his tongue out at them.
“Little shits!” he yelled, and they scattered, tittering.
“Don’t forget you’re not at school anymore,” Patroclus sighed.
“And I thank my lucky stars for it everyday!”
*
They were in one of the guestrooms getting ready for the ceremony. He thought Peisistratus was different, in a way. It was not how he spoke or even how he looked. It was the way he carried himself, with a quiet, easygoing confidence Patroclus had observed in the peanut boy all those years ago.
Patroclus sat on the edge of the bed, swinging his legs. He watched his friend picking out a nice shirt for the wedding, and matching buttons, and an embroidered vest that had been gifted to him by Telemachus’s family, in Ithacan colors and the traditional weaving patterns of its people. He was becoming an amalgam of experiences, Peisistratus. An open book.
“You know, I thought -” Patroclus voiced, uncertain. “I thought the wedding I would be attending this year was yours.”
Peisistratus caught his eye in the mirror and smiled. “It’s not that easy,” he said, quietly.
“I suppose it isn’t,” Patroclus admitted.
“I mean, we had an agreement. That we wouldn’t make any serious commitments until he … found his father.” Peisistratus trailed off, gaze going distant. “But we go on that trip every few years. And you know what I’m finding difficult to admit?”
Patroclus frowned. “What?”
Peisistratus said nothing for a while. “I don’t think we’re going to find him.”
The silence settled.
“You don’t?”
Peisistratus shook his head. “No. I don’t.”
“Is he dead, you think?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. I think some people just don’t want to be found. But I can’t tell Telemachus. I’ve had the chance to tell him for years, and yet I can’t bring myself to. Every time.”
“Why not?”
Peisistratus heaved a sigh. “Because it would break his heart.”
Patroclus took a second look at Peisistratus. Really looked. This was not the boy he remembered. What he had only glimpsed in Peisistratus back then, had grown with him throughout his early adulthood and beyond.
“You’ve never told Telemachus how you really feel about him.”
Peisistratus shook his head again.
“Perhaps things would be different if you did.”
“I was a different person when I set sail on that ship with him. Now, all these years later … why is it harder? Am I just jaded? Have I lost my courage somehow? Have I forgotten that he’s my peanut boy?”
It made Patroclus smile, hearing that.
Wasn’t it all so familiar?
He got to his feet, clapped a hand on Peisistratus’s back. “Tell him,” he said. “Just to see what happens.”
Peisistratus raised his eyebrows.
“Aren’t you curious? I know I am.”
***
They had gathered outside the chapel, waiting for the newlyweds to emerge hand in hand. At the tying of the sash, he had been transported to the past, thinking of words that had meant little at the time. Words he had lived, and would continue to live.
With these threads, we go forth, into our warm eternity.
And the smiles on the newlyweds’ faces, as their hands were joined.
The smile on Peisistratus’s face, catching the peanut boy’s eye in a sea of faces.
“Do you want to go home?” Achilles whispered to him, while the rest of the crowd followed the newlyweds down the walkway.
Patroclus met his gaze.
One step.
Two steps.
He was almost there.
Third time’s the charm, Achilles had told him.
“All tortoises are turtles,” he chanted to himself.
“But not all turtles are tortoises,” Achilles chanted back.
“All tortoises are turtles!”
“But not all turtles are tortoises!”
Almost there!
“ALL TORTOISES ARE TURTLES!”
“But not all turtles are - we’re here! Climb up this way, we’re here!”
He clambered up the trail, hand gripped tight in Achilles’s, allowing the other man to lead him up the stony path onto the ledge that overlooked the Asopus river. The water was but a silver hairline below the mist, the great limestone peak behind them reminiscent of a tortoise’s shell.
Tortoise Mountain.
Patroclus collapsed on a nearby rock and breathed in the cool air. “What a climb,” he marveled, forgetting to be afraid of the height. It was so high up he couldn’t see how long there was to fall.
And even if he did - it would be green.
Green and green all around, right into Achilles’s arms, into the depths of his gaze.
There was a babbling stream that he could dip his hands into and take a drink of fresh mountain water. A few feet away, in the corner of his eye - the Chapel of the Lady and the Tortoises.
“Do not feed the tortoises,” Patroclus read, once they drew near enough that they spotted the wooden signs mounted all around the pavilion.
“What?! I came all the way up here and I don’t even get to hand them a leaf?”
“I did tell you it was illegal,” Achilles reasoned. “You just didn’t believe me.”
“FINE.” Patroclus wiped the sweat off his forehead. “We’ll just go in and have a look at them, then.”
He climbed up the steps, reaching the entrance of the pavilion.
He turned around.
“Well?"
He held out his hand.
"Shall we go forth?"
Achilles was grinning at him from the bottom of the steps.
He reached out and slipped his hand in Patroclus’s.
*
One step.
Two steps.
Echoing against the stone floor.
Fading.
Disappearing.
One step more.