Patroclus woke up to the smell of burning incense. This was it. Today was the day. His thoughts swam in his head, watery images of the journey to Phthia, the welcome ceremony at the royal palace, and a face belonging to none other than the Crown Prince. Achilles. Today, he would be married to the future king of Phthia.

They had met once, a long time ago, when Patroclus was no more than a boy, and the Crown Prince barely a youth. Patroclus and his father had traveled to Phthia in honor of King Peleus, to celebrate the alliance between Phthia and Scyros. Each representing kingdom had brought gifts to the king. Patroclus vaguely remembered his father's scrutinizing stare scorching his back as he slowly made his way to the dais, carefully balancing the lyre in his arms.

Peleus' son had received it. Patroclus had been too preoccupied to pay full attention to the golden child of Phthia, but he had glanced up for a second. He had been met with a pair of green eyes.

This was a vague memory, but Patroclus turned to it now, fishing it out of the recesses of his mind and clasping it for comfort. He had no idea what the prince looked like now, but those eyes continued their gaze at him, unwavering.

Briseis smiled at him and squeezed his shoulder when he finally found the energy to trudge into the baths. He had been at the border house for three days, resting from his journey and preparing for the wedding entourage. He felt slightly consoled knowing Briseis would be part of the entourage, and would remain at the royal palace as his chief attendant until he chose his own among the Phthian servants.

He was bathed and groomed with scented oils, Briseis brushing his hair back and sweeping it out of his face. Phthians did not style their hair like Opians did, it was traditional to wear it loose, even during official ceremonies. He put on the Phthian wedding garments, not unlike the ones he had seen in Opus, but still, he had left everything from Opus behind. He was to be a royal consort of Phthia.

The garments were bright red, and he felt out of place in them. He had never worn vibrant colors in Opus. He didn't think it flattered him, but Briseis insisted he was as beautiful as ever. He hoped his future husband would agree with her.

The entourage to the palace was a long line of Opian soldiers and nobility who had volunteered to accompany their Lord Menoetius' son to his wedding. Patroclus himself, clad in his matrimonial robes, boarded the litter that would carry him to the ceremonial hall. He had been to this hall once before, the day he had met Prince Achilles.

Patroclus looked down at his hands, which were balled into fists and had started to grow sweaty. The smell of the perfumed oils he wore was starting to suffocate him. He breathed deeply, trying to think of Briseis at the front of the line of attendants walking behind his litter. She would surely have her head held high, staring evenly ahead. He wished he had even an ounce of her dignified pride.

The deafening buzz of the crowds surrounding the hall swarmed his ears as the litter was placed outside the entrance. Patroclus stepped outside, taking the arm of his guardsman who would escort him to the gateway. He tried not to look too long at the Phthian people, commoners, who had gathered to catch even the faintest glimpse of their prince's betrothed. Reaching the gateway, the guardsman bowed, feet firmly planted at the threshold, forbidden from another step.

Patroclus bowed back to his guard, and began his walk down the aisle, where he would be received by his soon-to-be husband, father-in-law, and their chosen witnesses at the marriage altar. It was a longer walk then he thought. He could see them already, outlines of figures dressed in royal colors at the very end. The aisle opened into an atrium where the altar was located, and seated in tiers overlooking it were Phthia's nobility. He broke out into a cold sweat, but his feet continued their advancement.

There was Peleus, tall and proud, dressed in ocean blue robes, his gold crown atop his ageing head. Patroclus thought he imagined the elderly king decline his head in the slightest of nods. The king's gaze was fixed on him now, gleaming with an emotion Patroclus couldn't decipher. He remembered Peleus as a handsome man, of middle age, with a loud booming laugh and kind eyes, who had embraced his father warmly and nodded at him with approval as they exchanged gifts, all those years ago.

And there, a little ways away from Peleus, was his son. Achilles. Patroclus tried to meet the prince's stare, as intent and unyielding as he remembered. Patroclus felt small and irrelevant as he shrunk under Achilles' assessing eyes, which seemed to be taking his measure, roving over his form and the red garments he wore, coming back up to meet again. It was then that Achilles smiled – not a kind smile, not warm or inviting as he reached out and offered his hand to Patroclus. Patroclus knew it well enough from his father's own smiles towards foreign princes and ambassadors at court. It was a diplomatic smile, to show their audience he would play his part.

Patroclus hesitated, glancing at Peleus, who beckoned at the priest to begin the ceremony. The atrium and its watchful spectators seemed to pulsate in the silence. The priest began, speaking in the Old Phthian tongue, one that Patroclus had had to study when his father announced he would be sent to Phthia. He had gotten quite good at it, and could make out the ancient words being spoken. Sacred words. Words that would bind him to Achilles for the rest of his life, and its latter days.

Achilles' hand was large and warm around his. They had broken their eye contact, and were facing the priest. The rest of the ceremony was a haze. Patroclus was woken in a stupor as he felt the cold metal of a cup being pressed on his palm. Achilles was staring at him again, expectantly. He was to drink the wine from the cup. Afterwards, they poured libations to the gods, and the priest smoked the altar with burning herbs. Weddings in Phthia were so strange. In Opus, there would not have even been a ceremony. The feast would start immediately, the wedded pair already having made their prayers and sacrifices in their respective temples beforehand. There would be a large banquet in their honor, while they sat on the wedding dais as their guests took turns presenting gifts.

There was a feast, in Peleus' courtyard, after the ceremony. Achilles, his hand still ahold of Patroclus' led him to the courtyard, and the guests followed in a procession. The ruckus began. They took their seats at the head of the table, one on either side of Peleus. Peleus stood, welcoming the guests in his thunderous yet regal voice.

"Today we feast in honor of my son, our champion, Achilles!"

The crowd roared, raising their cups high into the air.

"We honor our brother Menoetius, who has given us a gift of the greatest regard.

Through his will, we welcome a consort for our champion, and therefore a consort of Phthia!"

There were more shouts of approval as the guests raised their cups even higher, some in Patroclus' direction.

Peleus did not mention his name once.

The feast was impressive indeed, Phthia once more proving the extent of her wealth. Patroclus spotted Briseis amongst the servants, but he could not speak to her, not when he was now the center of attention. Peleus engaged him in conversation, speaking of his father and matters of state. Achilles seemed engrossed in his own interactions with the guests, laughing raucously at their jokes, drinking cup after cup of wine, paying no heed to the performers who approached their table, juggling silver balls and twirling batons of fire, pretty dancers doing pirouettes in patterns.

Patroclus felt hypnotized by them, unable to fully enjoy his meal of roast boar and stewed figs, olive bread with various dipping oils, spiced fish and cardamom pods. He nodded at Peleus, trying to come up with polite replies that would appease the king. Peleus seemed satisfied enough, and by the end of the night was talking with his advisors, leaving Patroclus alone with his thoughts.