I miss you. Let me know how you're holding up. I hear it's going to be war out there. If I can, I'm going to find some way to escape this place and I'll meet you wherever you want.

Patroclus sighs and lets the letter drop in his lap, thumb rolling idly over the rough flecks in the papyrus – it's one of the lesser pressings, not the good stuff that all goes to the airy palaces at Knossos and Mycenae, but the kind of damaged goods that arrive at the bottom of a dusty wagon after it's rattled up the long, rocky road to Phthia. Apparently, Skyros doesn't get anything much better. Achilles' grandiose promises have been written with a pen so hard that it scores through the paper, right through Patroclus' heart. It's a terrible burden to be so loved, sometimes.

He jerks at the touch of a hand on his shoulder, and almost stupidly blurts, Achilles? It's not Achilles, of course, although there is much of the choleric young prince in his father's face. "Uh. Uncle Peleus. Hey."

"Patroclus." The older man's brows furrow. "There are some gentlemen here to see you."

"Thanks. I'll go out to meet them." Patroclus has only recently grown into his full height and hasn't yet become accustomed to his hands and feet, which feel outsize; he knocks over that afternoon's hunting spear and upsets a jug full of water on his way to the courtyard. By the time he's stopped to help clean it up, the gentlemen have clearly been waiting for some time; one of them looks bored and has been pulling up grass, and he fixes Patroclus with a scowl. The other, who is shorter and seems more energetic, treads quickly across the lawn to meet him.

"Patroclus? Son of Menoitios?"

"That's me." He barked his elbow on something on the way out, and rubs it gingerly.

"Good to meet you. I'm Odysseus." The shorter man grins and indicates his glum companion. "That's Diomedes, son of Tydeus. We're here about the war." Dropping his voice conspiratorially, he adds, "Unless the news hasn't reached you up here."

"You don't need to talk down to me," Patroclus says. "We've heard about it even in Phthia." He swats a buzzing gnat away from his ear. "We've also heard about you in Phthia."

Odysseus, unrattled, shrugs. "Word travels fast. I wouldn't believe everything I heard if I were you, though."

Fair enough. Patroclus looks at them, frowning. "Is there a draft?"

"What?" Diomedes says, rolling his eyes.

"No question is a stupid one," Odysseus says, pinching Diomedes as he and Patroclus pass him. "No, we're not desperate. We should be adequately equipped, and no universal draft is expected."

"Give Agamemnon like six months," Diomedes mutters, pulling up grass.

"No dissension in the ranks." Odysseus gives Diomedes a rather hard thump on the head, which causes him to curse and rub his head while he glares at them.

"I was just wondering," Patroclus says, "because I know about Queen Helen and everything that went on around that time, but I would have been too young to go after her." He grins. "Actually, I still thought girls were pretty gross at the time." Odysseus laughs, almost paternally. "So, I…I'm sorry, but I just, I'm not sure why you're coming after me. I never took the oath."

"Because you're fucking Achilles," Diomedes says. "Or you were fucking him, at one time."

"What?" Patroclus' jaw drops. He supposes, taken in their strictest literal sense, that the Argive's words are true, but he's never heard anyone say it so baldly. Diomedes almost makes it sound tawdry, dirty, and Patroclus isn't sure he likes that.

"Forgive my untutored companion here," Odysseus says. "There is a prophecy that would seem to indicate we'll be unable to take Troy without Prince Achilles. I understand he's holed up on Skyros, now?"

"Involuntarily, from all I hear," Patroclus says, "but yes."

"Involuntarily," Diomedes says. "Makes our job that much easier."

"Don't underestimate the uses of subterfuge," Odysseus says, smiling broadly. "Anyway. If it should transpire that our prince is reluctant to come forth from his island hideaway, we may require your help. I understand from your uncle that the two of you have a special relationship." There's nothing unpleasant about the way he says it, and Patroclus finds his ruffled feathers already smoothed.

"I've got a letter of his," Patroclus says, fumbling at his belt. "You can read it, if you want. I'm pretty sure he's itching to be gone."

"Good to know the enemy," Odysseus says.

"What?" Diomedes says again, dropping his handful of uprooted grass and staring. "I thought we were going to recruit him."

"Diomedes, Diomedes," Odysseus says, shaking his head. "Any time you have to get someone to do something, they are your enemy. You have to seduce them." He looks at Patroclus, one eyebrow raised wryly. "Or you do, in this particular case."

"I don't think it's going to be that difficult," Patroclus says. Diomedes snorts. "Not seducing him, I mean. You won't have to work that hard to get him to leave. Like I said, he doesn't want to be there in the first place."

"Not that I have any reason to doubt you," Odysseus says, "but I'd prefer to find out for myself. One can't believe what one doesn't see with one's own eyes, and sometimes it's open to question even then." He scrutinizes Patroclus, and despite the affable exterior, there's something a little shrewd and cold in the dark eyes. "We'll be on Skyros in the near future, I should think. You coming?"