Thanks again to my reviewers, especially to soso22. This chapter we get a little bit more of Achilles...and his...um...character.

Be warned: this is my own interpretation of the pre-Iliad story and it is set during Achilles' younger years, before his ego gets a chance to cool down a bit. I write him as a dick because there is quite a lot of evidence that he was rather and as this has no effect on my love for him I hope you can bear it too. Of course that might just be because I'm a masochist.

soso22 - Good, it means I'm doing well :D as for Achilles/Pat moments you'll have to be patient I'm afraid.

Sarah - Really? What was you first clue? You should, he strongly reminds me of you.

Guest - Fangasming is a way of life. Embrace it. Thank you :)

~three~

Life in Phthia began to pass in a haze of monotonous routine. Every morning Patroclus would wake up and drag himself out of bed with considerable reluctance, dress in a simple starched tunic and eat breakfast (alone). The next few hours were then spent wincing at Ampelius' bellowed orders as he tried not to make a fool of himself whether with spear, sword or javelin. When finally they grew too weary to raise their weapons and the sun shone hottest in the sky they were dismissed to pursue their own activities which usually involved running up and down the beach, pelting each other with unripe figs, visiting the girls of neighbouring villages or venturing into the great, vast expanse of sea that both beckoned to and mocked Patroclus, as if it knew him. He never joined the other boys and they never asked him to. Instead he sat, under a tree or on the beach, quite intent to ignore and with being ignored.

Some days it was as if he had never left home.

There was the one major difference though, and his greatest source of discomfort about his new life in Peleus' house. It was that of his host. He did not see Achilles often, mostly at meal times and the occasional glimpse on the training fields when Ampelius' massive girth was not hiding him from view. But when he did he let him know it. When he walked into a room the servant girls would drop whatever they were holding and become quite out of sorts. Ordinary, rational people would become quite ridiculous and fall over themselves to serve him, to please him. Even grown men, hardened from war and rough living would crack slow smiles at his effortless wit and charm. Peleus' foster sons became rivals for his notice, competing over who got the loudest laugh or widest grin and he ruled them without even knowing he was doing so. He was the natural leader of the pack, the golden boy and everybody loved him. Everybody except Patroclus.

Here, thought Patroclus, was a pampered pretty boy; all easy grins and adult charm with not an inkling of sense in his perfect, everything-blond head. He could not understand for the life of him why only he seemed to notice his arrogance, his tremendous conceit and his disdain for anyone who did not go by the name of Achilles. Whereas the other boys competed endlessly for his approval and affection it seemed blatantly obvious to him that the prince laughed loudest at his own jokes, smiled widest at his own reflection and was pleased best by the failures of others. Such a boy, Patroclus mused glumly, would be the favourite of Gods and women. He, Patroclus, found him insufferable.

He was aware that some might have named his dislike uncalled for, especially as Achilles had never spoken to him but for once at dinner when he had asked for the salt. Patroclus had been so shocked that he'd knocked over the bowl in his hurry, prompting raucous laughter and mock applause. But for then Patroclus had contented himself with hating Achilles from a distance, shooting daggers when his back was turned and scowling into his food whenever his laugh rang across Peleus' hall.

Until one day, after arms practice when Ampelius had scattered the boys across the bay. Patroclus was sat in his habitual spot under a tree, watching the waves roll easily onto the beach when suddenly a single dice rolled onto the patch of sand beside him. He looked down and when he looked back up again Achilles was standing in front of him, his hair swept up into a tangle by the salt and grains of sand clinging to his palms.

"Hello," he said, running a hand through his hair. "Sorry."

The word was thrown casually, almost as an afterthought. It was not an apology, although Patroclus was confused as to why this should make him angry. "It's okay," he muttered.

Achilles bent down and snatched up the dice in his long fingered hands. Warrior's hands. Patroclus watched him suspiciously. "What are you playing?" he asked despite himself.

"Tesserae," the prince replied with a quick, sly smile. "Do you want to play?"

Patroclus shook his head abruptly. "No," he said quickly.

Achilles' eyes narrowed as Patroclus looked away embarrassedly. "Suit yourself," he shrugged.

Patroclus did not answer. He hoped the boy would go away and leave him alone but when he glanced out of the corner of his eye he was still there and his mouth was slightly open, as if he wanted to say something. "Can I help you, prince of Phthia?" he asked, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

Achilles frowned. "Yes," he said bluntly. "What is your name, son of Menoetius?"

"Patroclus."

"Patroclus."

"Yes."

"Why do you hate me Patroclus?"

Startled, Patroclus blinked. Achilles' face was honest and questioning, like a young child's. He fished about wildly for an answer, protesting inarticulately that he would never presume above his status to dislike his most gracious host when Achilles raised his hand with a look of sheer boredom and he fell silent immediately. "Alright that's enough," he said. "If you're going to do nothing but bleat about it I have better things to do than waste my time listening to sheep."

He turned to walk away, leaving Patroclus to open and close his mouth in outrage. A sheep? he thought furiously. A sheep?! And who does he think he is, the prize of the flock? Sheep. I'll give him sheep.

"Prince Achilles!" he called before he could stop himself. The boy stopped in his tracks. He looked over his shoulder, one perfect eyebrow raised expectantly. Patroclus took a breath. "I am not a sheep!"

Achilles fixed him with a stare. It was a wicked thing and his eyes shone with mischief. Patroclus felt himself gulp but he held his gaze proudly until the boy-prince smiled. "We'll see," he said simply. "You can go on hating me if you like, Patroclus Menoitides. It wouldn't be the first time I've seen a man turn to resentment as a result of his envy."

He sniggered as Patroclus' eyes widened in indignation. "I'm not envious of you," he mumbled confusedly. "You're a narcissist. A sycophant. The only reason nobody else will tell you so is because your father is lord of these lands."

"And what are you, then?" Achilles retorted and his eyes flashed bronze. "An exiled prince. A murderer, if the rumours are true. No home. No prospects. No conceivable talent."

He flushed at that and Achilles smirked. "Pretty face though," he added. "You might make a good eunuch."

At that moment, Patroclus knew what he was supposed to do. He was to jump up, fix his expression into one of heroic fury, deliver an excellent right hook into the little scrotum's jaw and not stop until he was a bloody pulp in the sand. He had seen it done so many times for insults much less than this, had even done it himself in his father's house. Reputations were built on such actions, heroes born out of impulse and recklessness.

But he remembered where he was. A stranger in a strange land and his adversary was the king of that land's son, with a goddess for a mother and divine blood in his veins. He also remembered the way he fought, the perfect execution of his limbs and the sculpting of his muscles, as though every whisper of his body could speak the word Kill.

The twitch of Achilles' lip was enough.

He leapt up and ran at him headfirst, fists raised. He could see Achilles' stupid, smirking face coming closer and closer until he was just about near enough to reach; he raised his arm and swung, expecting the cool touch of knuckle colliding against skin. Instead he felt nothing as his bunched fist fell through clean air, his body following. Achilles had sidestepped out of the way and now grabbed the failed fist, pulling it backwards so that Patroclus was thrown onto the ground and landed in a disgraceful heap at his feet.

He could hear laughing in the background and caught Achilles' glittering smile at the boys watching behind them. He spat out a handful of sand from his mouth. If you're waiting for the right moment for divine intervention, oh mysterious, hidden patron god of mine, he prayed silently as more people began to turn to discover the cause of such hilarity, Now would be a good time.

"Now now," Achilles sang merrily as Patroclus massaged his wrist. "Didn't your mother ever teach you to respect your betters?"

"You're not better than me," he managed to wince. The laughter grew louder. Achilles wrinkled his nose as if trying to dislodge a fly.

"Maybe in another world," he said. "Where cowardice and inadequacy are admirable values in a man."

"As opposed to vanity and conceit," said Patroclus.

The gathered crowd grew silent as Achilles looked at him. It was only for a moment but for Patroclus, kneeling at his feet and covered in sand it felt like a Golden Age. And as the time passed, slowly like a man dragged by chariot he was not sure if he imagined a faint flicker of humour pass across the prince's face. Then it was over, Achilles offered Patroclus his hand, pulled him to his feet and marched away without a backwards glance, the dice rattling in his hands and he was certain he had imagined it.

Dinner that night was a particularly painful experience. The ballad of Valiant Achilles' Versus the Inglorious Patroclus was the evening's subject of entertainment and wherever Patroclus looked someone was relating the honourable tale to his neighbour, resulting in the standard rambunctious hoot of mirth and a scornful look his way. He pushed the plate away, feeling sick and not trusting himself to swallow. Aware that all eyes were on him he left the hall and went to bed early.

Listen to them, he thought bitterly, their voices following him up the stone steps. With their flattering and their…their…backslapping. "Oh, let me pour your wine, Achilles," "let me braid your hair" "let me wipe your arse for you Achilles"! Gods. This whole place is full of pseuds and donkeys."

By the time he reached his room he was just about ready to explode with resentment. He opened the door and made ready to scream into his pillow when he stopped, realising there was already someone in there. It was a girl, dressed in one of the short chitons of the servants' quarters and she jumped when he walked in.

"Young master," she murmured, lowering her gaze and bending her knees in respect. "Please forgive your servant the intrusion."

"Intrusion?" Patroclus repeated, perplexed. "Yes. Yes! Intrusion. What are you doing in my room?"

The girl gestured towards the bed with a frown. "Changing the sheets, young master."

"Oh. Right. Sheets." He breathed a sigh of relief, not knowing quite what he had expected. All he knew was that this was Achilles' home, he was likely to have spies everywhere and if he had singled him out as a rival there was no telling quite what a young, female slave might be doing in his bedroom. "Ok. Fine. Good work."

The girl acknowledged the praise. "Is there anything else you would like doing?"

"Wha-? Oh, no," Patroclus shook his head. "All good here. You may go."

She nodded, the frown still playing slightly between her brows. "Forgive me for my impudence," she said slowly. "But might I inquire as to the well- being of my young master?"

"Pardon?"

"Is everything alright?"

"Oh," said Patroclus. "Oh yes, it's fine. Fine, everything's brilliant. Just…the prince can be….but yes, it's fine. Thank you for asking."

"You dislike the prince?" said the girl.

"What? No," Patroclus shook his head quickly. "I never said…I mean…the prince is great! I love the prince!"

"The prince."

"Yes."

"He's a dick."

"Yes. Yes he is." Patroclus exhaled the breath he didn't know he had been holding in.

The girl smiled and Patroclus gave a watery attempt back. "Don't worry about it," she said gently. "If he had it this way we'd all be crawling along the ground like insects. As it is I just try to stay out the way of his big feet."

Patroclus forced a laugh. "Right. I'll remember that. Thank you."

"My pleasure," she smiled again and gave a little bow, closing the door gently behind her.

Patroclus waited until her footsteps had faded down the stone corridor before collapsing onto the neatly made mattress, groaning into the linen. It seemed that even now, in the silence of his chamber he could still hear their echoing laughter, cruel and grinding against his ears. Achilles' words rang loudest of all: "An exiled prince. A murderer. No home. No prospects. No conceivable talent."

He sighed a mournful little sigh and turned so that he was facing the window. The moon was bright tonight and large as a coin, almost silvery in the dark sky. It was the kind of moon that the goddess Artemis would bring to light the way for weary travellers and guard those who served her while they slept. Patroclus closed his eyes and muttered a quick prayer. Surly the maiden huntress would take pity on a poor, vulnerable soul such as he, alone and victimised in this hell of charlatans. Surely she could give him peace of mind, for this night at least if not during the day.

If his words fell at all it was on deaf ears, for that night he dreamed of the dead boy.