Chapter Text
Tears like shards of glass cut down my cheeks, leaving red jagged scars in their wake as they fall. They nourish the parched dirt below, trying to bring life into the desolate dust, but all that is left are wet smears that resemble the seeping of a fatal wound.
Mount Asproyes rises under my feet as I walk and walk and walk. I slip and stumble as I make my way south, away from Atalanti, away from home, away from the sharp words of my father, away from the weeping cries of my mother, away from the terror that erupts from her lips each night he returns home drunk and volatile.
I hate him, I think to myself. I will never return, I vow. I have nowhere to go, I despair.
But anywhere is better than there.
The ground rumbles beneath me, and I lose my footing. I barely gasp before I find myself on the floor, rocks and debris flying up around me. My head hits the edge of a stone, and stars light up my vision. I lay there, face down and panting, as the stars twinkle and shine in front of me. It’s only when they darken and dim before blinking out entirely that I turn over, and look up at the night sky that is devoid of any beauty, any celestial beings.
There is no moon, no stars. Only darkness.
I laugh.
It doesn’t feel like my own. More like an extension of myself.
The earth has stopped shaking, at least, I think. Those earthquakes had been more frequent in the last week, since my father decided to take out his anger on my mother. I don’t know what they fight about, for some of the words they use are unfamiliar to me, but I know it cannot be anything good. My father calls her by names, both rude and endearing, while my mother begs and pleads.
For mercy. For forgiveness. For something she apparently did before I was born.
I huff from my spot.
What use is there in digging up old wounds? It has been seven years and three months and twelve days since I was born. What is so bad that they bring it up so often and so many years later?
Adult things, I guess.
“Aristos Andras?”
I look up and see a woman peering over me. She is stately, tall and beautiful, with silver eyes that are wide like an owl’s.
She wears a long dress, and wears a strange hat and carries a giant plate and pointy stick.
I scrunch up my nose at her.
“No,” I say. “My name is Patro– Patroclu– Pat!”
She hums, and kneels besides me. I sit up, and we meet eye to eye.
“You don’t know how to say your true name, child?”
“Mother told me what my name is,” I tell her. “But it’s too hard to say, and father doesn’t like it.”
“Your father?” She raises an eyebrow. “Why does he not like it?”
“All sorts of reasons!” I nod sagely. “It’s too old, he said. Like– like from history! And it means something he says I’m not, and that the person who had the name in history was a– was a… I don’t remember what he said, but mother said it wasn’t nice!”
“Indeed,” She bows her head slightly. “And what does this name mean to you, young one?”
“It’s just a name,” I shrug. “It doesn’t– doesn’t matter who had it in the past. It’s my name now. So, I need to live up to it!”
“How old are you, sun-bearer?”
“Seven years, three months and twelve days!”
Her lips quirk.
“You’re very wise for a seven year, three month and twelve day old.”
“Mother always said I’m smart for my age.”
“Your mother is very wise, too,” The grand woman praises. “You should call her mater.”
“Mater? What does that mean?”
“It means mother, but it's a great sign of respect. Your mother will cherish it.”
“Mater,” I test the word out on my tongue. “Mater!”
“That’s right, child.” She praises.
I beam at her, and her shoulders relax from the rigid position they had held themselves in.
“I’m so glad Apollo found you when you were born,” She says, and I tilt my head at her. “I worry you wouldn’t have survived your childhood if he hadn’t.”
“Who is Apollo?” I ask.
She smiles secretively.
“A good friend. You should call him Uncle Apollo, though.”
I hum.
“Is he old?” I whisper.
She laughs, the sound clear and joyful.
“Very, very old,” She hints. “With wrinkles here,” She prods my forehead. “Here,” She prods my nose. “And especially here.” She tickles my chin.
I giggle.
“He must be ancient with so many wrinkles!”
“Incredibly so. He, Ares and Poseidon are all very old.”
“Ares and Poseidon?” I gasp. “Are they uncles too?”
“They are,” She nods. “And you can call me Auntie. We’re going to look after you, even when you grow old.”
“I’m never going to grow old,” I proudly proclaim. “I’m going to stay young forever.”
“I think you’re the only child I’ve met who doesn’t want to grow up,” She comments. “Why is that, lightbringer?”
“Adults are no fun,” I sigh. “They just shout and cry and throw things. That’s no fun.”
“No, I imagine it isn’t,” Her face is sombre, lips carefully drawn together in a frozen line. “What is fun, then, little one?”
“Flowers.” I nod.
She raises an eyebrow.
“Flowers?”
“Flowers!” I stand up and open my arms wide. She watches with wide eyes filled with amusem*nt. “Especially those white ones!”
“Lilies?”
“No,” I shake my head passionately. “The white ones. The ones that start with as– asph–”
“Asphodel,” She whispers. “Do you like asphodels?”
“And yarrow,” I add. “And wildflowers. And this little blue flower my mother– no, mater! – showed me.”
“Forget-me-nots?”
“Yes, those. They’re so pretty.”
“Asphodels, yarrow, wildflowers and forget-me-nots,” She lists. “I think I can do something with that.”
“What do you mean, Auntie–?”
In a flourish, she pulls out a beautiful bouquet of white asphodels and yarrow, yellow wildflowers and blue forget-me-nots.
I gape at it, even as she pushes it into my arms.
“Are you a fairy, Auntie?”
She laughs.
“No, my dear. I am simply your Auntie.”
I look at her in amazement. In reverence. In utmost worship.
“What is your name then, Auntie?”
“My name?” She smiles fully this time, but there is a teasing lilt to it. “You first.”
“I told you already,” I pout. “It’s Pat!”
“Your full name.” She insists.
“Patro– Patrocl–”
“Pa-tro-clus.”
Pa-tro-clus, something sings in my mind. Yes.
“Pa-tro-clus,” I repeat. She nods. “Patroclus!”
“Very good, Patroclus.”
“Now you!”
She smiles.
“My name is–”
————
“How was work?” I ask with a smile as Evri enters the room laden with bags.
He grins at me as he places them to the side. “It was good. Watching Ulysses go back to normal after last week was a big relief that I’m sure everyone felt.”
Achilles snorts.
“You mean back to his mysterious, wily ways?” He snarks, and Evri chortles even as I send him a reprimanding look.
“Ulysses isn’t mysterious or wily,” I say. “He’s a bit secretive, sure, but he’s a good man.”
“He’s just a man,” Achilles refutes. “He’s not perfect.”
“I know that very well,” My smile dims. “But he has good intentions.”
Achilles huffs, and doesn’t argue that.
Evri looks at us both with a sigh and a wistful smile.
“I missed this,” He admits. “I didn’t know I missed this until I saw it.”
“Missed what?” I blink at him. “Me?”
Achilles, however, glares at Evri.
“Watching Achilles back down is so therapeutic,” Evri explains. “Normally he’s as stubborn as a–”
“Watch your tongue, Evripides.” Achilles scowls.
I frown at him.
“Be nice Achilles.”
“But–”
“Be. Nice.”
Achilles huffs again, a petulant look on his handsome, radiant yet shadowed face. Evri laughs at it, and I send him a withering look too. It only furthers his amusem*nt.
The three of us enjoy the evening together. The sun breaches the horizon, and the sky is layered with beautiful golds, oranges and pinks that blend together like a watercolour painting. It isn’t long before Evri is sighing and yawning, and offers his goodbyes and promises to visit.
He hugs me as I leave, and I feel his arms carefully squeeze me against him. I reciprocate, and smile as he pulls away.
He leaves, and then it is only Achilles and I.
Achilles, who looks put out and defeated.
I blink at him.
“Achilles?”
He hums, and looks at me with haunted eyes.
I smile at him.
That haunted look melts away bit by bit, until a soft and welcoming warmth remains.
“Tell me about yourself,” I say, settling into my bed with him by my side again. “I feel like you’ve spent so much time here, entertaining me, but I barely know anything about you.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“What do you want to know? I am an open book to you, Patro– Pat.”
I hum.
“Well, your work for one. You’re a search and rescue specialist?” He nods. “What led you to that?”
“I joined the army at eighteen,” He reveals. “It was… fine. It wasn’t what I wanted to do, but I thought it was my best chance to travel and look for– well, to look for… things. Anyway, I left last year and wanted to help people, so…”
“So you joined the emergency services,” I nod. “Lucky for me.”
“Lucky for me, too.”
I huff out a laugh. He smiles like the brightest of suns in response.
“What about now then? You’ve been with me for… nine days? Surely you’re missed at work by now.”
“I booked time off,” He admits. “Because of my link to the army and government, they’re lenient with me, and they understood why after… that day.”
I hum.
“That day… was bad, right?”
Achilles stares at me, his eyes deep and mourning.
“That day was… one of the worst of my life,” He whispers. “Definitely the worst of this life. Finding you like that… Your heart had stopped. I couldn’t even breathe until Dio– Dion revived you.”
“I’m sorry.”
The words come unbidden, like they’re mine but not mine, and Achilles flinches away.
“You don’t need to–”
The voice continues.
“I’m sorry,” I say and don’t say. “I didn’t listen.”
“You have no need to apologise to me,” Achilles insists, his hand tight on mine. “What do you mean you didn’t listen? If you’re talking about the argument you had with the President and Prime Minister, that’s nothing you need to apologise for. In fact, as far as I’m concerned, shout at them all you like. I know I did.”
I chuckle at him, the voice blissfully gone numb, and relax into the pillows as he talks about how he reamed into the two greatest powers in the Greek world. My eyes begin to close as it gets closer to darkness, and it’s not even 6pm before I’m settling into a doze.
I wake briefly when Achilles stops talking, and I look at him in question.
He stares at me, mouth slightly agape. He looks into my eyes, down my relaxed and sleepy face, to my lips, before darting back up again with a devastated look upon his face.
“I have to go,” He chokes out. He stands suddenly. “Visiting hours– it’s getting late–”
He starts to move.
I panic. We panic.
Don’t leave!
I grab his hand and he pauses, looks at me with heartbreak and longing and…
“Stay here,” I breathe out, and he freezes still. “Don’t sleep in the waiting room. Sleep in here.”
He hesitates.
“But–”
“Stay,” I plead. “Please.”
He doesn’t argue further, and instead sits himself in the nearest chair, and takes my hand in his fully.
The smile that flowers on his lips, satisfied and relaxed, as though he is at home, soothes me to sleep.
————
I’m not sure what wakes me.
The room is dark except for the faded whites of the glowing machines and the digital clock on the wall that reads 10:23PM. The beeps have been reduced in volume, a soothing rhythm that is barely noticeable. The window, still open and welcoming to the sun, lets in a cool breeze that tingles delightfully across my ashen skin.
Achilles sleeps still at my side, his breathing soft and even, and hair once again splayed out across my bed.
I smile at him, and reach out a gentle and curious hand to feel the soft wisps of his hair, to provide some comfort in what must be an uncomfortable position.
My fingertips barely trace a lock of his golden blonde hair when something moves in the corner of my eye. I turn to it, and look into the darkness of the room.
I frown.
I shake my head.
It must have been nothing, I reason. A flicker of a shadow in the light of the machinery in the room.
Even as I think it, my fingers look for the sword under my pillow, a safety measure, a precaution-
My fingers touch nothing but the bed sheets.
I bring them out and glare at them.
Had I... imagined the sword?
But the amulet still rests warmly on my sternum. Perhaps someone found it and removed it?
Perhaps Achilles, the potentially owner of the sword, took it back.
I hum at the thought.
That would be an acceptance reason for it to disappear. If Achilles has it, then I know all is well.
I turn away with a soft smile directed to the sun by my side–
Something slams into my chest.
All lights are extinguished.
And I’m left in a never ending abyss filled only with a red haze, the howls and screams of torment, and her.
————
A bitter blaze rolls through me when I wake again.
I blink at the dark room, the blurry surroundings hard to comprehend. The pain that absconds through my body burns both hot and cold, the previous soothing hands from the previous nights long gone, and I’m left with only a ghost of comfort in what feels like the Tartarus Pits. My eyes water from the sheer ferocity of it, and I reach furtively for the assistance button, praying and pleading in my mind. A fervent chant of mercy, of forgiveness, of fear trembles through my mind like a hoard of carousing elephants.
I reach. I reach. I reach–
And it is too far, pushed away with wet fingertips that shake under the strain of uncountable horrors, uncountable agonies. The tears fall from my eyes as another round of hellfire floods me, and I choke and fall back. I lose the progress I made, and I lay there, writhing in silent suffering, waiting for what surely must be my death.
I feel detached from it, in a way. Like it is happening thousands of miles, thousands of years away, yet the pain feels so familiar, so raw in its power, that I am helpless to it.
The room darkens. I fade. My eyes close against their will.
They open again to the call of my name. The name my mother gave me, that my father hated and punished me for. The name that was spoken to me only by long lost relatives whom I hadn’t seen since I was a teenager.
Pa-tro-clus.
The sun that leans over me is radiant, and yet dimmed by the shadows under his eyes, the wrinkle of distress in his brow, and the twisting of his lips as he says my name over and over again.
“Patroclus,” He says with uncontrolled hysteria, with untamed rage, with unadulterated devotion. “Patroclus.”
I blink at him slowly, his face but a blur.
“Patroclus, stay awake,” He says. “Stay awake. Don’t sleep, don’t–”
Sleep, I muse. Sleep sounds divine, heavenly, a blissful reprieve from the pain that still shudders through my body.
My eyelids dip, close, and rest at the sound of weeping, the sound of a man begging.
“Patroclus, no, stay with me, stay–”
“Achilles, move,” Another voice growls, ripping from a throat in a feral display of fury, of desperation, of terror. “Pat, open your eyes.”
I open my eyes, recognising the demand for what it is.
A command from a divine son.
Machaon – Machaios? – stands over me, his face frenzy personified. His dark eyes blaze bright, and I find myself mesmerised.
His lips move quickly. I watch them, fascinated, as they speak of staying awake and staying strong, that he will help, that he will–
My eyes drop close, and sound fades out.
I sleep, and it feels as though I am being burnt alive.
I drift in and out of consciousness, ignorant to the world around me, floating along with the current of pain that does not cease nor weaken.
I drift, and I drift, until I wash ashore upon cracked rocks of basalt that sear up my back, up my neck, and rest on my crown like a magmatic laurel of bloody victory.
A frigid shard of ice settles in my hand, bitter against the war being waged in my body. It rattles me, shakes me from the blissful burn, and I open my eyes blearily.
Odysseus – no, Ulysses – sits by my side, my hand in his, as he whispers devoutly, his eyes closed. His face is wan, pale and dimmed. He holds my hand and his to his lips, the prayers delivered directly into my skin.
Achilles is gone.
I swallow thickly, and choke.
His eyes shoot open, and he stares at me with reddened eyes that speak of pain, of stress and anxiety.
“Patroclus–”
“What–” I start, and wheeze. “What is–”
“Shush, my Sunflower,” He soothes, but his voice is brittle, desperate, pained. “Sleep. I will protect you.”
“Where– is Achilles?”
His brow furrows.
“He prays.”
He prays?
“-- didn’t seem like– a religious man–”
“We all are when the time comes to it. The gods still control all. We will never be free of them.”
Tears come unbidden again.
He wipes them away with cold hands, shaking hands, and his fear tears through me.
“Patroclus,” He whispers, broken and fraying. “I promised you something when I met you. Do you remember?”
I look at him, even as my faculties begin to fade again, desperate for some reassurance, for some clue as to what is happening to me.
He kisses my forehead, his lips cold and soothing against the heat that rages through my body.
“I promised you,” He breathes like a sacred prayer. “That we would protect you. That we will defy fate if we can. We will not let this take you, Patroclus. I will not.”
“Odysseus.” I choke, even as my sight fades, darkness encroaching like a desolation waste on my vision.
His hand is tight on mine.
“I know,” He mourns. “I know.”
I dwindle away again.
————
There is a golden light.
I blink at it, and look around.
The world is dark around me, nothing but void surrounding me. No stars or moon shine their lights down on me, and all is quiet except for the gentle humming of the golden light that seems so close and yet so far.
I take a step towards it, my steps feeling sluggish and painful, as though trying to pull my feet from thick tar.
A shot of pain shakes through my mind, and I cower with my hand to my temple.
“It’s too bright,” A dark voice whispers. It’s unfamiliar, not like my voice, and its malevolent spirit chokes me. “Stay away from the light. It will burn you.”
I step back.
“Come towards me, my little sunray,” A gentle voice whispers. It is warm, like honey and the gentle caress of the sun. The dark voice snarls and digs its talons in deeper. “I will protect you. She cannot hurt you while I am here.”
“Fool,” The dark voice hisses. “Fatebringer. Do not meddle in my affairs.”
“Fate’s Pawn,” The voice like the sun murmurs. There is an underlying blade of divine and radiant fury that laces each of his words. “I did wonder where you had slunk off to. So you’ve been here all along.”
The dark voice laughs, malicious and painful. I fall to my knees, and my hands find my chest where a cold wetness seeps.
“I am but a shade,” The voice whispers. “I am but a part of the whole.”
“And you do not belong here. Begone.”
“You think I will give up my quarry so easily, Apollo? She has been moulding our masterpiece for centuries. We will not give up now.”
“You will leave this place,” The warm voice states, resolute. “You will not return.”
“What can you do to me, son of Zeus?” The dark voice laughs again. “I am a shadow. I am a living memory. I am not her. I am him.”
“What do you–?”
“Come to me, little shadow,” The voice coos. I feel myself drawn to it. “Come to me, little moon.”
I step towards it, away from the golden light.
“Patroclus.”
I pause.
I look back.
Pa-tro-clus.
So clear. So purposeful.
A golden hand holds itself out to me.
“Patroclus,” The honeyed voice murmurs. “Come to me, my little sunray. My precious treasure.”
I step towards it.
“I will protect you.”
And again.
“You are safe with me.”
And again–
“No!” The dark voice screams, and I turn in time to see a draped shadow sweep towards me, a malevolent wisp that promises darkness and pain and untold terrors.
I close my eyes.
The golden light shines bright.
And I fall.
I fall until my back hits soft and supple blankets. Until my hand is taken again by that cold block of ice. Until I find myself surrounded by the beautiful golden light.
I look at the man who stands over me, a glowing hand hovering above my head and a halo of radiant light glowing around his face. His eyes are dark, like the deepest of night skies, but they too show signs of clarity and love.
I swallow.
“Achilles?” I slur.
“Sleep, my little sunray,” The voice hums, and I relax even as the hand moves to my chest. “I am here now. Hush, my sunshine.”
My eyelids flicker. He hums a light lullaby, and the pain seeps away, leaving behind only the gouges it made in my body, like a powerful river leaves its pathways in the earth.
“You, dancing in the sunrays,” The voice sings. I find myself humming along, like the song is familiar, the lullaby a gentle balm on my soul. “Is how I remember you. Seagulls flying in their symphony and adoration of you dancing in the sunrays, winds blushing under the sun’s citrus caresses…”
My eyes close slowly. The lullaby continues.
“You’re dancing in the sunrays, your effervescent beam and its rare tender warmth a gift to the sun, and to all that treasure you…”
I fade into the arms of Morpheus, of Hypnos, a smile on my lips.
————
The morning dawns with bright lights that shine and shimmer across my closed eyes. I hum into the warmth of the morning sun as it greets me, and I greet it in return like a precious family member, like a beloved benefactor.
Both of my hands are warm in the grasps of others, and there is the sound of soft breaths around the room. I blink my eyes open sleepily, look upon the slumbering forms of Achilles and Ulysses as they sleep by my side, the worn down silhouette of Machaios as he dozes in a chair near the door, and the bone-weary Evri who is huddled against the wall with eyes slipped close.
I wonder why they’re all here. Why did they all sleep in the same room as me? There’s no purpose to it, surely–
But there is, that familiar voice whispers. She came for us. In our dreams.
Flashes of pain slither through my memory, and I shudder.
Yes, I remember. The shadows that scratched and craved blood, the desolation of that unholy abyss, the cruel and scathing laugh of that dark entity that exists to torment me.
A golden sun protected us, and my eyes fall to Achilles.
His radiance is dimmed, unlike what I saw. More melancholy than outstanding brilliance like I had seen.
Then, I wonder with a quick-beating heart, had it been–?
But I hadn’t seen him in years, I muse. He had been a part of my imagination. All four of them had been. Surely it couldn’t have been…
The door opens, and my eyes trace the outline of an unfamiliar man, hair a bright and merry red, broad bodied with an honest face that is tinged in absolute misery. His shoulders are burdened with what appears to be the weight of the world, and his freckles stand out on his pallid face.
He doesn’t look at me at first, simply enters the room quietly and is careful to close the door behind him. He seats himself in an empty chair and drags a weary hand through his hair.
I watch him as he frets and worries, sleep apparently already lost over whatever he concerns himself over.
I wonder who he is. He looks familiar, and I have that same unexplainable feeling towards him, but I cannot put a name to his face. He must be a part of Alcander’s team judging on the fact that he has been allowed in and the crumpled suit he wears, but I do not recognise him from any family meals or pictures.
I clear my throat, and he turns to look at me slowly.
His dark eyes gradually widen, and he opens his mouth to say something, anything.
I shake my head, and gesture to the medley of sleeping beauties around the room. He closes his mouth, and just looks at me, his eyes taking in every part of me as I lay there.
“Sorry,” I murmur once he had drunk his fill. “Who are you?”
“I–” He chokes quietly on his words, chagrin and torment on his face. “You really don’t know? They didn’t lie?”
I feel the weariness sink into my bones, and shake my denial.
He swallows, and slowly he gets up and carries his seat towards me so that he can sit on the same level as my head. He sits again, and his eyes – more expressive from closer up – rove over my face.
“I’m… Melanion,” He introduces, the cheer lines on his face wrinkled with perpetual wretchedness. “I’m Alcander’s brother.”
Melanion, I hum. The Ambassador.
“I’m Pat,” I say. His face is cracked and raw at my words, and I hurry to continue. “Pat Moirmenos. I’m Alcander’s nurse. He talks a lot about you.”
“He talks a lot about you too,” He says lowly. “Although I didn’t realise it at the time.”
“Marios mentioned that Alcander calls me ‘courage’ in private,” I smile shyly. “Although I’m not sure how I earned such a title.”
“If anyone would be ‘courage’, it is you, Patro– Pat.”
I hum.
He looks spent, drained, exhausted.
“Did you sleep?”
He huffs a quiet laugh, and settles again.
“How could I?” He sighs. “This week has been… a lot. I’m surprised this lot are sleeping, but my headaches ail me so I cannot join them.”
“You all need the rest,” I agree. “No doubt this week has been difficult for you all due to the explosions, earthquakes and the riots. It must have been a political nightmare.”
He gives me a strange look.
“It is not solely these things that pain us,” He says tightly. “Our concern stems mostly for you, if not solely in the case of Achilles.”
My heart twists and warms like hot coals on a cold winter’s day. I blush, and his face softens.
“How are you feeling, Pat? You gave us a scare yesterday.”
“I did?” I blink, and shake my embarrassment away. “I feel fine. Just… tired, I think.”
“That’s good,” He sighs. “You… Well, you developed a fever. It was vicious.”
A fever?
“You kept fading in and out of consciousness,” Melanion continues. “Machaios checked over your body to look for infection, but couldn’t find anything. We worried that infection had grown within you somehow, especially when the fever only got worse. No pain killers seemed to work, either. You stopped waking altogether at some point, and the oxygen mask had to be returned to you. It was... a long night.”
It’s when he mentions it that I notice it clings to my face. I go to remove it, as it is a nuisance and I don’t need it, but he places his hand over mine with a stern look. I keep it in place, but return a look of petulance.
“How bad did it get?”
He grimaces.
“Your fever peaked at 43°C.”
I stare at him with wide eyes.
“How– humans can’t–”
“That is one of the reasons why Machaios has taken up vigil here,” He explains. “Same with everyone else. They… They were worried. We all were.”
I close my eyes, and think about the golden light in my dreams, the cryptic shadows, and the promises made to protect me.
“It’s a miracle I’m alive.”
Melanion sighs.
“Thanks to the Gods. We prayed for the first time since we… Well, first time for most of us. Ody– Ulysses has prayed before, for Athena’s guidance.”
“The Gods aren’t real,” I murmur. “I don’t– this is just–”
“Don’t think about it for now,” He hushes, and his hand falls into my hair gently. I hum at the contact and lean into it as he threads his strong fingers through my curls. “Get some more sleep. I will watch over you.”
I blink up at him, suddenly unsure.
“What if I–?”
He smiles, but it is strained, worried.
“We’ll make sure you wake up again,” He promises. “We’re not going to let anything take you from us again, especially not a little fever.”
I hum, and drift away slowly as his hand caresses my head.
It feels familiar, I think. Like I’ve had this exact moment in a dream.
Of Melanion – no, Menelaus – petting me like a treasured child.
But who is Menelaus?
I smile to myself in bemusem*nt.
How absurd, I think. How preposterous that I remember this from a dream.
I ignore the betrayal of that voice of mine inside me that tells me it was so much more than a dream.
————
It isn’t long until I wake again, this time to the angry and frustrated rumbles of Achilles’ voice of honey and spice. His words jumble in my mind as I rouse from the strange state of uneasy sleep I had found myself in, but they come into astounding clarity suddenly when that beautiful voice of his raises in a ferocity that could only come from a lion.
“We prayed to the Gods, and yet nothing has been done, Odysseus! Your wiles have failed you, and Patroclus is paying the price.”
The hand in my hair tightens slightly as Melanion mumbles and moans beside me.
“What the f*ck, I’m trying to sleep…”
“Menelaus,” Achilles thunders. “We need to plan, we need to–”
“Achilles,” I mumble. The rumbling of his voice stops. “Go back to sleep.”
“Go back to sleep?” He chokes. “Go back to–?”
I open my eyes slowly and glare up at him.
His eyes are wide, bright, hopeful, terrified–
“I’m sleeping,” I grumble. “And don’t shout at Melanion or Ulysses anymore. Just go to sleep.”
“Patro–”
“Pat,” Machaios says, and I look towards him as he checks my vitals, checks the machines, looks over me with a critical eye. “How are you feeling?”
I shrug, and frown at the lack of pain.
“I’m… fine.”
“You’re fine?” Ulysses murmurs from his spot next to the door, and my eyes fall on his haggard appearance. Evri stands beside him, hunkered down and frozen.
I nod.
“Melanion explained when I woke up earlier,” I say, and eyes turn to Melanion accusingly. “I had a fever?”
“Yes,” Machaios says slowly. “The worst I’ve ever seen. I… Can I check you over? To see how your body is recovering.”
I shrug, and do not feel the same twinge of discomfort I had felt when I woke up the first time in this bed.
“Go ahead.”
He looks over me as the others watch with alert and wary eyes. He pulls up my arms, checks underneath bandages. His hands started off meticulously, careful and gentle, but they quickly hurried into fervent and excited movements as he checked more and more of my body.
“There’s nothing,” He eventually mutters, breathless. “It's all… healed.”
I recoil.
“What?”
“It’s healed?” Achilles demands, and quickly his own hands are pressing into my supple and smooth skin, testing for bruises and burns that no longer exist. “How–?”
The golden light, the soft whispers, the gentle sunlight…
“I suppose,” Ulysses says slowly, carefully, guardedly. “That Pat’s injuries must not have been as severe as you originally thought.”
I frown.
That isn’t right. My injuries had been painful, fraught. I had been in front of a bomb and they know this–
“Quite right, Prime Minister,” Machaios murmurs. “And the fever last night…”
“Simply the aftermath of having the window open during all hours while it’s winter,” Evri adds. “It’s not good for his lungs, so he developed a cold. It was remedied quickly, but did cause some discomfort.”
That’s not–
Melanion sighs, and looks over them all with a disapproving eye. “If you’re going to come up with reasons for Patroclus’ swift recovery, then you should be explaining to him why he made such a swift recovery.”
Ulysses, Evri, Achilles and Machaios all turn to me with serious eyes.
I stare back at them, confused.
“... We prayed–” Achilles starts.
“-- We tried a new–” Ulysses interrupts.
“-- You weren’t that–” Evri adds.
“-- And so you should rest still.” Machaios ends.
I look at them all, and then look at Melanion who looks equally baffled, before sighing.
“When you figure it out,” I tell them sternly. They wince. “Wake me up and tell me.”
And with that, I let myself fall back to sleep with Melanion’s hand in my hair.
————
Achilles has been glaring out of the window for the last hour. He grumbles under his breath, grouchy and serious, with eyes that glare daggers into the sun.
I watch him for some moments, before the arrival of Zeva disrupts my observation of him. I smile at her in greeting, and her responding smile is hesitant and small.
“Pat,” She says. “I brought lunch.”
I nod in thanks, and look over the array of soft foods that we have graduated onto. She watches me eat, and carefully does not look at Achilles as he broods at the window.
“Birgel asked about you,” She says suddenly, and I blink at her. “She’s in the book club. Ertas’ sister.”
Ah, Birgel.
“How is she?” I ask politely.
“She’s fine,” Zeva sighs. It sounds tired, worn and lifeless, as though Zeva is barely hanging on a thread. “But she saw the news about that day, and saw your picture. She’s back in Greece now.”
I nod, and hum.
“I’d like to meet her,” I smile. “Although it’ll have to wait until I’m released from here.”
“That will be sooner rather than later,” Zeva states with certainty. “Considering you barely have any lasting injuries. You’ve healed really well, Pat.”
I nod, and ponder my sore but otherwise fine body. I know I had been severely injured, and I know it should have taken weeks to recover fully. However, one golden tinged waking dream and less than two weeks later, I am left with only a tiredness in my body and not a hint that I had been in an explosion.
Achilles grumbles again from the window, and I look at him in exasperation.
“Achilles,” I call, and his dulled sea-green eyes turn to meet mine. I smile at him, and something in his shoulders loosens. “Come sit with me and eat.”
He pulls one more disgruntled face at the sun, before coming to me. Instead of eating though, he sits beside me and takes my hand in his.
Zeva flinches at the sight.
“I’ll go– get Doctor Thessalon.” She says stiltedly, before leaving in a hurry.
I blink after her. Achilles doesn’t even seem to notice she was there as he rubs soothing circles into my hand.
“Do you and Zeva have some history?” I ask him.
He hums and smiles at me.
“Who is Zeva?” He asks, and I roll my eyes.
“Nurse Agnatou,” I elaborate. He still looks at me with that cheeky smile. “The nurse who was just in here?”
“I didn’t notice her,” He shrugs. “I was more interested in other things.”
“Like glaring at the sun?” I chuckle.
His eyes soften.
“Like you.”
My grin fades as my face brightens in hues of pink and red.
He does not look repentant. In fact, his lips twist into a satisfied grin, like a cat that got the cream.
“Achilles,” I muster after a moment. “You–”
“Pat,” Machaios says as he enters the room. I jump and look at him as though I am a deer in the brightest of headlights. Achilles, in comparison, turns slowly, a content look on his face. Machaios looks between us briefly, at my raging blush and Achilles’ languid smirk. He doesn’t bother to ask, and instead his brow quirks in a distinct disapproval. “We’re going to discuss your work and release, but first… Achilles, get those thoughts out of your head at once. He may have healed, but he’s still not ready for whatever you’re thinking.”
“Whatever do you mean, doctor?” Achilles demures. His tone is provocative and teasing. “I’m not thinking about anything at all.”
Machaios’ eyes narrow, and I wince as I recognise his look of absolute reproach.
Achilles, the voice sighs. Now he will tear you to pieces. He is merciless when it comes to those he loves.
I agree quickly, and realise after a moment that I am the one the voice says Machaios loves.
I think a quick disagreement even as Machaios opens his mouth to tear into Achilles.
“He still doesn’t know everything,” He scolds. “And if you make any moves, not only will I be telling Ulysses and Alcander, but you’ll never forgive yourself.”
Achilles’ smirk immediately freezes, his face pales, and he retreats into himself.
“I know,” He says. His voice is sharp, like shards of ice. “I won’t dishonour him.”
“Good,” Machaios nods, before turning to me. “Pat, since you’ve… healed significantly, we should discuss your discharge.”
I sigh, but nod.
We hash out the details, make agreements on diet and movement, and we argue about my leave from work as I recover. Achilles comes out of his brooding mood to side with Machaios when I try to insist on going back to work since I’ve ‘healed well’. They both shoot me down when I try to argue for concessions.
“We want you to be healthy,” Machaios says sternly. “That means no work for the time being, until I approve you returning.”
Achilles nods.
I give up, and sulk on the bed as Achilles tells me about a beautiful mountain the north of Greece that he once went to.
I try not to connect his words to a vague memory of a cave of rose-quartz.
————
Nestor visits the next morning with a warm smile and kind words.
“You gave us quite the shock,” He says as he settles next to me. Achilles has left to get breakfast for us both, and showing me with absolute certainty that he has no quarrel with Nestor, unlike his intense dislike for Alcander and Ulysses. “When Ulysses called to give us an update on the hospital situation, Alcander went manic and tried to go directly to the site despite being told to rest his heart.”
“Ulysses was at the hospital?”
“He oversaw the rescue efforts, and acted as the ‘figurehead’ I suppose,” Nestor sighs. “The government had to be seen doing something, and it just so happened he was already on the road. He was dropped off with an armed guard, and Alcander was taken back to the mansion.”
I hum.
“Then, he…?”
Nestor nods solemnly.
“He was distraught, as well,” He tells me quietly. “We all were. Of course, Melanion, Fotis and the others had only heard of you by nicknames, but when they saw your picture and heard your name…”
“I’m sorry for all the stress caused on my behalf.”
“Don’t be silly, my boy,” Nestor shakes his head. “How were you to know? We are simply glad you came out of it reasonably unscathed.”
“Still–”
“You shouldn’t apologise, Pat,” Nestor softly chides. “None of this is your fault. None of it. Not the past, not the present. It is time to move on.”
It feels as though he is referring to more than just that day, but he does not elaborate and I do not pry.
I nod, and Nestor smiles.
He bids his goodbye, citing work, as Achilles arrives with our food and tea.
“Achilles,” He says as they pause by the door next to each other. “Look after him. You’re both my boys. I don’t want to see either of you hurt.”
Achilles nods his head seriously.
“Of course, Nestor.”
Nestor pats him on the shoulder, and leaves.
Achilles and I eat breakfast quietly, some words exchanged in jest and joy, and we both finish feeling satiated and relaxed.
I’m settling in for my late morning nap when Alcander and Ulysses arrive with a basket of fruit and bread, and forced contentment on their faces.
Achilles pulls a face at them even as I blink up sleepily.
“What are you two doing here?”
“We come bearing gifts,” Ulysses announces while Alcander looks at Achilles with barely veiled disgust. “And a peace offering! We have no work for a few hours, so we would like to catch up with Pat while we can, if that is amenable, Achilles.”
Achilles’ face says it is not amenable, but he gestures grudgingly to the chairs nearby anyway.
Ulysses smiles insincerely as he places the basket of seasonal fruit on the side table and sits. Alcander follows soon after.
“Thank you,” The President gruffly says, his sharp eyes already on me. “Pat. How are you feeling?”
I smile at him, and instantly the room feels warmer and less stifling with the overbearing personalities of three territorial terrors.
“Better,” I say, and I watch the remaining bit of unease melt from their faces. “After the other night, it seems like I’m better than even before the accident. I just feel tired and lethargic.”
“Because you have nothing to do except eat, sleep and enjoy the unseasonal sun, I bet,” Ulysses laughs. “I’m sure you’re chomping at the bit just to get back to work.”
I brighten.
Is he going to suggest–?
“But,” He continues as Alcander and Achilles turn stern and look at him. “That won’t be happening for a good few weeks yet. You need rest, Pat. Don’t give me that look.”
“But, Ulysses–”
“No.”
I pout.
He freezes, as does Alcander.
Achilles huffs and looks at me askance.
“That won’t work on me, so don’t even try it. I fell to tears before; I’m not letting it happen again.”
I open my mouth to argue, but I’m interrupted by Alcander’s disgruntled sigh.
“Has everything been to your satisfaction?” He asks. “The food, the comfort, any of it.”
“It’s been good, Alcander,” I tell him. “I’m just bored at this point. And I’m sure Achilles is bored of babysitting me.”
“Never,” Achilles denies. “I’m staying even if I’m told to leave.”
I try not to blush, but considering the knowing smile on Ulysses’ face and the slightly menacing one Alcander directs to Achilles, I clearly fail.
“Pelides–”
“Alcander,” Ulysses says. “It’s fine. Pelides wouldn’t do anything dishonourable. Would you?”
“Never, Laerides.”
“Then we have an understanding. Is that clear, Alcander?”
The President sneers.
“Crystal.”
“Good,” Ulysses nods, before turning to me. “Has Machaios talked of your discharge yet?”
“In passing,” I tell him slowly, looking between the three men with wary eyes. “We talked about diets and activity, but did not agree on a date.”
“I want to add a new clause to your release,” Alcander says seriously. “I want you comfortable, but I’m also concerned about how this has impacted you. I would like you to undertake therapy.”
I freeze.
“I’m fine.”
“Pat, respectfully,” Ulysses interrupts. “You’re not. You look constantly tired, you’re sleeping a lot, and we’ve noticed how uneasily you sleep. Being caught in an explosion is not something you can just shrug off. Even if you feel okay now, once you’re outside of this place, who is to say that you’ll remain whole of mind?”
I bite my lip, and look down.
Therapy.
I’ve never been to therapy. I know it has its value, its reasons. But I remember when I was growing up, when I was in university, when my mother suggested it after the childhood I had, my father had shot it down.
“That boy is not going to some shrink and talking about his f*cking feelings like a woman. It’s a waste of time and money, and I’m not raising any pansies in this house.”
My mother had argued, and she and I both paid the price for that.
“Is there no other option?” I ask quietly.
“None.”
“Then fine,” I sigh. “But… On one condition.”
“What is it?”
“I choose the therapist,” I suggest. “Out of whatever list you no doubt already have.”
“Agreed,” Ulysses quickly says, and produces the list. Ignoring my deadpan look, he smiles wittily. “I had a feeling you’d want some choice in the matter, so I came prepared.”
“Of course you did.”
“Scheming little trickster.” Achilles grumbles.
I smile and nod my head in agreement, but give Ulysses a look of thanks. Of appeasem*nt. Of affection.
He smiles in return.
“So,” I say. “Who is the first on the list?”
“Well–” Ulysses starts, but he is interrupted by a knock on the door.
The four of us look towards it, and I call out after none of them do.
“Come in. It’s open.”
There is a beat, a drawn out pause. The door clicks open slowly.
Achilles, Alcander and Ulysses are on their feet in all but a moment, snarls on their faces and bodies tensed ready for a battle in my hospital room.
I can only gape, for Hector, the Turkish Ambassador, has walked into the room with an incalculable look on his face.
“You!” Achilles growls savagely, turning into a lion protecting his pride. “I will tear your insufferable head from your body for daring to enter this room!”
“Ambassador,” Ulysses hisses, one hand splayed out to keep Alcander from confronting Hector directly. “You are not welcome here. We will convene in the negotiation room after New Year.”
“Prime Minister–”
“You’ve already been told you’re not welcome,” Alcander shouts, his voice a deep timbre that rattles around the room. “Leave, before you find yourself in one of these hospital beds.”
“I just want to talk,” Hector firmly says, his eyes on me. He takes a step forward. “If you would just–”
"If you wish to speak with us so plainly," Ulysses says harshly. "Then you can wait until we meet officially."
Hector huffs, but it isn't the cheerful and teasing huff that I am used to; it is one of dark frustration.
"I'm not here to speak to you." He says.
His eyes remain on me.
The three quickly catch on, and their expressions become even more thunderous.
Achilles meets him in stride, his fists already clenched and body ready to pounce.
I grab his jacket before he can go too far, and he spins to look at me in wounded fury.
“Pat–”
“No,” I sternly say, and look at Ulysses and Alcander who both look at me, frowns showing their incomprehension. “No.” I repeat.
“Pat,” Ulysses urges. “He–”
“I know who he is,” I say, and look the dark eyed man in the face. His face is carefully constructed into a picture of neutrality, of not caring how this encounter goes, but I can see that familiar wrinkle by his eye that speaks of his worry. “Hector.”
He bows his head.
“Pat.”
The three men who are barely holding themselves back freeze and fall deathly silent.
“Wait,” Alcander says into the still air. He looks between us wildly. “You two–?”
“Do you know each other?” Ulysses asks like a demand.
Achilles’ eyes stay on Hector, burning in an incandescent rage I’ve never seen on another human being. His lips are pressed into a thin, pallid line, and he trembles even as I hold onto his hem.
“We do,” I say evenly. “We met some months ago. We’re…”
Forsaken flames? Bygone beaus? Doomed darlings?
“Friends,” Hector says slowly, quietly. “We’re friends.”
I try not to let my heart break at that assertion as a bitter smile creeps onto my lips.
Friends.
After everything, after cheating on his wife, we’re ‘friends’.
What a joke.
“We’re not friends,” I tell him coldly. “You ruined that on that day. I could not be friends with someone like you.”
I couldn’t even be more than friends.
His expression twists.
“Pat–”
“Do not,” Achilles hisses out. “Say his name. You do not have the right–”
“I just want to talk,” Hector repeats. “Can we? I want to explain.”
“Explain what, son of Priamos?” Ulysses laughs, but it is dark and promising. “Please, let us all hear.”
“And then we’ll reserve you a hospital bed for even daring to be here.” Alcander scowls.
Hector looks at me, desperate and beseeching.
I make my choice.
“Out.” I whisper.
Ulysses smirks.
“You heard him. Get out, Hector–”
“No,” I say, and they all freeze. In horror, in shock, in hope. “I will speak with Hector. Alone.”
Achilles’ eyes glare into my face. I do not dare to look at him.”
“What are you talking about, Pat?” Ulysses says, voice strangely lilted and layered with danger. “You can’t expect us to–”
“I can,” I interrupt. “And I will. Hector and I have… unresolved business.”
Achilles chokes.
“Unresolved–”
“If you do not leave,” I threaten. “I will tell Machaios that you are distressing me, and then he can ban you from this ward until I am ready to see you again. Do not think that I would not.”
“Pat, he’s dangerous,” Alcander explains with an angry undertone. “He has been a thorn in the side of the Greek government for months. I cannot–”
“I will speak with him,” I repeat. “Alone.”
Achilles hisses at all three of the other men.
“How do you know each other?” He says to Hector with the fury of a thousand suns. “Where did you meet? How did you meet? How did you two old, miserable men allow this to happen?!”
Hector looks at me again.
“Pat–”
“Do not say his name!”
“Achilles,” I say, and he looks at me like he is hanging on by a thread. His eyes are wild, desperate, horrified, and I swallow as his rage washes over me. “Please wait outside.”
He flinches.
“You–”
“Please.” I beg. “This will not take long.”
He wars with himself, before letting out an enraged howl. He storms past Hector, knocking into him, and swiftly opens the blind to the window of the corridor. He perches himself on the other side of the glass even as Ulysses and Alcander try to stay, try to argue their case–
With one look, they too fold.
Alcander strides out, footsteps heavy on the ground. Ulysses is slower, quieter, and he pauses in front of Hector.
“If you touch,” He says lowly, darkly. “Even one hair on his head, I will put Achilles’ rage to shame. There will be nothing left of you. Is that understood, son of Priamos?”
Hector nods.
“If he is harmed,” He says decisively. “Then my life is forfeit. This, I swear.”
“And I’ll hold you to that.” Ulysses says, before striding out after the two others.
The door snaps shut, and all three of them watch with eagle eyes through the glass.
Hector sighs, some privacy finally attained.
He attempts a smile, and I do not respond.
“Pat–”
“Why are you here, Hector?” I ask.
He looks pained, in suffering and torment.
“I wanted to apologise,” He murmurs, his voice sullen and quiet. “What I did was… dishonourable. I know that. I accept accountability for that. But…”
I watch him as he struggles with his words.
“But,” He says, and closes his eyes. “Despite all this, despite the fact that I did wrong, I do… I genuinely…”
I blink at him once, and then twice, and then three times in incredulity.
“You…?”
“I like you, Pat,” He says. “A lot. And I know I messed up. I know that I did not do the right thing, but Andromache and I talked, and she agreed that she is willing to try.”
I gape at him.
“Try what?”
“You as our third,” He rushes out. “We can meet together and see how we get on as a trio, and then–”
“Hector,” I interrupt him. “What makes you think I want to be a third?”
His eyes flicker.
“You’d get to be with me, and with Andromache, and you’d be safe–”
“You don’t get it, Hector,” I sharply state. “You lied to me. You deceived me. You deceived your beautiful wife, who even now you’re dishonouring by coming to me with this insane suggestion.”
“Pat–”
“You were willfully cheating on her,” My voice rises. “And treating me like some petty mistress on the side. You didn’t tell her, you didn’t tell me, and yet you were getting the best of both worlds. What, buying dinner and courting me during the day, while you bed her at night? It's disgraceful, distasteful, and disgusting.”
His face cracks with the first hints of anger.
Good, the voice darkly whispers. Let him be angry. We have far more rage to show him.
“It wasn’t like that–”
“Wasn’t it?” I scoff. “You were treating me like a charity case, or like I could be bought. Were you hoping after months of breakfasts, lunches and dinners I’d fall into your marriage bed and be your little plaything for your wife and you to f*ck?”
He chokes as his eyes flare.
“You– that’s not–”
“I am never going to be your bed warmer, Hector,” I lace my voice with scorn. “I am not some kept piece that you can keep going back to. I–”
Aren’t you? A darker, deeper, more twisted voice whispers through my brain, and I freeze. You were always his bed warmer, weren’t you, little mortal?
No, my voice moans. She’s here, she’s–
She’s going, a softer voice says, and warmth floods my head. She does not belong here. You are safe, my little sunray.
The twisted voice is snuffed out in an instant, and I look back at the apoplectic Hector.
“I wouldn’t–” He breathes. “I wouldn’t dishonour you like that–”
I huff, anger bubbling but no longer flashing like a firework show.
“Didn’t you already when you brought me back to your house with every intention of ravishing me?” I say, and his face closes off entirely. I smile, but it is cold and bitter and despairing. “You are not Zeus, Andromache is not Hera, and I am not Ganymede.”
He stares at me, eyes ablaze, wordless.
Then, he laughs.
“As soon as that golden haired monster comes along,” He murmurs. “You’re lost to me. How expected.”
I frown at him.
“What are you–?”
“I did,” He seethes. “So much for you. And now you spurn me.”
My hackles raise.
“I didn’t ask for anything you gave me,” I argue. “I didn’t want–”
“Didn’t you?” He laughs again. “You flirted back just as much, you were interested–”
“This was before I knew you were married, Hector–”
“And now that he is back in the picture, you’re ready to forsake me,” He shakes his head. “Once a bed warmer, always a bed warmer.”
My face pales, and my mouth opens with a retort.
Nothing comes out.
Once a bed warmer, always a bed warmer.
That warm voice and my voice try to soothe me, try to talk to me, but–
Nothing matters except that cruel look in his eyes, as he stands over me. My vision flashes, and suddenly it’s not a hospital room but a battlefield, before switching again with fog and shade.
He looks smug for a moment, the battle clearly won, but then he takes in my shaking form, the stricken look on my face, and he falters.
“Pat, I’m–”
“If you ever,” I whisper, my voice cracked and broken. He recoils with wide eyes. “Visit me again, I will not stop them from tearing you apart.”
“What–”
“Leave, Hector. Never come back.”
He stares at me, horrified and repentant, before fleeing like the fastest of big cats is behind him.
I feel my bones melt, even as shouting erupts outside the room between the four men. I sink back into the bed as Achilles rushes in, his eyes wild as he cups my jaw with his strong and broad hand. He talks to me, but I hear nothing, only the rushing in my ears as impending panic builds in my very soul.
Everything suddenly goes dark, and I feel the cold seep away from my body and be replaced with warmth. Something cards through my hair gently, and I feel myself rocking as though on a boat.
My eyes sting, wet and burning. I close them, and let darkness take me completely as the rushing sounds of a torrential river flows through my head.
It takes some time to come back into reality, but when I do it happens gradually. First, it’s the awareness that I am being rocked and comforted by someone else. Second, it’s the hushed whispers of reassurances in my ear. Third, it’s the warm body that presses against mine in an intimate embrace. Fourth, it’s the darkness that is the chest of Achilles as he holds me tight and feels as though he will never let go.
I sniffle and his reassurances only grow softer.
“You’re okay, philtatos. You’re safe.”
Philtatos. The word sends a shiver of warmth down my body, like a fresh summer breeze or honeyed figs.
I hear the murmurs of Alcander and Ulysses in the background, the grinding of Alcander’s harsh tone sending pinpricks of fear through me before Achilles comforts me again. Ulysses’ voice is quiet, carefully controlled, as what feels like his hand rests on my back.
“Come on, Pat. Come back to us. You’re okay.”
“Ulysses?” I mumble into Achilles’ shirt.
“That’s right, can you hear me?”
“Yes,” I say, and pull my head to the side. Light assaults my eyes, and I look through blurred tears at the concerned face of Ulysses. “Ulysses.”
“This is your second panic attack now, Pat,” He says, tone dull and pulled taut. “What happened with Hector? What did he say to you? Was the first one his fault too?”
I pull a face, and bury myself back into Achilles’ chest which rumbles with an unsettling furor.
“What did he say, Patroclus?”
“Nothing, just,” I mutter. “He just wanted to apologise. For dishonouring me.”
“As he should,” Alcander curls his words out with absolute disgust. “He owes much to you, that cowering–”
“Why did you get upset?” Ulysses interrupts, voice easy and controlled.
I choke.
“We were,” I start, and then think of the best word. Dating doesn’t give it the right weight, nor can I think of the thought of having feelings for that man now that he has… said what he has said. “Friends. We were friends. We met when I came to Athens.”
I try not to let the echoing of his own words get to me.
“When you came to Athens? When… no, where did you meet him?”
“That bar,” I mumble. “When I got drunk. You remember?”
Achilles shudders.
“You let him get drunk?”
“At the time we didn’t know,” Ulysses shoots back, before returning to me. “So you’ve been friends for… for months. You met him a lot.”
I nod.
“I asked him to meet with you,” I admit in a broken whisper. “When you said you were struggling to come to negotiations. But… but I didn’t know…”
“Didn’t know what, Pat?”
“I didn’t know he was the Ambassador. Not until… that day.”
“You told him nothing?”
I shake my head, and say nothing.
There is a strange silence for a moment, before Achilles shifts.
“You’re hiding something.”
I freeze.
Surely he could not tell.
“Achilles–”
“I’m right,” He scowls even as I look up at him. “You’re hiding something about him.”
“I…”
“Tell me.”
I stare into his infuriated gaze, and find myself lost at sea.
But…
But.
I shake my head.
“Patro–”
“There’s nothing to say,” I whisper. “I thought he was my friend. He isn’t.”
Ulysses frowns, and Alcander scoffs.
“Pat–”
“There’s nothing left to say,” I turn away from all of them, pull myself from Achilles’ arms, and settle back on the bed. I stare resolutely at the ceiling. “You should return to work. I don’t want to keep you.”
“Pat, don’t do this–”
“Ulysses,” I say. “There is nothing left to say.”
The room stagnates again.
“Hypocritical.”
My eyes dart to Alcander who looks at me with a loathing, a hatred that shoots straight to my core. His eyes burn, even as his face is frozen with his fury.
Ulysses and Achilles both look at him sharply.
“Agremenos–”
“You got upset about us hiding details from you,” The President continues. His voice thunders darkly, threatening to let the whole world flood. “And now you hide details from us. Hypocrite. You are no better than us, Pat.”
I flinch away, even as Ulysses tries to soothe the President.
Achilles, however, darts up, his own fury on his face.
“You don’t get to speak to him in such a manner, Agremenos,” He seethes. “Even if he is hiding something, you don’t get to talk down to him.”
“He is my employee–”
“And he is our kin,” Achilles snarls. “If you want to have a go at him, you have to go through me first.”
Alcander scoffs and sneers.
“The rage of Achilles shall be the death of us all,” He scolds. “I will have no part in this, not until the truth is given. This is not only the safety of Pat, but also the safety of our country. If Pat wants to be a hypocrite, then so be it.”
He walks out without another word.
Ulysses stares between the door and I, conflicted. I already know who he will choose in this spat, but my heart still shatters when he makes his way out.
He looks back as he opens the door.
“It’s better you tell the truth, Pat,” He says. His own voice is not kind, but carefully empty. He too is furious at me, and another part of my soul fades away. “If you hide things, then we will also hide things. That is only fair.”
He leaves, and I am left with Achilles.
Achilles, who watches the door, shoulders shaking and fists clenched.
I swallow.
“Achilles–”
He turns away, and sets up vigil at the window once more.
The final whole piece of my heart crumbles away.
————
Ulysses returns in the evening with Machaios and a woman that looks scarily familiar. Achilles still sits as a statue by the window, his face mournful and cold.
I look at Ulysses, Machaios and the woman warily, my eyes sore and my body tired.
“Ulysses,” I say, the first words from my mouth since earlier today. They are hoarse, empty, and wrung out. All four look at me with concern, but I ignore them. It doesn’t matter. “What is it?”
“Pat,” Machaios murmurs, looking as though he would come closer, but chooses not to. “You will be released from hospital tomorrow, on the condition that you follow a certain care plan.”
I nod. I expected this.
“To ensure that you will follow this plan to the letter,” Machaios explains. “Ulysses has suggested we draw up a contract, of sorts, to ensure your health improves.”
A part of me splinters.
More restraints. Another set of handcuffs.
They are looking to protect us, the voice protests. They do not want us to hurt ourselves.
They hurt us more, I snarl. They keep us under lock and key, and for what reason? To protect their own hearts? I cannot keep a single secret when I know they still keep plenty?
The voice does not reply.
No one argues against the contract. Not even Achilles, whose brow pinches, but he goes back to looking out of the window.
“What will be in this contract?” I ask.
“A diet plan,” Machaios begins. “An exercise plan. The arrangements for the doorman, emergency contacts and a second bodyguard. The arrangements for a therapist, for whichever one you choose–”
The Eleftheria, I note in my mind, having chosen one when it seemed I would be ignored even by Achilles after the disaster earlier. The Eleftheria has a good record, no affiliation with the government other than its accreditation, and is run by a trio of highly educated Greek women from the area of Laconia. It felt right to choose them.
“-- and the arrangements for your return for work, which will be after the New Year.”
I nod, uncaring of the specifics.
After all, they have already shown me they have no qualms of taking my freedom from me.
How fitting in that case that I chose the therapy clinic that is aptly named the opposite.
There is a stilted silence, as though they expect me to say something, but I say nothing.
“Well,” The woman says, and my head swivels towards her with bitter eyes. Her voice is familiar, well spoken and graceful, like a bird of prey. “In that case, let me introduce myself. I am Eirene Theodis. I am the Presidential Team’s newly hired lawyer, specifically for your case and your protection, Pat.”
I recoil.
Her calling me by that name feels wrong.
Ulysses flashes her an uncertain look, before looking at me.
“Pat,” He says carefully. “Miss Theodis will take care of your case from now on. I can assure you that you still have liberties and freedoms, but that this is to protect you from–”
I laugh lowly, despairingly.
“There’s no need to explain, Prime Minister,” I say. I ignore how his body sharpens into a rigid line. “You only want the best for me. I understand.”
His jaw flexes.
“Pat–”
“How about,” Eirene interrupts with a sly smile. “You boys let me talk with Pat about this contract. It is a confidential document, after all.”
Machaios nods, but Ulysses and Achilles both look conflicted.
“Miss Theodis–”
“Eirene, Prime Minister,” She calmly disputes. “I would like the room. Perhaps you can make yourselves useful, and fetch some tea. Or even some kind of food. Poor Pat looks worn out. Did you eat today?”
I swallow as eyes turn to me accusingly.
“Just… just breakfast. I didn’t… get a chance for lunch. And the fruit basket you brought is too far away.”
Achilles flinches, and is up and out of the room instantly. Machaios follows him with scathing words that are flung with worry and anger both.
Ulysses stares at the two of us for a moment later.
“Will you… be okay, Pat?”
I try not to laugh at him. Now he dares to ask?
But I simply nod.
He nods back, and with one last suspicious glare at Eirene, he is gone and the door is shut.
The woman heaves a great, dramatic sigh, before sitting with her legs crossed in the seat closest to the bed. Her smile is subtle, delicate, firm and strong.
Now that she sits by my side, his features are clearer. While it had been obvious at first that she was a woman of grand stature and an unearthly grace, her face spoke volumes of some form of mortal divinity that I’ve never seen in another person before.
However, the only feature I find myself entranced with is her eyes.
They are silver, and wide like an owl’s.
She smiles at me.
“I’m looking forward to working with you,” She says. “Especially now that you’re all grown up. And you’ve grown up well, Patroclus.”
“You,” I choke out. “How– what–?”
“You have always been intelligent,” She compliments, and I blush up to the tip of my ears. “More than these others, sun-bearer.”
“I dreamed of you,” I blurt out. “Recently. I didn’t– I thought you’d been a part of my imagination. I… I missed you all. Without you, I would have–”
She smiles. It is cold and calculating, warm and affectionate.
These always come hand in hand with her.
“We were never gone,” She tells me. “We’ve always been with you, even if you didn’t realise it.”
I laugh, but it is wet and choked.
She rests a cool hand on my cheek with a small smile.
“I brought you a gift,” She says, and suddenly there is a wine bottle being offered to me. “It is a vintage, from some decades ago. It is my wish to reconcile, although I know this may take some time.”
She places the wine on the side, and looks down at me with a gentle look.
I just look at her with comprehension.
“You were the one leaving the gifts,” I murmur in wonder. “You brought all the gifts when I was a child, and the ones when I was an adult. The amulet, and the sword too.”
“Of course,” She confirms. “Although it concerns me that you are questioning this. After all, we did hand you some of these gifts in person.”
I blink.
“What?” I ask. “The gifts always just appeared. I thought they were my mother.”
She frowns.
“It was only when you went to university in Larissa that we stopped visiting in person,” She says slowly. “But throughout your childhood, we gave you your gifts directly. Your first flower crown I made with my own hands and placed in your hair. Do you remember?”
“I don’t…” I whisper. “I only remember the flower crown on my bed. I don’t…”
“Then,” She trails off, her eyes becoming colder and more distant. “Then I have someone to hunt down.”
“Auntie–”
She turns to me.
“I did miss you calling me that,” She admits. “But call me Eirene now. And stay here. Let my wayward champion and that ardent Achilles protect you. Do not go anywhere.”
She sweeps out, and I stare after her.
Only a moment later, Achilles arrives looking contrite, with an abundant tray of food, and a small bouquet of blue forget-me-nots and white yarrow.
I look at it, and I wonder if there is anything else I have forgotten.
