Here they were again, plundering another city at the coast of Mysia, fighting innocent people only trying to protect their families and homes. He wondered how many more coastal towns Achilles considered necessary to attack to keep Troy from getting the supplies and reinforcements it needed. This was already the eighth one!
He was tired of the endless fighting; this war had already lasted for years. He never thought he would be away from home for so long when he decided to join Achilles in the beginning. But even if he had known beforehand that this war would last this long he probably would have still joined Achilles. How could he not? How could he not follow his comrade in arms and best friend, student and teacher...his lover?
He hadn't dared to stay in safety while Achilles went off to war, risking health, sanity and life. But he didn't pretend to understand why Achilles joined in this madness. It was none of their concern that Menelaos and his brother had decided to go to war against Troy because Menelaos couldn't prevent his wife from running off with this princeling – even if it was a welcome reason for starting the war. Everybody knew that Agamemnon only was after the riches of Troy. And who cared that Menelaos wanted his wife back? Menelaos was not the first to be betrayed by the gods; he probably had earned it, for whatever reason.
He himself didn't care. He only cared that Achilles was safe. But who could be safe in this unnecessary war? And yet he did his best to keep Achilles from harm.
That's why he was still here, back to back with Achilles, fighting the citizens of yet another town. And there it was that he became too careless, not concentrating on the battle as he should, and didn't see the arrow coming. It would have been easy to deflect with his shield but with his thoughts occupied he only felt the impact when the arrow had already hit him. He let out a cry, more out of surprise than pain.
He was still much too immersed in the fight to actually feel the pain. He knew he had still some time until his body would shut down, but every second still counted. He had enough experience with wounds to know how important it was to get out of the thick of battle or he would be killed. And luckily his cry had alerted Achilles and the other understood his intention to get to the edge of the skirmishes. He barely made it there when he felt the cold creep into his limbs and his vision became dark at the edges. He needed to sit down, or risk a fall because his legs would give out.
He was already sitting, with Achilles' strong hand at his back. He was breathing deeply; he didn't want to loose consciousness! He couldn't risk it! He would endanger his lover. Slowly he regained his equilibrium and took in his surroundings, assessing their situation. Achilles had brought him to a tree against which he could lean and which would give a bit of protection from behind. Achilles himself was standing protective before him, sword raised in defence against any attackers. He knew he couldn't stand on his feet yet, couldn't help Achilles, but he gathered his shield and huddled behind its protection.
The battle soon died down --they had been well into the fighting when he got injured-- and the citizens fled into the country, abandoning their burning houses. Another meaningless victory. They didn't need more treasures or provisions. And neither he nor Achilles cared for women as company or slaves.
When the last danger had vanished, his younger lover at once dropped his weapons and kneeled next to him.
"Patroklos! How bad is it?" He saw the utter desperation in the blonde's eyes for the brief moment it was visible. It was reassuring to see that Achilles still cared about him. It was long since he had felt it in the midst of this war, with their relationship falling into a routine along with the fighting. Or falling prey to the fighting routine? He missed those little gestures that used to make him feel loved and cherished. But maybe that was not entirely Achilles fault? He could not remember the last time he had openly shown Achilles how much he loved him.
"An arrow in my left arm. Could you bring me away from here? To the shore?" He was sick of the death and destruction surrounding him. Actually sick of the war that had changed everything.
"Can you walk?"
"I will," he answered. He looked around him and was definitely sick of the sight. The blood, the buzzing flies, dead eyes staring at nothing. The stinging smell of burning wood and burnt meat. Moans and cries of injured friends and foes alike. So senseless! All the riches in the world were not worth this extend of destruction, he thought angrily.
Carefully as not to jostle the arrow embedded in his arm he took his sword and placed it in the scabbard on his belt, then he took the shield with his unhurt right hand and used it as support to get back on his feet. He would have been able to manage on his own, but it was a relief to feel Achilles' strong, assisting arm around his waist.
This way they made it to the beach, where Achilles at once made him sit on his shield so he didn't have to rest in the sand and helped him to get rid of his own shield and helmet. He was glad to be relieved from their weight and cradled his wounded arm with the other. It hurt!
On the beach there were by now servants pitching tents and preparing everything for the returning warriors and the wounded. Achilles beckoned over one of them and had him bring warm water, herbs and bandages. Once the supplies arrived, he rested his wounded arm on his upraised knee. Then his lover cut out the arrow with a small knife and gently washed the now gaping and freely bleeding wound with warm water. He flinched, that stung!
"I'm sorry. I know that hurts." This came very softly from Achilles. The warrior crushed some herbs in his hands, which would numb the pain and stop the blood from flowing. He knew their effect through experience and was grateful for it, was grateful that Achilles had been taught by the excellent centauric healer Chiron.
After Achilles had applied the crushed herbs to the injury, he carefully started to wrap it in clean linen. He assisted his lover and held the bandage in place while the other warrior worked. All the while Achilles had tenderly cared for him he hadn't once looked up from his ministrations, hadn't spoken but those few words. So he was surprised when Achilles suddenly paused, looked up into his eyes and spoke.
"You know that I love you?"
What should he answer? Yes? Even if he honestly didn't know that any longer? No? Even if that would hurt Achilles? Blushing in embarrassment for not knowing how to answer he turned his head away. Achilles finished to secure the bandage with a knot. There was a slight smile on the blond man's face when he dared to look at him again. He didn't know what to make of this. He was drained and didn't want to think.
"Come, Patroklos. You can lay down in the tent, they've finished setting it up." Again Achilles assisted him on the way to the tent as he had done before and once inside he helped him to undress and to wash off some of the battle grime. Then he was urged to lie down on the furs and cushions and was covered with a blanket. He didn't complain, as he was weary in body and mind.
"I will fetch our weapons. Do you want anything?"
"I'm thirsty."
With an acknowledging nod Achilles left. He still didn't know what to make of Achilles' attention, it had been so long that he had been treated any different from the other warriors. But the way Achilles just had cared for him and his wound…so very unlike his customary martial efficiency.
Soon Achilles returned, placed their weapons next to each other on the rack and poured him some watered wine in a cup made of clay. He knew this cup well. It had accompanied them already for several years through the war and even before on travels. He wished some other things were this durable. But he also noticed though the cup was a constant it wasn't unchanging. He noticed that some of the paint was flaking off and there was a chip broken out of the rim. He took a few soothing sips and handed the cup back to Achilles. Then he sank into the cushions again.
Once more resting comfortably, he calmly watched Achilles bustle around: cleaning the weapons, cleaning himself, caring for some cuts and bruises, eating and drinking. Actually, it wasn't anything unusual, but most times he didn't watch Achilles in the dim light of their ever-changing temporary lodgings, preferring to focus on his own business. Now he admired the efficient movements, the strong muscles moving under smooth yet not unblemished gold-tinged skin.
Then something unexpected happened. Instead turning to his own pile of skins Achilles slid under the blanket next to him. They had come to share the same furs only when they turned to each other for pleasure, but it was clear that this was not the intention just now. Achilles drew him close and placed a soft kiss to his lips.
"Try to sleep, Patroklos. I'll watch over you."
Somehow these last few actions and words told him that Achilles not only cared for him but still loved him. He realized that their love remained, even if the expression of this love changed and became almost invisible like the worn pattern of the cup.
He twined his fingers with those of Achilles and surrendered to sleep.
THE END