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The arrow rips through his back like fire, sliding through muscle like butter, his bones fragmenting and yielding- yielding so that the arrow might rip through vulnerable organs and soft lung.
Achilles does not curse his bones, nor his limbs for failing to deliver him from danger; he merely turns his head to the side so that he might gaze up at the sky, calmly blue above a world of red. He doesn’t want his last sight to be one of death and destruction.
Delirious, Achilles watches a cloud haze by, and he remembers when his world was more then lives taken and lives lost. He remembers the soft sand of beaches, and knees sticky with tree sap- and when the world seemed bright and jeweled from the vantage of a high tree. He remembers crystal sunlight shining against rose quartz, and secret nighttime whispers- of voices thick with sleep. He remembers Patroclus, and involuntarily, Achilles feels his lips curve into a smile.
Relief.
Patroclus is here, his presence as natural as breathing. Achilles tries to reach out, to pull what has been lost back to him, but his arms do not obey.
Achilles cannot move, cannot truly think. As if below water, he hears his name being called out, murky and distorted;
Achilles,
Achilles,
Achilles,
He does not respond.
。
Even in death Achilles receives deference, special treatment- though finally he is amongst those, however few, who might call themselves his equal.
He does not have a golden coin- he has a golden fortune- a king’s ransom, a dragon’s hoard of gold. It does not matter.
His soul is transported directly to Elysium, and Achilles can see the vast reaches of the underworld spread out before him, reaching in all directions. He is only vaguely aware during the process, and thought does not fully return to him until his feet touch solid ground.
He finds himself standing on a beautiful island, his toes half buried in sand, brilliant faces surrounding him- calling out, clamoring praises. They feast specifically for him, and write songs about his glory.
And of course warlike Achilles dips his head gently in thanks, although he is not certain he should do so. He wonders where the heroism lies in taking the lives of others- such was his skill that all fell before him, as if defenseless. And he thinks bitterly, that there is no merit in skill innate- but he closes his mouth and says nothing.
。
Achilles wanders, and the beauty of Elysium might well be the dullness of Asphodel for all he can appreciate it. He is not unhappy, nor could he be. Elysium does not allow for pain, and so instead Shining Achilles feels empty, depleted- though he is still able to laugh and smile before his fabled company.
Days pass, or perhaps millennia- time has no meaning in the afterlife. Achilles waits, exploring the fringes of Elysium to pass time, though more often then not he just sleeps- more deeply and easily then he could in life.
In sleep his spirit wanders, searching for what might make him whole with a fanatic frenzy, unmatched by anything his waking body could accomplish. It is evident why most of the blessed choose not to sleep.
Sometimes Achilles wishes he had been sent to the fields of punishment, for then at least; the boundaries of his confinement would be clear. In pain, at least, he could give voice to his agony- but instead all he can feel is an awful hollowness that leaves him gutted, clutching his stomach as if he could hold himself together by force.
But still the pain does not come.
Achilles wonders if he is going mad, for all that his body delights in the soft grass, the scent of wildflowers and honeyed pastry he still finds himself unable to care.
He spars with a king, a man of legend but Achilles doesn’t even try to remember his name. Later, after Achilles has won several times over, he makes sure to walk away with the sword still clasped neatly in his palm. So natural is the weapon against his side that no one seems to question it, and for a moment Achilles hates how he’d always taken to weapons and killing like it was natural. His legacy is one of killing.
Killing… and love, Achilles thinks, as he sits alone in a meadow- with the sword drawn and resting in his lap. He thinks that, if given another choice, he would choose love and quietude over killing and glory.
There are no second chances- and Achilles knows that he must live with the choices he has made forever, must live with the consequences of perhaps choosing wrong, though his blessed surroundings seem to indicate he has chosen correctly. Who is Achilles to speak against the divine?
Achilles is no one. At least, not anymore. He is a fragment, a carved out shell- he is empty, brokenly incomplete without… He cannot think of it.
Achilles draws in a deep breath, and points the sword against his chest, blade turned inwards and elbows pointed outwards. The blade slots into his flesh silently and without noise, and slides out just as easily, with only a slight pressure to account for any change. Even his tunic is whole.
Annoyed, though unsurprised Achilles throws the blade like a spear, tracking it with sharp eyes and watching, uninterested, as it lands in the grass far beyond without so much as a whisper.
No longer can death act as his escape.
。
Elysium is frequented by gods, impassive and ancient deities who laugh like children, and thunder their rage when displeased. Their moods shift like ocean water, beautiful and playful and powerful and murderous, but Achilles does not care to humor them.
Often, Achilles is sought out, but he declines. He is always gracious- but courtesy, he decides, will be the last thing he owes.
The gods have many moods, but brilliant Achilles has only one. A grave solemnness that sets him apart from the other souls, delighted to live forever in paradise. Achilles would rather not live at all.
But still he waits.
。
Once, Achilles contemplates rebirth- the thought of a new life without the memory of his past appeals to him- if only because the emptiness within threatens to consume him.
The emptiness is a hungry beast; it claws within his stomach, spraying vile poison and roaring a barbed whip of fire. Instead of burning pain, Achilles feels numb, and fresh baked bread- still warm and savory smelling turns to ash within his mouth, and the taste of it chokes him.
But Achilles only thinks of rebirth once. Once only, because finally he begins to think of other things, of thoughts he had locked away and forbidden himself to dwell on- lest they undo him.
They do not.
Achilles thinks of Patroclus, and his gentle hands, the soft slope of his nose, his steady feet always following him, following him everywhere but here.
Achilles thinks of Patroclus, and from his memories builds an anchor steady as stone, but strong as iron- an unbreakable metal hewn from his despair and forged in what he thinks must be love.
Patroclus is here; in the heady scent of the meadows, in the cool breezes that rush forwards to dance in Achilles’s hair. Patroclus walks with him, besides him always- the reassurance of his eternal soul brushes like soft touches against Achilles’s body.
But Patroclus is not a ghost, and his touches are only memory. They bring no pain, but a peaceful calm- Patroclus’s hands; healing always.
Achilles finds a lyre, or perhaps the lyre finds him- and he sings quietly to himself. He is lost in the gentle ache of his fingers against the hard strings, the first pain he has felt in a long time- and he feels alive.
His voice cracks with disuse, but it is still sweet- charming even. Eventually it grows strong, and it seems the very grass around him stands still so as to hear his song.
Crowds grow, first a handful, and then a ring of admirers, until finally Shining Achilles sings before a pavilion of the thousands blessed- a quiet smile on his face, and a strange mixture of joy and despair in his voice that rings powerfully enough that his audiences dare not breath, lest they break the strange magic his song weaves.
Eventually, the Gods themselves listen, though from afar. They listen to the gilded hero, who wears no weapons, and carries no gold. They listen to the haunting songs he sings, one after the other and each one new- as if he composes them on the spot without bothering to think of melody and lyrics beforehand.
It is as if he is God-blessed, and he draws his talent from elsewhere, but none among the Gods can claim responsibility- so instead they watch as the hero leans and sways with his own song, and listen as he sings of a man called Patroclus.
The crowds never stop listening, but slowly Achilles stops singing, and instead returns to wandering.
Achilles wanders without direction, until at last he sits down upon the ground and looks skyward, beyond the blue sky of Elysium to the great cavern of the underworld.
It is there he sits, and it is there he waits.
…….and waits.
And waits.
Achilles waits without movement, as immobile as a mountain, and none would try to move him anyways.
He waits without tiring, and without frustration- a slight smile curving the bow of his lips into something that speaks of peace, but also mischief and bright spirit.
Achilles does not sit for long.
He stands suddenly, legs still spry and muscles unprotecting. Achilles stands, and whirls around- like a hound scenting prey. His shoulders tense and he is on high alert.
He is weaponless, but his lithe walk is equal parts graceful and predatory, in a way that belies a formidable skill. Achilles is a weapon of his own making- and yet his face looks childish as he waits.
His mouth is parted, half open, and his eyes are wide and staring- searching. His hair curls softly against his temple, and he brushes it back anxiously, breathless with waiting.
“Thank you.” Achilles whispers at the sky, and he is not sure who he should direct his thanks to. He can feel Patroclus close, even if his lover is still hidden from his view.
A gentle breeze brushes against his cheek, and it smells of salt and the iron of blood. He knows his thanks has not gone unheard.
There.
There!
Achilles sees him, and he pushes himself to run. Faster, as fast as he can, until the tall grass cuts like blades into his skin.
The grass is still wet with the morning dew, and the ‘sun’ the graces Elysium has not yes risen. Water and blood mix on his legs and arms even as the cuts disappear. Achilles does not notice.
He is consumed with a single thought;
Patroclus, Patroclus, Patroclus.
Patroclus is here.
His hands reach Patroclus before the rest of his body does, and he almost cries out at the feeling of Patroclus’s skin, warm and solid and so beautifully, blessedly real that Achilles gasps out a wordless praise to the Gods.
Patroclus holds him back, his arms steady and strong, and so perfectly gentle Achilles can no longer hold back his tears, and they drip lightly down his face.
Behind them, and from all directions, the sun rises with an explosion of light that sets the world on fire, aglow with red and orange light.
Patroclus squints a little, his wide eyes narrowing- and locking onto Achilles’s.
“Achilles?” He asks, voice soft and sweet.
He is glorious in the light, Achilles thinks, the morning sun shines golden against his warm skin, and wet tears glimmer across Patroclus’s eyelashes brushing his cheekbones as he looks down.
Achilles knows that he has never seen anything so beautiful, even surrounded by the glory of Elysium, he cares only for one. So overcome is Achilles, that he can only nod in response.
He draws Patroclus closer , breathing in his smell, and running his fingers through soft hair, and across his muscled back and over his face. Achilles drinks him in, taking in his features with a giddy sort of glee. Patroclus is here! Patroclus is safe again, and Achilles feels so perfectly full he think he might burst.
They stand, with foreheads pressed together, neither one of them able to move.
They kiss, and Achilles cries out again, and their passion mingles with the salt of tears. All that has not been said needs not be voiced, and the anger that fell like stones between them in life dissipates as if it was never there.
Achilles opens his mouth to apologize, to kneel down low, to prostrate himself at Patroclus’s feet and beg for forgiveness, but Patroclus kisses him deeply and sweetly instead. He shakes his head,
“It does not matter.” Patroclus says, and he means it.
Nothing matters now, except for Achilles and Patroclus together, hands clasped tightly both standing in the same space, as if they are afraid any degree of separation might be permanent.
“Stay with me.” Achilles whispers is response, and Patroclus only smiles, his answer so obvious and evident he needs not voice it. Achilles understands, and trembles, so strong are his emotions.
They lay down on a beach, and Patroclus holds Achilles to him as Achilles cries, his tears coming thickly and uncontrollably like those of a child.
They lay together until the sun sets again, and the oceans begin to glow blue, magically luminescent with little creatures Achilles hadn’t noticed before.
The light throws shifting patterns over Patroclus’s face, and Achilles is transfixed.
“What?” Asks Patroclus from where he has waded into the ocean, his tunic discarded on white sands and his hair damp against his neck. Patroclus’s muscles tense slightly as he moves from side to side, trailing his fingers in the water.
Achilles waits a while before he responds, first stripping his clothes and diving into the cool waters.
“I am happy.” He whispers into the soft skin of Patroclus’s neck, into his back, against his hips, into the sensitive skin between Patroclus’s thighs, so that his words are lost in the bucking of hips, and breathless noises of pleasure.
Achilles says this many times more. He says “I am happy” when he wakes up to see Patroclus besides him, and when he eats more food then his body should be able to carry, and when they climb trees, and sing songs, and pick flowers, and find honey, and often when they do nothing at all.
The significance of these words are not lost on Patroclus, who feel a vicious thrill of happiness whenever Achilles declares his happiness. Joy, he feels, is Achilles’s to claim and they both glow with joy.
Patroclus learns to hear ‘I am happy’ in other phrases, in simple greeting and urgent touches and in the I love you they say as often and as fervently as prayer.
Always, Achilles says that he is happy, and it is the truth.
Now, and forever more;
Achilles is happy.