The Song of Patroclus

Chapter 1

My father was a king and the son of kings

He ruled Phthia, a generally small kingdom, but still one nonetheless. And one I was to inherit. The people of Phthia were in no way ordinary, more agile and stronger than most, but everyone knew from a young age that I was special. And everyone also knew why.

Achilles Pelides, son of King Peleus and sea nymph Thetis.

Half man, half god.

Born because the gods feared their offsprings. Cronos defeated Uranus and Zeus defeated Cronos. It would be idiotic to think the next generation wouldn't rebel. So they did the next best thing they could think of; suppress my power with human blood. They ordered my father to rape my mother, and ordered my mother to stay with my father until the offspring was born, and ordered for it to be raised by the humans. And that was how it went. My mother stayed on shore for nine months, being made love to by the king, and jumping into the water the instant I left her body.

From then, she came only to meet me. Although I was a reminder of the sick torture she had to endure, I was her son nonetheless. And she loved me.

Although the gods tried, the blood of a sea nymph was much more apparent than that of a simple human. I could fight. Fight my way to the top. Fight to steal from Heracles the title of Aristos Achaion. Greatest of the Greeks. I will. It is fated. And who am I to fight fate?

My father saw it as a reason to boast, but my mother saw much more than that. She saw it as the way to rid me of my "filthy human blood," as she liked to call it. If I fought well enough, the gods would be impressed, and might make of me the god that my mother wants.

If not through tradition, then through war.

I am five when we go to Opus to compete in the games. I stand with the boys, waiting for the horn to signify the start of the race.

The bull is sacrificed, losing itself to death easily, leaving simply with a weak scream. Is death so calm? Is death so easily rewarded? If I'm lucky, I won't ever find out.

I look to the dias where the host of the games sits, king Menoetius and his small son, trying to shrink himself into invisibility. He had no desire to be here.

He was holding the wreath of victory I would soon be crowned with.

I had heard of the stories, of the insults. Of him growing into more and more of a disappointment every day. Simple. Coward. Useless.

Yet none of those words came to mind when I first saw the boy. The first emotion I felt was pity. It was painfully obvious he'd much rather be elsewhere.

I was distracted from my thoughts by the other boys readying for the race. I quickly readied myself, allowing myself one quick look at the boy, who was already looking back, no longer shrinking, but instead leaning forward to catch a better look at me. I guess I must stand out. I was much younger than the others, with skin much lighter and hair much more golden than the other tan skinned, brown-haired participants.

The horn blows, and we all run. I easily take the lead, the adrenaline pushing my feet rather than I. No other boy comes close, and the cheers and clapping become surreal as I pass the finish line.

The next few moments are just as unreal as the past few. I vividly remember the priest patting my shoulder, my father smiling proudly, and someone leading me towards where king Menoetius left his throne, his son following behind. Menoetius crowns my head with the garland, his expression changing from impressed to envious as my father strides to claim me.

I remember my father hugging me tightly, eyes twinkling with pride. I remember him whispering, "my son," in my ear as he lets go of me.

I remember throwing the garland into the air and I remember laughing, but there are were words I remember more sharply than anything;

Menoetius seething, "That is what a son should be," to his son.