A/N: Dedicated to all the poor souls who have, like me, read the masterpiece and pure perfection that is The Song of Achilles and been tortured and killed emotionally by pretty much everything inside that deadly-and-fatal-but-also-flawless-and-beautiful-in-every-single-way-and-I-will-fight-you-if-you-disagree book.

Disclaimer: I do not own the agonising but magnificent piece of Elysium that is The Song Of Achilles.

After his death, Achilles had been reaped by Thanatos - which he agreed to with surprising complacency, appearing almost eager to be guided to the Underworld. Along the way, Hermes had joined them, having been sent down from Olympus to ensure no difficulties would occur should a need arise to subdue Achilles. But no such interference appeared necessary, as Achilles strode fearlessly into Hades as if he were returning home from a long day's work, and both gods departed soon thereafter, leaving Achilles alone with the three judges - Minos, Rhadamanthus and Aeacus Hermes had called them, the first two were brothers, all were the sons of Zeus.

"I want to see Patroclus. I will share his verdict." Achilles stated almost as soon as he arrived, using a voice that left no doubts of his royal heritage and presented no room for arguments. He squared his shoulders and set his jaw, looking to all present like a warrior god returned from a victory on the battlefield. He looked ready for a battle, ready to take on Olympus, ready to take on Hades' entire army of the undead if it was required, knowing he would beat them just as he had beaten all his other foes. Aristos Achaion did not lose fights.

The three judges gazed at him with their paper white complexions, skeletal figures and the dead stares of sharks, as if they were looking through rather than at him. But if Achilles had felt unsettled by them, he did not falter and he did not show it. Following his demand, they turned mechanically to one another and conferred in hushed, raspy voices that had sounded much out of place in a hall of dead men, they were not of this world, or any other. Too alive to be dead and yet too dead to be alive, stuck - as the judges were - between the veil.

King Minos was the first to stop speaking, turning around to face Achilles with the same blank expression as before, though with just the smallest tinge of something concealed in his eyes. Aeacus and Rhadamanthus followed suite.

"Achilles Pelides, Aristos Achaion, son of the sea goddess Thetis." Minos spoke, his voice like the grating of metal and churning of wood, "Your valiant deeds are endless in number and daring as they are courageous. Your name shall not be forgotten, nor shall your legacy be lost to the sands of time. The gods smile their approval and rain their blessings down upon you, gallant hero, you shall reside in peace upon the Isles of the Blest, among-"

"I do not care for your praise, Minos. And I do not care for the gods' blessings, I am dead, I have no use for them. I asked of Patroclus. Now answer me, king." Achilles had interrupted sharply, his handsome features marred with anger and scorn. Minos paused, regarding Achilles with the same expression from before, and Achilles realised the flicker of emotion in his eyes had not been anger but pity. The dead king would not answer him. This only served as more fuel to stoke the flames of Achilles' growing inferno.

Achilles had turned beseechingly to his grandfather, his fern eyes adjuring but making it clear that he would not beg, "Grandfather, you must let me see Patroclus. He and I are owed that much. I do not care for the Isles of the Blest or Elysium, not even Asphodel, curse me to the depths of Tartarus if you so desire, but I must speak to Patroclus first."

Aeacus had looked pained, displaying more emotion than he had since his death, but remained resolutely silent alongside Minos. When it had appeared that Achilles could take no more of the silence without lashing out like a caged lion, Rhadamanthus spoke up, his whispered voice soft as velvet, "Patroclus is not here, young prince of Phthia, his soul is... not among the dead." The judge looked like he had wanted to disclose a more precise location but had changed his mind at the last minute.

Achilles attacked then, furiously leaping out with outstretched arms as if he were a hawk or a bear, his shrilled yelling echoing around the palace, "Where is he?!" Achilles screamed, throwing aside the guards that rushed forward, desperately trying to restrain him. "Where is Patroclus?! Where is he?!"

Aristos Achaion looked feral with his purple cloak torn and ripped in tatters about him; his phoenix gold armour stained with dried blood and hickory coloured earth; and his emerald eyes, usually so bright and gentle, now a savage jade glinting harshly in the light of the flickering torches arranged systematically on the walls.

It took Achilles a bare few minutes to incapacitate the guards that foolishly rushed at him, turning after to the judges, whereupon he managed to land a singular hit on Aeacus, before his extirpation was halted by a sudden interference.

"Enough." A baritone voice ordered. Immediately, Achilles felt his grip on Aeacus loosen, and then he was falling through darkness and time for what seemed like an eternity, bracing himself for a landing seconds before hitting the distinctly rocky ground... with none of the pain he had prepared himself for. It took him a couple moments to collect himself and remember he was, in fact, dead.

"So you are the legendary Achilles the pantheon refuses to shut up about." The same male voice from before spoke, Achilles spun around, scanning the dark room for its owner but finding it completely devoid of anything. "I must say, dead prince," the voice continued, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. "You seem awfully young to be a hero." Its tone turned contemplative. "But then, all heroes do. Those who the gods favour always die young."

"I hardly think I am favoured. More like cursed." Achilles snapped, his mother's abandonment and constant disapproval a bitter memory in the back of his mind.

"Oh it hardly matters, son of Thetis, it is the same thing is it not?"

"Show yourself!" Achilles commanded, hand twitching, wishing for a weapon. "Or are you afraid?"

The voice laughed, "It is not I who is afraid."

Achilles growled, "I am not frightened. Especially not of a coward who hides himself in the shadows."

The shadows directly opposite Achilles began to churn, spasming and coiling in a vortex of turbulent darkness before hardening into the solid shape of a young man no taller than Achilles, dressed in dark, Spartan armour and holding a black helmet under one arm. Not a man, Achilles corrected, a god. The deity tossed his helmet aside carelessly, not watching as the shadows reached up with greedy tentacles to swallow it up and disappear.

"I did not say you are scared of me," the god spoke as if their conversation had never ceased, seemingly uncaring as Achilles openly stared at him, "because you are not." He shrugged nonchalantly, the thought did not bother him. "Although there are not many that can claim they do not fear the lord of the dead." Achilles blinked but otherwise did not react to the new information. "Everyone fears something though," the deity studied him with intrigued eyes, "and even you, Aristos Achaion, are susceptible to such things as fear."

"What am I fearful of then?" Achilles challenged, feeling the return of the prideful fury that had engulfed him when he had argued with Agamemnon in front of the Greeks.

The lord of the Underworld smiled; it was a cold, lifeless gesture, "You are scared for Patroclus. You are terrified at what could have happened to him. You are petrified at the thought of never seeing him again. But mostly... mostly you are mortified at the thought of losing him again." In the silence that followed, Achilles' heavy breaths were akin to a bull's about to charge.

Hades held his hands up in a placating manner, "Peace Pelides, my words have no harmful intention, I merely spoke what you felt." Then his soothing tone became tinged with a mirthful wryness. "Besides, of the both of us, I do believe I have more right to be irate. You are the one who attacked the three judges after all."

"You do not seem displeased." Achilles said impulsively, feeling his anger draining away despite himself.

The corners of Hades' mouths quirked in mild amusement, "They are my brother's judges. Not mine." Achilles stared at the god warily, which Hades ignored. "Come," he said, gesturing to a dark, rectangular table that had materialised in the middle of the room. "Sit with me." The table was made of ebony wood, draped over it was a carmine tablecloth woven from silk and upon it lay delicacies from around the world: savoury meats and pastries, ripe fruits and vegetables, sweet-smelling desserts and rich wine. Achilles felt his mouth water against his will, but he held himself back, everyone knew what would happen if you ate the food of the dead. But refusing would most likely incur Hades' wrath, and Achilles did not wish to lose what was probably his last chance of reuniting with Patroclus, despite his ill history with obeying orders - especially those of a god. Nevertheless, Achilles sat, careful not to touch anything on the table.

"Why the..." Achilles nodded in the general direction of the table, perhaps hoping to encompass the food and their conversation in one gesture.

"I thought it best to keep a personal eye on you while you waited for Patroclus," Hades flashed Achilles a look that reminded him of Odysseus. "Your temper is almost as legendary as you are, and I like to keep things intact down here." Achilles did not have the grace to look abashed in the slightest, too busy focusing on the first part of Hades' sentence.

"Patroclus?" Achilles queried as soon as Hades had stopped speaking, he leaned eagerly on the edge of his seat. "You know of him?"

Hades reclined back in his chair, sipping wine from a crystal cup before answering carefully, "I do."

Achilles shot from his chair, sending it flying halfway across the room. His hands gripped the parallel edges of the table in a crushing grip and the sound of splintering wood filled the air, "What do you know? Aeacus said that he was not here, so where is he?"

Hades sighed, setting his cup on the table delicately, "Achilles... I'm already breaching too many rules, it's not up to me disclose- "

Hades did not flinch as Achilles banged his fists on the table and his sage eyes turned stormy, "Aνοησίες," Achilles declared firmly in Ancient Greek, resorting to his mother tongue in his vexation. "If you really believe that then why go to all this trouble for me in the first place?"

Hades was silent for a moment, he stared at the tablecloth as if it held the answers to the universe, "Contrary to popular belief, I am not cruel. I believe it is our duty as gods to guide and look out for mortals, it is not our only duty of course, but it should be the most important." Achilles was more surprised at the statement than he would have liked to admit. Not even his mother had ever shown any compassion or understanding for mortals, despite his efforts to see the best in her. He was spared the painful memories as Hades continued, with some bitterness now colouring his words. "With all this power and the time that has passed, I fear the Olympians have forgotten that, they would have me forget it too, but I'm not that malleable. While I cannot directly assist mortals in the Overworld, I do what I can when they become my subjects. Though in your case I fear I may not- "

"Help me then!" Achilles intoned. "To Tartarus with the consequences, I'm dead and you're a god. What is the worst that could possibly happen?"

Hades shot the demigod a warning look, "Do not tempt the Fates." He cautioned. "Dead you may be, but there are worse things than my realm. And we gods would never admit weakness, but this I can tell you most assured: even Zeus fears the Fates."

Achilles felt like screaming, he felt like tearing his own hair out of his head or driving a sword through his hearts, though he knew he would fare no better from it. He was so close to Patroclus, a hair's breadth away, he could feel it. Achilles closed his eyes, feeling the sudden overwhelming sensation of exhaustion. He hadn't truly felt dead until this moment, until he was sure he could not see Patroclus again. For who was he without him? Nothing. For all his gifts and power he was nothing. A dead man walking. Lifeless as the clay Prometheus had moulded humanity from, dead until Patroclus had given him a life. A reason to laugh. A reason to love. A reason to live.

"Please." Achilles whispered, uncaring of his reputation and appearance for the first time since he had been conceived. "One moment. It's all I need with him. Just one moment."

Hades hesitated, looking for a moment as if he might decline, before finally relenting and giving a single nod of the head. "I will tell you what you want to know, but... a meeting may be more difficult."

"What- "

Hades held up a hand and Achilles felt his tongue fall silent, "Let me talk first and your questions will be answered." Not feeling particularly pleased at his forced bout of silence but having no other option, Achilles quietened and waited for Hades to continue.

"As you requested, your ashes were mixed with Patroclus' and you were buried in the same spot." Achilles felt a sense of relief that Agamemnon, for all his faults, had at least granted him his dying wish. "But your son Pyrrhus refused to have Patroclus honoured alongside you. They held a funeral and built memorials for you befitting of a god - if gods could die. But Patroclus was forgotten. I am afraid that until the proper funeral rites have been performed and Patroclus' death has been acknowledged by the living, his soul will remain tethered to the Upperworld. Stuck in limbo between worlds, not able to pierce through the veil or go beyond it."

Achilles saw red. His mouth filled with the familiar taste of coppery fury and sour melancholy almost as intense as the day he had killed Hector. They had forgotten Patroclus, his Patroclus. He felt a great stirring of shame in his gut, it should have been Patroclus whose funeral people mourned at; not his. Patroclus whose statue they built; not his. For it was Patroclus who had saved all those women from their sick fates, Patroclus who had learned the names of everyone in the army and greeted them brightly each day, Patroclus who had so expertly healed dozens upon dozens of men without complaint, Patroclus who had endured and helped him through his moods, Patroclus who had thrown a spear as flawless as him and killed the infamous son of Zeus, Patroclus who had led the Greek army to victory. It was Patroclus, Achilles realised, who was the hero; not him.

"Pyrrhus is dead." Hades spoke, as if sensing his thoughts. "He was condemned to Tartarus for his hubris and crimes."

"Good." Achilles said with an icy conviction, he meant it. He paused then, thinking once more of Patroclus. "There must be something you can do. Some way to put him at peace." Achilles was grasping at straws, it became evident through the way desperation leaked into his voice.

Hades shrugged helplessly, "I am sorry, Achilles, my ability to help you is contained solely within this realm. Patroclus is dead but he is not on my subjects. There is nothing I can do for him without piquing Zeus' suspicion and rage, not to mention the encroachment of laws more ancient than the gods themselves."

Achilles was silent as he let his eyes fall shut. A hurricane of emotions swept through him - anger, despair, anguish, hopelessness, grief. And for the first time in his admittedly short existence, Achilles felt completely powerless. It was as if he had been thrown within the swirling currents of the River Styx, left at the mercy of something he had no hopes of controlling.

"I will talk to Zeus myself then." Achilles heard himself say. "I will fight him too if needs be. I will fight them all. Patroclus deserves to be at peace!" Hades eyed him with pity and dubious concern, they both knew that even Aristos Achaion was not capable of such a thing. Though they also he knew he would not hesitate in trying. But in that moment it did not matter, because Achilles was already standing up and searching for a exit.

The demigod heard Hades sigh, "I cannot help you," the lord of darkness repeated, "but I do know someone who may be able to. I will speak to my brother on your behalf."

Achilles shot him a look full of incredulity and almost giddy hope, "You will talk to Zeus?"

Hades shook his head, "Not Zeus. Poseidon, god of the seas and earthquakes."

Achilles frowned sceptically, "Poseidon? But how will he help?"

Hades smiled satirically, "I have my subjects and he has his. Though I must admit, I favour the dead over the nymphs. At least there is some peace down here, as opposed to the constant racket in my dear brother's beloved oceans."

It was then that Achilles realised, "You want Poseidon to confer with my mother."

Hades nodded in confirmation, "She goes to your grave daily. Perhaps he can persuade her to assist Patroclus on one of her visits."

Achilles' brow creased thoughtfully, "She... visits my grave?"

Hades nodded again, "Every day."

Achilles looked like he wanted to say something more but then thought better of it. Then he had another thought; he shot the god of the dead a dubious look, "Would it be in my best interest to ask how you have acquired all of this information?" There was nothing comforting about Hades' answering smirk. "I'll take that as a no then."

"So let me get this straight." Poseidon said, cynicism colouring his tone. "You want me to talk to Thetis, who - in case you haven't noticed - despises the Olympians- "

"I wonder why that might be." Hades muttered.

"- and you want me to convince her to assist your... friend's soul into the afterlife. Despite the fact that from what you've told me she despises him."

Hades shrugged, as if the idea hadn't been his. Achilles nodded, "Yes."

Poseidon looked back and forth between them, "You're... completely serious aren't you?"

"I'm afraid so, brother." Hades looked like he was desperately restraining himself from making a smart comment. Achilles empathised with the sentiment, used to speaking his mind without fearing the consequences, no matter who he was addressing. However, this was different. Despite Poseidon's nature being far more amiable than most other gods Achilles knew of, he was not ready to risk their already precarious alliance with one brash phrase.

Poseidon sighed, "You do realise that if Zeus catches scent of this he'll have both our heads?" He directed his gaze at Achilles. "And he'll throw you into Tartarus right alongside the titans."

Achilles felt his patience rapidly training, "Zeus can feed me to Cronus himself if he wishes." The demigod snapped, he was going to ensure Patroclus' peace. Consequences be damned. "Or he can have me tortured by Typhon until my soul disappears from this world. But not before Patroclus gets to the Isles of the Blest. Not before I say goodbye." Hades and Poseidon exchanged a look, some divine colloquy occurring between them.

"Well, this one has a mighty spirit." Poseidon admitted. "I can award him that much."

"So you'll help?" Achilles demanded, his tone more forceful than questioning. Poseidon shot his brother another look, in response, Hades raised his eyebrows and crossed his arms; Achilles had the vague sense this was the gods' version of a less hostile standoff. He had to admit it was rather odd, especially considering that Hades was using a dagger to carve into a claret pomegranate. Achilles was unsure whether this was the deity's version of a joke.

Poseidon sighed again, "...Yes. I will assist you."

Achilles smiled in relief. We will see each other soon Patroclus, we will be together again, he vowed within his thoughts, hoping that wherever he was, Patroclus could hear him.

Achilles knew it was him. Death had altered his appearance - both their appearances, Achilles figured, despite not having looked in a mirror for weeks - but Achilles knew him all the same. Even in death, he knew him. And would always know him.

He could conjure him in his mind, a perfect picture. Even if he was blind, deaf and dumb, he would always know Patroclus. He would know him by the way the sun shone on his dark, dark hair, illuminating strands of gold and auburn and russet; he would know him by the way his feet touched the ground, light and lithe, like the sound of an early spring rainfall; he would know him by the way his lips curved into easy smiles, brightening his whole face; he would know him by a bare the brush of their skin, his bronzed by the sun's touch, soft and smooth beneath his fingertips; he would know him by the way his fawn eyes shown and his laugh echoed like the ringing of bells. He would know him anywhere.

"Patroclus..." he breathed, all the scenarios he had played in his head of how this meeting would ensue vaporised and suddenly he was frozen to the spot, quiet, unsure.

Patroclus appeared to be in the same state of stunned silence as he was, "A-Achilles?" Achilles could only nod numbly, too overcome by all the emotions he had bottled up and locked away securely in the back of his mind. They stared at each other, teal green on dark auburn-brown, drinking each other in, convincing themselves they weren't dreaming, marvelling and basking in one another's familiar presence like mortals basking in heat after years of a cruel, unforgiving winter.

And suddenly it was as if a dam had broken, and the infrangible wall that had separated them for so long shattered into a million jagged fragments. Achilles and Patroclus rushed at each other in sync like twin hawks, and for a moment they were blurred to all other eyes in their rush to get to each other. Their bodies collided painfully and they fell to the ground in a tangled heap of limbs, rolling a few times before coming to a stop; if they had been alive the fall would have broken their bones, but they didn't care. There was nothing else around them anymore. The world could have ceased to exist in that moment and neither of them would have noticed or cared. They were the only thing the other saw, the only thing the other cherished anymore.

Neither knew nor cared how it happened but somehow their lips locked together and their bodies wove around each other like gnarled roots. Somewhere along the way they staggered back to their feet, mouths still pressed desperately against each other. Their bodies remained intertwined, like two puzzle pieces fitting together perfectly and their hands found each other's skin, brushing over it quickly but gently, re-discovering every bit of flesh that they had only touched in dreams for the last infinity. Their hands were like paintbrushes, scraping away all the bad memories and the blood and the nightmares, replacing them with love and familiarity, giving each other new life.

They uttered words between urgent kisses, but neither would remember what they said. But it wasn't the words that mattered, it was each other's voices. Each other's touch. Each other's feeling. They were like rain upon the desert for the other, a healing balm for a leper, sight for the blind man. They seemed to mould together, souls flickering, sputtering, buzzing, igniting with energy. They were each other's flame and drive, light and hope. They were like gods. And perhaps, in that brief moment, when they were one and the cosmos had once again aligned, they had been. Perhaps for a brief moment then, they had been re-born, been alive once more. Perhaps in that one single moment they had defied Fate itself with their joined power. Perhaps.

Achilles wondered if the fire in his skin and blood was natural or divine. He felt like a phoenix rising from the ashes, he felt invincible. Lava ran through his veins, the sun cloaked his skin and his bones were made from a thousand shooting stars. He did not know if - dead as he was - he could (or should) feel so alive. But he did. And he wanted more, more, more. He traced the map of Patroclus' body, feeling like an adult returned to a trail he had visited as a child. It had been so long, so very, very long. So much pain and suffering and death and grief and anger. So much had happened. But Patroclus was the same, his skin was the same, his voice was the same, these feelings were the same. Patroclus was his cliff, mighty and unyielding, Patroclus and only Patroclus could keep him grounded and stable, keep him from falling inside the black abyss.

The blood of a god ran through his veins, but Patroclus was stronger than he would ever be. Achilles was a kite dancing in a hurricane of power and expectations and possibilities, but Patroclus was his anchor. The torch that people discarded when the morning came, unknowing of the night that would follow; he was the shield soldiers deemed a burden, unknowing of the protection they lacked. Patroclus was his light, his love, his life. Achilles drew no strength from his heritage or his fame or his weapons, his strength came from Patroclus. Achilles hoped Patroclus knew, hoped the fierce intensity of his kiss spoke clearly enough so Patroclus understood, otherwise there were no words for him to convey his feelings. And Patroclus was kissing him back like he understood everything, like he could read Achilles' thoughts. I know, me too, me too, his mouth spoke silently, lips dancing so perfectly against his.

Days, weeks, months, years, an entire lifetime seemed to pass before they pulled apart, though they did not let go of each other. Their foreheads remained pressed together, heavy breathing synchronised. They held each other like it was the last time they ever would, though they had an eternity ahead of them, something they hadn't quite been able to stomach yet. It seemed too surreal, too foolish to hope that it could it be true. Heroes simply did not get happy endings. For some reason, whether it was because he was overwhelmed or the effect Patroclus was having on him (perhaps both), Achilles found this to be strangely hilarious and began laughing. Patroclus was understandably puzzled.

"What?" He asked Achilles, who was now doubled over trying to contain his laughter. "What is it?"

Achilles actually giggled, and Patroclus wondered if being dead had certain side effects, like driving people insane, "Remember... remember what I said to you?" He asked between bouts of laughter. "That you could never be famous and happy? Well..." he spread his arms wide, gesturing to them both almost wildly. "Well we've done it."

Patroclus stared at him, "I... I don't think it counts if you're dead, Achilles." He answered eventually, a small smile tugging at his lips despite himself.

Achilles grinned in the same easy way he always used to grin, "Sure it does. We did it. We won. And you're the reason." He smiled softly at the last sentence. Patroclus flushed, which was a high achievement considering they were both dead and no longer had blood.

"Congratulations, let me just grab your trophies." He played along, happy for the first time in too long to feel any old vexation for Achilles' childish jokes.

Achilles smiled, the kind of smile that made Patroclus shiver and heat up in ways that he never grew tired of, "I don't need any trophies. I've got you."

"And you always will." Patroclus said, and everything around them disappeared once more as they kissed.

A/N: Please review, constructive criticism is always appreciated.