I wrote this for my mythology final. Hopefully, some people might enjoy it. I'm sorry for any grammar or spelling errors. Feel free to point them out so I can improve in the future.
This story takes place in a modern-day setting in a fictional city, where the Trojan war was a gang war between the two most powerful gangs in the city. The Greeks, which occupy the west side of town and The Troy's, which occupy the east. The war started when Helen, the girlfriend of one of The Greeks leaders, had an affair with Paris, the brother of a Troy leader. This story takes place after the war ended and in Achilles point of view. Despite this being in a modern day, the gods are still worshipped, so they refer to deities by name or by, "The Gods."
The gods were relentless today. The sky was black and releases a torment that hadn't ceased since Achilles left the hospital. It was almost like Zeus himself was crying for the loss of a good man.
"God's don't weep for mortals." Achilles thought.
The rusty gate of the graveyard made an annoying screeching sound when it opened like it had rusted over and nobody cared or bothered to replace it. This entire field was overgrown with weeds and old trash thrown out from the windows of cars driving by. Graves her placed haphazardly on the edge of a hill, where they led up to some temple of some god. Achilles didn't recognize which one.
He trudged through the mud until he found the grave he was looking for. It didn't take long. He was just recently buried.
Hector of Troy
The greatest fighter in the city
Beloved son, brother, and husband.
Achilles fished out a flask from under his jacket and took a swig. It tasted vile and sour and felt like fire going down his throat into his belly.
The great Hector, the brave prince, the tragic hero. The devoted husband who bragged about his beautiful wife every chance he got, and his son - Oh! His son - not a day went by when you wouldn't hear him say, "Guess what little Astyanax did today." Then when Paris slept with Helen and got himself into too much trouble than he could handle, guess who was right there. Hector, the loving brother who never once said a harsh word about the mess Paris made. He was more than happy to help him clean it up. Like the perfect man he was.
Achilles took another drink. It went down easier this time.
Achilles hated that stupid war. Hated the war and Agamemnon. That man was as arrogant as a fool. In the fray of battle, he picked up this pretty little thing called Chryseis and was utterly dumbfounded when her father didn't take to kindly to that. It was as if he thought a mere flick of his wrist would make the world bow at his feet. Achilles didn't want anything more to do with that man, so he left. It wasn't his war to fight anyway. The entire thing came down to a scuffle between two men over a girl. Let those two fight it out and the rest of the city have peace.
But then. . .Patroclus. The two of them had grown up together, having gone to the same boarding school as boys and later became inseparable in adulthood. Achilles owed everything he had to Patroclus. He kept him sane when he felt his like the weight of the world was crushing him. (Not literally, sorry Atlas.) They had made a promise to always be together. They were going to live a boring, but satisfying, life as they grew old together.
Except Hector stabbed him in the stomach.
Damn Hector. Damn him for taking Patroclus! Damn him for ruining every single thing they had planned for after the war!
Achilles kicked off one the flower pots on his grave. Then another, then when there were no more flowers, he kicked up grass, then splashed in the mud and stomped in the dirt.
"Achilles."
He didn't stop. He wouldn't stop. He kept digging out more and more dirt. He would keep digging until he found Hector's body and make him give Patroclus back. It wasn't fair, it wasn't fair. Patroclus should be here, not buried in the ground. He didn't deserve to die, he was a good man. An honorable man. He was everything to Achilles and now he's gone. This was Hector's fault, all his fault. He was probably laughing now because everyone still believed he was a great man - So great! - when he was really a murderer. A filthy, bloodthirsty murderer. It wasn't fair, it wasn't fair, it wasn't fair. Why, out of everyone, did it have to be him. Why did it have to me him and not -
"Achilles!"
Achilles turned. "What do you want, old man!?"
Priam stood a few feet away, his face withered and wrinkled. He had dark circles under his eyes and underneath his tattered jacket, Achilles could see his old hands were shaking.
"My son is already dead. What do you have to gain from jumping all around like a child?"
Achilles felt hot with anger. "It's his fault! He took Patroclus. It's his fault!"
Priam's eyes flickered to the flask in his hands. "You're drunk, Achilles."
Achilles stumbled back. His balance was off. "How much have you been drinking?" Priam asked. His tone was unusually gentle. Why did he care?
"I. .you! Patroclus." He shifted back and forth from foot to foot. It almost felt like he was going to fall over, until he felt hands resting on the back of his shoulder, keeping him upright. He pictured Patroclus behind him, shaking his head fondly and muttering, "You irresponsible fool." He was smiling though. He was always smiling.
Then the cold rain hit his face and he was brought back to reality. Patroclus wasn't smiling anymore. He wouldn't smile anymore. He couldn't smile anymore. He broke free of Priam's grip and kicked another clump of dirt from the grave until Priam pulled him back again. "Achilles, what would your own father thing to see you, drowning in booze and kicking another man's grave?"
What would his father think? During the summer Patroclus would always be over, and they'd spend hours playing superhero and rescue the damsel. Then Peleus would come out and remind them that fictional heroes were one thing and that we had to make our own hero story. He guessed Patroclus took that to heart.
As kids, people would always say, "It'll always by Achilles and Patroclus. Never one, always both."
The memory made a lump form in his throat. He fell to his knees on the muddy ground, water seeping through his jeans and chilling his skin. Then he wept. He wept for Patroclus. For Briseis, who always loved spending time with Patroclus, and cried like a banshee every night since his loss. For Peleus, who considered Patroclus his own son. Who raised him and picked him up off the ground, wrapped his wounds and loved him without question. Who screamed at the gods, begging for it to be him instead, that separating Achilles and Patroclus was a sin even the gods not dared commit. For how after losing one son he was now losing another.
Priam held him in his arms with the touch only a father could give. For they both lost something at the hand of the other. Achilles wept until the world around him went black, with the last thing he heard was the gentle tone of a father whispering, "Let me help you home."
It was a few days later. Achilles stumbled into his apartment. This dingy little place. He hadn't meant to live here long. It wasn't to be the place he stayed. He had plans for the future, plans to painful to think about now.
He could hear Briseis in the other room. He pictured her sitting on their bed in a bath towel combing her pretty golden hair. She had probably spent the day wandering around the city, visiting different boutiques and picking out presents to give to their friends and family. She had even picked out a wedding gift for Agamemnon and Cassandra. Achilles chuckled at that. Agamemnon had proposed to Cassandra before he even divorced his current wife. He wondered what her reaction would be?
Achilles grabbed a bottle from the fridge. It didn't matter which one, it was all the same to him.
Apparently, he was making a lot of noise because Briseis walked in right as he was twisting the cap off. Her hair was dripping wet and it left a trail from the bedroom to the kitchen. She was leaning against the door frame. Her expression didn't change.
"Have you heard from Priam at all?"
Achilles shrugged. Priam had called a few times since the other night. He didn't pick up. Didn't care to.
"He's worried for you, you know. After that little stunt you pulled."
Achilles scoffed. "Why should he worry about me? We're not supposed to be friends."
Briseis took a seat on the kitchen table. " 'Les, the war is over. Everyone in the city has made amends with each other. Everyone lost someone, everyone is grieving. That makes us united."
Of course, she'd say something like that. Briseis was a rich daddies girl living in a house in the fancier part of town. Until the war made its way to her front door. In the confusion of the fighting, her house caught fire and burned to the ground. Her father, brother, and sisters didn't survive. She had the fortune (Or misfortune depending on how you look at it.) to be staying with her best friend, Chryseis at the time of the attack. Then Agamemnon found them and the rest was set.
Poor Briseis didn't want to leave her friend alone. It was because of her kindness and compassion that she was brought into a war she had no business in.
"You really know nothing of war." Achilles told her.
"I know it turns good men into sniveling drunks."
Achilles didn't respond.
Briseis ran her fingers through his hair and stood up. She mumbled something about going to visit Cassandra. Seems the poor girl had another one of her nightmares.
Achilles did what he always did when he was left alone in the apartment. It probably wasn't a good idea to look though Patroclus old photos but he couldn't help himself. There was an entire box of old pictures of them going up. His favorite was the framed picture of them with Chiron, their teacher from boarding school. Another was the two of them on Halloween night, both dressed up in plastic greek armor. What a silly costume that was.
Achilles' hands shook. Hot tears spilled down, dripping on the already damaged paper. He wept, tears streaming from his deep blue eyes, loud, heaving sobs tearing from his throat, and still, he did not look away.
Pictures of them as teenagers, of graduating high school, of Thetis drenching them in water when they acted up. More pictures of just Patroclus as a boy and another kid. Achilles remembered his name was Clysonymus. Pictures of Menoetius, and of Peleus and Thetis from their wedding night, and of the two of them again with Briseis on one of the rare days they weren't fighting The Troys.
Heat pooled in his belly, making him want to scream. And so he did. He yelled out, is throat aching with exhaustion. He slammed the bottle in his hand back to the wall behind him. It shattered. Glass and poison rained down on top of him, drenching his skin and leaving a vile messing puddle on the floor. He felt something sting the bottom of his heel.
He saw the blood pooling around him before he felt it. Bright red mixing with amber, swirling together on the floor. It was kind of pretty. Achilles almost laughed. Briseis was sure wasn't going to be happy - she just cleaned the floor!
Achilles flipped through more pictures, thinking what Patroclus would think if he saw him now. "Look what you've done now, you fool!" he would probably say. He could almost see the raised eyebrows and signature, 'Hands-On-Hips' pose Patroclus was known for.
A photo caught his eye. A photo of Patroclus wearing a red scarf around his neck, and a brown leather jacket with the hood up. It was the last photo he had, right before his death. It was taken by Briseis after one of the last conversations Achilles had with Patroclus.
"You have to fight, 'Les. The others aren't listening to Agamemnon, Ajax, not even Odysseus. They'll only listen to you."
"Why should I fight in a war that's not even mine? We've been here too long as it is."
"If you're not going to fight, then give me your jacket."
Yes, his signature brown leather with a greek helmet embroidered on the sleeve. He'd been wearing it since he was a teenager.
"Come on, if I wear your jacket and a scarf over my face they'll never even tell the difference."
So Achilles had given him his jacket, and along with an old red scarf. He had been right. With the scarf, you could easily mistake one for the other. If Achilles had known just what was going to happen when he left that day disguised as him, he would have never given it up. Maybe if he had been more stubborn, Patroclus wouldn't have died. Maybe if he wasn't stubborn at all, and just fought when he was asked to. Whatever he could've done, he knew that Patroclus death was his fault.
The room was starting to spin. He felt incredibly light headed. It was hard to move. The picture fell out of his hand and we felt too weak to even pick it up.
He remembered the very last time he ever saw his best friend, standing outside the car waiting for it to drive away.
"You be smart out there."
"And when am I not?"
"Smart-ass. I just don't want anything happening to you."
"Honestly, 'Les. I'm starting to think you can't function without me."
Achilles coughed. The lights were getting blurrier. Everything was going dim. He could barely see in front of him anymore.
He wasn't sure why, but he started laughing.
"I guess you were right, Patroclus."
End.