Tending the Embers

Awaiting Fate

 The depth of the night was broken by the crackling orange glow of the soldiers' fires slowly fading. It was late, but that didn't stop some of the rowdier men from drunkenly slurring through songs praising Athena, Zeus, and Hades for the defeat of a Thracian legion earlier that morning. They deserved it after a struggle like this. It stoked the hope within the breasts of men that would never live to see the end of war between cities.

Achilles heard all of it, knew every name, and knew that he could never live without the threat of another battle on the horizon. So, he solemnly listened to every mispronounced exaltation, and with a heavy spirit reflected on those lost in the craze of conflict. A dull ache pulsated in his arm, and with every throb a simultaneous pang of regret. Regret for those who didn't know this would be their last day in the material world, those who left behind mothers, sisters, and younger brothers, and for those who were drawn by duty and not the call of glory. Achilles sat in the dark, facing the glowing embers of his hearth, and pondered. Would his fallen men get to face Hestia's hearth one day, and share drinks at the table of Zeus? Would they witness the white hot fire of Hephaestus' forge? What sights would they see in the Underworld, who would they happily greet again, and would he one day join them just as clueless and fearful? Achilles would never let that happen. Another throb. His death would be in a flame of glory. No, he would not walk so, defeated, into Hades realm; he would be carried down on the wings of Nike herself. The pain worsened, but Achilles never flinched.

He was, however, startled by what seemed like a formidable presence from out of nowhere. He whirled around, tense, defensive of his wound, fox-like, ready to welcome an intruder. But it was only Petroclus. At this he relaxed, but with the next wave of pain Achilles flinched.

"Bruise your arm today." It was more of a statement than a question. Petroclus kneeled to be beside Achilles to get a better look at the wound. Gently, he held Achilles wrist and elbow to extend the younger man's arm. Sure enough, a mottled bruise arched across his arm, and it was quickly turning from a sickly yellow to a deep and ugly purple. Patroclus moved his face closer to it, to get a better look in the dim light from smoldering embers, but all Achilles could feel now was the warm breath on his arm being softly exhaled in the moment. It was in moments like these that Achilles felt least like a hardened soldier and most like a young man at the mercy of tumultuous emotions that rode through his body like Aegean waves beating against the coast. And just like that Petroclus' warm breath broke through his icy demeanor.

"Have I made you flustered? Or is it just the flush of a healthy soldier," Petroclus was staring into his eyes now, and he lightly probed Achilles arm. A flinch. Petroclus grunted, "Hmph. It's not broken, but it'll look like that for a few days. And until it's gone, you shouldn't pick up another shield."

"But my men still need more training before we march." Achilles blurted out breathlessly. Like the hastily made-up excuse of a schoolboy.

"I'm thankful that you have decided not to continue with the silent smoldering, Achilles" He didn't bother to reply to the excuse. Instead, he plucked a pot of salve and bandages from his satchel, (did he have that with him when he came over?) and placed the cold pottery near the embers to warm up before he subjected Achilles to the next trial.

"Those are a sign of weakness. No soldier wants to be led by a sickly injured man," Achilles said, more indignantly now, and tried to recoil with his arm. Patroclus' hold was firm, and instead of pulling away, Achilles was pulled into Patroclus' firm embrace.

This time, Achilles consciously felt the warm flush spread across his face when Petroclus buried his nose into his hair and inhaled deeply. Another wave crashed through Achilles.

"Weak isn't a word that should ever cross your lips." The deep bass in Patroclus' voice resonated within Achilles, awakening something else with it. He relented, and Achilles was released. The balmy salve on his arm distracted him for a moment before he returned his gaze to Patroclus. His touch burned hotter.

Achilles was swept away on a wave of emotion as the final bandage was tied and Petroclus packed away the rest.

"Why must you join me on this battlefield? This war wears on, and I fear it may be years before we return to our homeland. Every time we fight you risk your life," He said, seizing Patroclus' hand before he could get up from his spot in front of Achilles.

"To fight and die a glorious death, is that not our way of life?" His eyes were not upon Achilles, but gazing towards something far off and remote. Something only he knew.

"Yes, but I--," Achilles faltered, "but I don't believe that this should be your fate."

"Am I more special than the men out there," he gestured towards sounds that had gone quiet some time before.

Achilles reacted sternly, "You--," again he faltered before deflating, so that his next words came out quietly on his breath. Sure of his meaning, unsure in his expression, and altogether insecure, "Because you mean something to me."

Patroclus smiled solemnly, taking Achilles face into his hands and bringing him in close for a soft, but firm kiss. Achilles yielded immediately, returning his friend's affection in turn. He recognized the energy passing between them as new, but familiar, warm, and welcoming. Their dynamic changed in that moment, but neither of them wanted to go back to the simple friendship they had shared before.

Achilles felt every year of their age difference in the way Patroclus guided him onto the floor without breaking their kiss. Or hurting his arm. Talent that only years of treating various lovers could bring about.

Finally, he broke their tender embrace, "Tell me, Achilles, do you grow tired of this war? These battlefields?"

"Never," said only for Patroclus to hear," while I have you by my side."