Collection of Patrochilles Shorts

And It Was Love

Every wrench of the shovel into dry earth threatens to steal the breath from Achilles lungs. He breathes out harshly through his nose, afraid that if he opens his mouth he might start screaming. Briseis sits nearby, where the dirt meets the sand, watching as it spills grain by grain into the water. She's stiff, back tense; flinches every time the shovel hits home. They hadn't spoken since the soldiers delivered the news, then the body—could hardly look at one another as the hours drug on and the grief set in.

The sea breeze ghosts in over the waves, salt catching and curling the ends of Achilles hair. It's uncomfortably warm for an evening at the shoreline, his tears mixing with the sweat beading on his face. He pauses briefly in his work, thinks that if he stays still enough he can turn into a pillar of salt and crumble away into nothing. He glances again at Briseis, watches her shoulders start to shake, and banishes the thought.

He calls her over when it's time, just her name whispered through gritted teeth. She holds Patroclus's feet and Achilles cups the back of his head as they lower him into the ground. They situate the headstone, pray briefly for safe passage and then slowly refill the grave, handful by handful.

It's night when they finish. They shuffle their way to the beach and all but collapse, water washing over their feet and drenching the bottom of his pants; her skirt. Achilles picks at the dirt under his nails while Briseis scrubs at hers frantically in the water. Achilles thinks they'll sit in silence until the sun rises when Briseis speaks.

"He loved me," she eventually says, voice tight, and Achilles breath hitches as the ache blooms anew, endless and familiar.

"He loved me, too," he says, reaching out to grasp her hand. Sand gets caught between their fingers, tiny pinpricks of pain, grounding. She finally looks up, and he watches her watch him, each looking for memories, for one last shred of the man they loved. She smiles, tears pooling in the small creases beside her lips.

"He was...love," she replies, and Achilles thinks again of Patroclus, of gentle hands against bruised skin, quiet laughter in candlelit tents, warm body held close in a damp cave, his voice a balm on the truly terrible nights. He thinks of how the world fell away with every glance, how he wouldn't have minded if it never righted itself—if they could've been caught in those moments, alone, for eternity. Patroclus had loved them, he'd loved them in spite of it all—prophecies, gods, and wars be damned.

"He was everything," Achilles whispers, voice breaking over the word. Briseis's grip on his hand tightens, pulling him a fraction closer, and the grieving begins. They cry, side by side, the city burning to ash behind them, hearts beating steady and breath fluttering like caged birds in their lungs; the boy they loved laid in a shallow grave, cold to the touch.

Achilles mother eventually wades out of the sea, a specter on the opposite end of the beach. She doesn't approach to pay her respects—simply stares, hands limp at her sides. For Achilles, it's enough.

Menelaus, Odysseus, and a dozen soldiers make their way to the grave at first light. They offer words of solace, promises of retribution. Achilles just smiles, locks eyes with Briseis where she stands off to the side. She still distrusts the men who've gathered, but she stays to hear them reminisce—committing every murmur of Patroclus to heart.

"You should speak," Odysseus says, and all eyes turn to Achilles, "you knew him best." Odysseus lays a large hand on his shoulder, expression open, and of course he knew, Achilles realizes. Of course. Briseis comes to stand beside him and he's grateful for the unspoken support. He clears his throat, rakes a hand through his hair. It takes a few minutes to find the right words.

"He was the best of friends—the best of men," Achilles says. "He was kind and bright and sincere—honorable to a fault." At this Achilles laughs, and a few others crack smiles. "He...he was selfless to a fault, too. It's rare to find all of those things across ten men, let alone one. We wouldn't be where we are today without him, I wouldn't be where I am today without him. He's—he was so—" Achilles voice breaks off and he scrubs a hand down his face.

Briseis reaches out, places a warm hand on his arm. Her palm is soft but it's not the touch he craves. He takes a long breath and continues. "I'm eternally grateful to have known him. He was a hero, and that's how he will be remembered, now and always. To Patroclus!"

"To Patroclus!" The crowd echoes, before dispersing in smaller groups back down the beach.

"What now?" Briseis asks once they're alone. They're both looking out to sea again, bathed in the red light of the setting sun.

"We go," Achilles declares, and Briseis nods, resolute.

"We go," she says. Neither have a destination in mind when they take a ship and set sail that night. They travel, stopping wherever they'd like and where they can, trying to fill the absence in their own ways. It would never disappear—they knew they'd never wake up one morning, the ache gone, the memory of Patroclus no longer sharp against their hearts. But they'd learn to make room for it, together.

********

When they visit next spring there are flowers sprouting from the grave, vibrant and blooming. Beautiful and thriving and everything they strive to be for the boy that'd never get to be any of those things again. "We'll be seeing you," Briseis says, palm pressed into the cool earth.

"One day," Achilles murmurs, bending down to do the same, and far, far below, Patroclus smiles in the dark and reaches up toward the light.