Patrochilles Oneshots

Shores of Our Eternity

*Achilles goes to look for Patroclus after he cannot find him in his tent. His instincts drive him to a familiar location where someone has been awaiting his arrival.*

I lay on the silk sheets of cloth that we had shared for many nights during the long duration of the treacherous war. I clench the material with my worn hands, wincing at what I could have done differently to avoid this path. I remember the first time I saw him, and suddenly the memories become sharp and start to stab the calluses of my mind.

The cold chills of air cut through the tent, and I feel the crispness of the new night sting my flesh. It hurts, but I do not wrap myself in the warmth of the sheets I hold. I deserve the cuts the weather gives me, for I accept them as punishment for my crimes.

It hurts my heart that I wasn't strong enough to surpass my honor. That I stood back as Patroclus stood bravely in front of individuals who didn't deserve his kindness. Hell, I didn't deserve his kindness.

Emotionally, he was more of a man than I ever was, than I ever could be. I open my eyes and stare down at the cloth. Unknowingly, I had torn through the silk completely with my hands. I had shredded the sheets with nothing more than thoughts of regret.

I must apologize to him, I think. I set down the sheets and looked over to the cloth where he slept whilst I rested next to him. I remember his tears, his frustration, his passion, and suddenly I have no control of my feet as they lift me from the tent and march to a location:

To the ocean.

I pass the neighboring tents fervently as the moon lights my path. My legs guide me away from our camp and the passing eyes of my comrades, but my mind is set and nothing will break my stride.

The trees begin to disperse as the dirt becomes graveley. The sand pierces my feet, the air cuts my arms, and my thoughts collide with bitter angst. These signs feel like warnings, but I continue nonetheless.

And by the Gods, if something were to happen to Patroclus, may Rome be spared of my ensuing rage, for if he were to perish-

Even the Gods could not contain my fury.

I repent the thought, I refuse to come to such a decrepit explanation to his abrupt disappearance. I clench my fist, and before I know it, the water comes into view.

He will be here, I think, somewhat desperately, and he will forgive me. Then he'll hold me, and then we will sleep by one another, and then a new day will come. This was a common routine we shared throughout the war, and it's one that I've come to look forward to. The day I sleep alone is the day when I am buried 6 feet under, dead from the fight, and that day is far ahead of me.

I see the silent waves grace the water with defined ripples. The moonlight reflects off the lake with an elegant shadow, highlighting each small wave pleasantly. My eyes scan the landscape, looking for his curly, brown hair to stand out from the water's shaded blue.

I could recognize him simply by the sound of his feet touching the Earth. I would know the rhythms of his breath as they were drawn. I would know his presence by the feeling of joy coursing my being. His smell, his sound, his everything. I could know it all, in life or in death.

That's why I know I must be missing something, for I sense him nearby but cannot seem to pinpoint his location. My perceptive mind has become somewhat of an asset, and it angers me that it has failed me.

All I could feel was that he was here, out of my reach, and that idea alone plagues my soul.

I stand on the edge of where the beach meets the water, staring into the ocean's abyss as if expecting Patroclus to appear from the deep at my command. But I am no fool. Nothing that has happened so far in the war has been easily won.