Lost and Found
Chapter I: Mundus Senescit
Mundus senescit. The world grows old.
Death is peaceful, but only for the fortunate, and Patroclus was not fortunate. Always so close, forever out of reach, rest eluded him. Tantalus' punishment on Earth, but what had Patroclus done to deserve it? He couldn't remember. He couldn't remember anything other than his own name. His own name and a boy so golden, that is. It had been a long time since his death, Patroclus supposed. He couldn't be sure. Days passed and came like the birds of summer, but it made no difference to him, for he was wrapped in the blankets of numbness, cold and warm as ever. Time had escaped him, slipped away like water through a broken vase. Patroclus couldn't hold on to it, not if he tried. He didn't try. His life was far, far away, further than it had ever been.
Still, Patroclus did not fade away. He was not swept up like dust in the wind, as other meandering spirits were. Something kept him grounded, tied forever to a place on the ever-changing Earth. A flicker of a memory came to him from time to time, a memory from better times, of a boy. Gracious and bright, warm and beautiful, strong and caring. A memory of soft hands covering his own, of lips sizzling over his own, of the sweetest voice singing his name. Pa-tro-clus. Then the memory would evaporate and the hollowness of just existing would take him in its arms once more.
People came and went. The sun shone and so did the moon. Rains poured from the heavens. Dust settled and stone chipped. Trees grew, flowers withered. Time passed mercilessly and soon nothing was the same. Nothing other than Patroclus, but he didn't matter. He was long forgotten, untouchable, unreachable.
Now, everything has changed. Patroclus can't recognize the world around him, not anymore. Tall walls rise up to the sky, but the sky is not there. In its place is a high ceiling, blocking out the sun. Everything is foreign, so foreign. Patroclus rests his head against a stone pedestal, atop of which a golden urn stands encased in clear glass. There are many stone pedestals around, each proudly displaying its own treasure. And there are also people, but they wear strange clothes and act stranger still. Patroclus cannot hear them. He could also choose to not see them, to let them pass and get lost in the claws of time, but for a reason, he does not choose to do so. He watches them, not sure why, he cannot look away. They come near him, men and women, young and old, they come, stop and stare for a moment, then they are gone, as if they had never really been there.
So it goes on, day after day. It seems as if time has slowed down, now flying no faster than a bee through thick honey, which is not fast at all. Patroclus frowns. Why should this be happening? What has changed? Is Fate laughing in his face once more? He does not know. There is nothing he can do, not that he would want to do anything, anyway. For long hours he watches groups of people as they swarm around him like restless ants, then night comes and they are gone, only to come back again tomorrow. And every day is tomorrow. Patroclus cannot say how many weeks have passed like this... Or is it months? Maybe even years. He stays, waits, like a prisoner, knowing there is no escape. So he gets used to it. Soon these fleeting moments would be lost to time and so would Patroclus' awareness of it be lost with them.
But then, on one of this fruitless days, he comes. It is as if the sun spills its warmth upon Patroclus, as if his heartbeat has never left him, as if he can feel once more. The boy slips away from the group of people around him. Patroclus watches as the boy approaches, walking with the grace of a thousand gods, soft features, golden skin and golden hair, eyes sharp and green like the sea, and a smile as bright as ever. Patroclus is frozen, because he remembers this boy, because he has never forgotten him in the first place. A name rings loud and clear and Patroclus knows its his own voice, calling it out loud.
Achilles.
Hope rises in Patroclus' chest like mushrooms after rain, as the boy comes closer.
Achilles, Patroclus says again.
The boy is now only an arm's length away. He has stopped and is curiously looking at the golden urn. Desperation grips Patroclus, something he hadn't felt in ages, when he sees that the boy is about to walk away.
Achilles, it's me, he says, the same desperation seeping into his words. He wants the boy to look at him, to notice him. He has been alone for too long. Achilles.
Then, as the boy turns on his heel to go, his eyes flicker over to Patroclus for a fraction of a second and they widen almost imperceptibly, but it is enough. Patroclus remembers everything, from love and happiness to pain and sorrow and he does not want to ever let go of the other's gaze. But the next moment the boy is gone and Patroclus is still there, memories of a lost love fresh like a spring of mountain water in his head. And with him gone, so is the warmth that had so subtly enamored Patroclus in the moment, and now he is numb once more.
But how can one go back to the dullness he is used to, after having even the slightest taste of blissfulness? An idea nestled itself in Patroclus' mind and a spark of hope tried to light up a fire in his chest. The viciousness of a fantasy gripped Patroclus with an iron claw and he found himself constricted by it, crushed by its brute force. He could not escape it, not now, after he had had a taste of blissfulness. He wanted, needed to see Achilles again. He needed his warmth, he needed his love.
And so, days pass. Patroclus waits. Achilles does not come.