The Song of Patroclus

Chapter 18

I woke that night; sleep did not come easy in the camp. It was deadly silent, no crashes of the waves as they pushed against the shore, no flaps of the tents flowing in the humid night. I turned in the bed to drape my arm around Patroclus' waist. His body was coated in the same sweat that soaked my hands. I frowned. There was no wind. That was wrong. It is the time in the year that the air is rich with zephyr, where the wind howls with a promise of a lively spring.

Gulping down the water, I wiped the damp fron my forehead and went back to rest beside Patroclus.

—

The next morning is the same. No wind. Bedroll covered in sweat. I furrowed my eyebrows as Patroclus sat beside me, panting and gasping. I exited the tent, letting the flap close behind me. I stand at the edge of the shore, watching the still ocean as it dares not to move, the calamity usually found in our oceans gone. I sigh and return to the tent, where Patroclus looks at me expectantly.

"There is no wind," I state, repeating what both of us knew. He nods.

I step back in the bed, resting my head in his lap. His hand reaches for my hair with a warm hand. "We will not leave today," I murmur, looking up at him from where I'm resting on my back. He nods again, running a jagged hand through my hair. We do not exit the tent until our presence is requested.

There is no wind that night. Or the next morning. Or the day after. Or after that. There is no wind until the adrenaline of the war wears down and the impatience of the delays catches up with the men. Fights break out, peaces between soldiers of our countries frayed. Our men are not known for their patience.

There is something about this sun that is not natural. Something everyone hear is afraid to discuss. It is far easier to assume this is simply peculiar weather instead of the other...more sinister possibility.

It is almost two weeks later when Patroclus lays on my stomach, either of us untroubled by our sweaty bodies or the humid weather. I sit up, making him slide off my body, laying beside me instead. He watches with intent eyes as I stand.

"I will speak to my mother," I say. He nods in easy understanding. I leave the tent.

—

I sigh as I sit on the searing sand, thankful for the cold water that splashed against my feet. She appears and sits beside me, looking forward into the sea instead of me. She knew why I was here.

"Hello, my son."

"Mother."

She nods. "Have you not left yet?"

I turn to face her. "Mother. You know we haven't, and you know why we haven't."

She still refuses to look towards me. "Perhaps I do. But why shall I tell you? Why would I willingly send my son to his death?"

"I'm not dying, Mother."

"That is not for you to decide, Achilles."

"But I will decide if I am going to the war or not. You cannot decide for me. Now, tell me, mother," I demand, fully turning to look at her now.

She stays silent for a few, long moments before sighing. She looks over at me with her black eyes. "It is the gods."

I nod. We sat in silence now that the fact was finally out.

"Why?" I ask.

"That, I cannot say," She states. Even the gods have their limits.

I stand. "I must take your leave now, mother. I must tell this to the men."

"I am not quite sure you should," She warns.

"I am telling you again, mother, I will not-"

"It is not that, Achilles. They fear the gods' wrath. Fear it above anything. They will do anything to avoid it."