The Song Of Patroclus

Chapter Two

I meet my mother late that night. The moon is as full as a milk bowl and I follow it to the sea until the balls of my feet scrape against broken shells. The water is cold but when my mother emerges from the waves, it becomes colder.

She half-smiles, breathing my name. "Achilles."

"Mother."

She comes towards me, torn dress dragging behind but it remains completely dry. "What have you been up to?"

I shrug. Her presence brings a chilled breeze, my leg hairs stand. "The same. I trained this morning, ate some fish, played my lyre, slept."

She nods. "Are you well?"

"Yes." I do not ask her the same. Seeing the blood-red pools in her mouth and freshly combed hairs that sleek down her back, I know her days haven't changed.

The full moon lights her impossible pale skin until it is ghostly. "Prophets have not changed their views, you will be Aristos Achaion." I let her speak of my future as if it is not mine to decide. "You will fight and Greeks will follow." Sometimes I wish she would tell me something different.

My mother lifts a pale finger and strokes my flushed cheek. Her touch is as cold as the depths of the sea. I've grown accustomed to her temperature and no longer shutter. She stares down at me, eyes pits of squid ink. "Will you come with me?" To the caves under the sea.

I smile grimly, knowing my answer will always be the same. "Not today."

Her finger falls from my cheek and the waves devour her until I'm alone and staring at the horizon.

***

I lay on a pillowed bench, mindlessly plucking away at the strings of my lyre while softly humming. I've played the instrument so many times that its cords are committed to memory, a second nature that sometimes I don't even realize I am playing until my fingers begin to cramp.

The door opens but I do not look, already sensing a pair of eyes on me. The stare is heavy, so are all stares I get. I've learned to ignore them.

The figure does not announce themselves, staying completely silent. So in regard, I loll my head to the side but do not expect to see what I see. It is a boy, about my age; small, frail, knees knobby and bruised. The hair on his head is warm and loosely curled like the sand at dusk but his skin is sun-kissed, painted in bronze.

He continues to stare so I stare back.

My eyes grow heavy, exhaustion creeping in from the late visit with my mother. I yawn. "What's your name?"

I must've offended him with the yawn or maybe my question was spoken too quietly because he does not respond, simply stares with those owl eyes of his. Giving the benefit of the doubt, I repeat louder: "What's your name?"

He blinks, possibly trying to remember. "Patroclus."

Patroclus. The beauty of his name disregards the dryness of his voice. Of all the boys I've met from the children my father has fostered, no one quite had a name as interesting. His stuck. Patroclus. Pa-tro-clus.

"Honor of the father, " he defines, asserting some strength with a raise of his chin.

I roll onto my side, a hand supporting up my head. I've never heard of such a person, nor a woman who birthed such a strange boy. There is something quite interesting about him, a quality I cannot place but it rests on my tongue, waiting to be tasted.

Patroclus stays still and stiff,  hands tied behind his back, visibly out of place in the grandness of the room. I scan him once more, taking in every ounce I can manage.