Their names are synonymous with conquest, with death. Their victories are legendary, their feats lauded. Side by side always, they've fought countless battles, strewn a path of terror and awe from Macedon to Sparta. Great Kings have bowed before them. The gods themselves have trembled. They are unstoppable, unbeatable. Together, they are synergy, they are poetry etched in blood. Until Troy. Until Hector. *** When Achilles had announced they were off to war (he hadn't asked; Patroclus hadn't expected it), the war to end all wars, Patroclus had thought nothing of it. Just another battle, just another victory. Until he'd heard the rumors, whispered with the same sort of reverence used only for Achilles. Hector, tamer of horses, the greatest general the Trojans had ever known... Hector, the one man who could best the mighty Achilles in battle... Hector, commander of the best army in the land... There is a wild light in Achilles' eyes these days, an eerie calm that envelops him like a shroud. Every day, he's up before dawn, pushing the men past endurance with training exercises that last well after dusk. Every night, he pores over maps of Troy, analyzes letters from generals who have fought against Hector or served him in the past. For the first time in his life, Patroclus feels unease. In sleep, he can hear the Syren's call. Always, it is the same. Only death awaits you on this path. Leave him, before he betrays you. His dream always ends with an image of ebony and gold, forever twined, forever out of his reach. *** The once white beaches of Troy are stained copper and rust. The blood of men, of dying dreams. Patroclus feels the murmurs before he hears them. His sword and armor still glisten red, even though his battle is over. Bodies lay scattered around him, a mute testament to his might and superior skill. All is as it should be. Then he hears the murmurs. Hector...Hector... Patroclus stands on the low rise, watching the fight below with a sinking heart. Hector is a god on the battlefield, as if guided by the hand of Ares himself. His sword gleams, flashing silver in the sun as he slashes his way through the crowd of Mycenaean soldiers. They are no match for him. Strong, sun-bronzed thighs flex gracefully with each pirouette, a muscled sword arm swinging in perfect time. A dance that Patroclus knows too well. He doesn't need to turn to know Achilles is watching beside him. Watching and calculating. Waiting. *** The war should have lasted weeks. In the second month, everyone had boasted of being home in time for the Feast of Dionysus. By the second year, the men had stopped speaking of home altogether. Home had become the tents, the ships, the battlefield, the sand. Home had become Troy. Patroclus eats fish and drinks brackish water and dreams of the silk sheets on his and Achilles' bed in Thessaly. He dreams of emerald grass and fresh mead and how Achilles used to smile for him. Achilles prowls the beaches alone. He does not sleep. *** "You long for the day you'll finally face him, don't you?" Patroclus asks, when he can no longer bear the distance between them. "I long for his flesh beneath my sword, that is all," Achilles answers, but the words sound stilted, wrong. "What is it about him that captures you so?" Desperation colors Patroclus' words, and he curses himself for his weakness. "I..." Hesitation, from a man who knew not the meaning of the word. "I wish...I wish I knew." What of us? Patroclus longs to ask. What of us if you have him? But he keeps silent. In truth, he already knows Achilles' answer. *** He cannot be beaten... and the whispers spread like wildfire. The walls are impenetrable and no one can deny their truth. Hector is breaking our armies like a prized stallion and Patroclus wants to rage at the gods for abandoning him. All Hector can talk of is facing Achilles and a shiver runs down Patroclus' spine. He finds Achilles sharpening his sword. His hands are steady, but the look in his eyes betrays them both. "I dreamed of the River Styx again last night," Achilles finally says. He doesn't look up. "And?" Patroclus asks, quietly. Every breath seems too loud in the space between them. "They say..." Achilles' voice drops, "they say welcome, brother." "And Hector?" Achilles shakes his head and says nothing at all. *** Patroclus barely waits for Achilles to roll away from him before speaking. Their bodies are still slick with passion, the soft skins beneath them tangled with sweat. "It's not me you see anymore when we do this." The words sound as if they are coming from far away. Achilles' rage is quick, ice-cold and all-encompassing in its power. He rolls back, using his weight to pin Patroclus in place. His fist closes on Patroclus' throat, and squeezes. "It is always you," Achilles hisses. Patroclus looks up at him with calm eyes. He doesn't even feel Achilles' hand on him. His heart is already numb. "Then why is his name the one in your eyes?" *** The feast is one of truce, a gesture between Priam and Agamemnon for negotiations. In truth, they realize their armies need the rest. In secret, they are afraid of losing. And winning. The gods weave spells of protection and assurance. The men lay down their arms and bathe in the river, anointing themselves with scented oils and the promise of a few nights of peace. Achilles barks out orders and haunts the great hall, checking and double-checking every detail. Patroclus sits alone on the beach, sand sifting through his fingers, and ignores the Syren's call in his head. Only death awaits you here... He's been dying for years. He's used to it. *** "For the gods," Priam and Agamemnon declare at the head table. "For the gods," the men shout, and tilt their cups. The ground is stained with wine and offering. Patroclus jealously guards his goblet and watches. Watches Hector, dark-haired and gracious, laughing at Odysseus' jest. Watches as Achilles stares, not moving, not speaking, a predator to the core. Watches as Hector finally lifts his head and meets Achilles' unflinching gaze for the first time with his own. Lightning strikes. The ground trembles. No one save Patroclus notices. Ten minutes later, both Hector and Achilles make their excuses. Patroclus refills his goblet and follows. *** Hector and Achilles. Achilles and Hector. Mortal enemies, famed warriors, brutal strategists. None of the accolades mean anything here on the edge of the beach with only the moon to light the way. Patroclus stands in the shadows, alone, and watches the death of war. Breastplates and tunics fall. Bare skin is worshipped and revered. Lips touch, slide over willing flesh. Promises are whispered, carried in the ocean breeze. They are poetry etched in moonlight. Patroclus' goblet falls from numb fingers as the Syren laughs, the sound echoing until there is nothing else.
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