Consider. Achilles, Aristos Achaion, destroyer of a thousand armies, slayer of a thousand men. Consider him kneeling
There’s a throne before him, and on it sits a man, shrouded in Myrmiron green and the golden armor of a half-god. His dark beard is trimmed close to his jaw, and there’s a smile playing at his lips as he watches the great hero kneel before him
He leans forward, and the tips of his fingers brush against Achilles’ jaw. A pause, and he laughs
“What are you playing at ? You’re the leader of the Myrmidons. I should be kneeling to YOU !!”
Achilles smiles and shoots back, something sparkling in the gold-flecked green of his eyes
“But you’re my king”, he pouts, “and I’m your slave. And I like the way you look sitting on my throne better than I like sitting in it, anyways”
“And your armor ?”
“You suit it better than I ever could”
Patroclus throws back his head, long, ebony locks brushing against his broad shoulders, and laughs, a full-throated, resounding sound
Achilles closed his eyes, and smiled, before rising to his feet and joining Patroclus on the throne, the two jostling uncomfortably for a moment to find space on the narrow seat, nearly falling over each other in their vain attempts, before finally finding themselves tangled up so inextricably that it would likely take them hours to fully separate
They look at each other, identical expressions of bewilderment adorning their features, before Achilles breaks the silence
“You know, that seemed a lot more romantic in my head”
A long pause, and then Patroclus started laughing again, a hearty, joyous sound. And for the first time in a while, Achilles joined him
Consider a tent. Consider darkness
Consider a man kneeling before a throne. Consider tears streaking his grime-coated cheeks. Consider blood staining his unwashed cloak of Myrmidon green
Consider a man. Consider him naked, armor stripped from his body by the unforgiving hand of a god. Consider him lying on the throne, blood leaking from his mouth, staining the dark hairs of his beard and deep ruby. His eyes, unseeing and glassy, closed, never to open again
Consider a corpse, lying between them, mutilated and coated in dust. A horse-hair helm, or what remains of it after being dragged through the Scamander plains, sits atop his head.
His eyes are glassy, too, and unseeing. He wears the armor that once sat on the other corpse’s form, but his helm is the same
His son had looked on that helm and weeped, once. He had taken it off. He had laughed at his son’s wide eyes, his bewilderment at how this weird creature’s head had lifted to reveal the features of his Baba
That helm is firmly attached to him now, metal crumpled too close to his skin for it to ever be removed without his mutilation. He will be burned in it, and Astyanax will never see his father again
Achilles kneels, two corpses on either side of him. His heart, and his self. He looks up through eyes as glassy as any corpse, and sees that no smile plays on Patroclus’ lips. No laughter. No joy
No fingers to caress his jaw. No heart to overflow with the love of him
Nothing, but a cold, empty grave
He lowers his head
There is silence
