Summary: Achilles' heel is not his only weakness. An AU crossover between Troy and Second Age Middle Earth. Focal characters include Patroclus, Achilles, and Gil-galad, along with many others from both stories.

Disclaimer: I don't own, you don't sue, and everybody's happy.

Author's Note: A thousand thanks to Whilom and Tori for sticking with me through this one, and for posting some fabulous fanfics of their own recently! I certainly hope to hear from everyone else again soon, and I'm sure Brandi will make her dramatic reappearance ere long. That girl can't hide from us forever, lol! So yeah, that's really all there is to say, except that this was another very fun chapter to write, and hope you all can enjoy it as much as I did. Hugs!

Chapter 12

As consciousness slowly dawned, Patroclus became gradually aware of a blissful softness beneath him. He curled his hands around it, tempted to abandon this journey toward wakefulness and succumb once more to the enticing call of sleep; but a nagging sensation in the back of his mind forbade it. A light draft of air tickled his face, and there was a strange herbal smell lingering in his nose.

With a weary groan, he pried his eyes open and looked around. He was lying on the floor of a spacious room while sunlight and a gentle breeze drifted in through a nearby window that looked out toward the Sea. He didn't recognize the room at first, but there was an undeniable, persistent feeling that something important had happened here. Why didn't he remember?

The young Greek then tried to sit up, pushing himself up off the pile of furs and upsetting the one which had been laid on top of him; but he was instantly arrested by a stabbing pain in his side, and dropped back down to the floor with a quick hiss. His chest ached so badly every breath hurt, and now that he was attempting to move, he realized everything hurt! His arms and legs were sore, and his head throbbed dizzyingly. Where was his cousin?

"Achilles?" he called, trying to shout the name, but it came out more like a labored gasp. There was no answer.

Patroclus swallowed thickly around a dry mouth, his apprehension rising, and he finally forced himself upright. Where was he? How had he gotten here? He frantically looked around the room again, noticing for the first time that his shirt was off and that his chest had been bandaged. At least that would explain why it hurt to even breathe. He spotted his shirt lying off to the side and grabbed it, wincing painfully as he struggled to pull the black garment over his head.

"Achilles?" he tried again, but still only silence answered.

The aspiring Myrmidon grimaced at the effort of simply drawing breath, and buried his face in his hands, at last observing the dark bruises that covered his arms as well. What in Hades had happened?

Patroclus couldn't remember ever feeling more miserable than this, but he had to discover what was going on. Knowing he would have little luck standing up on his own power, he crawled over to a nearby pillar in the corner of the room and pulled himself upright, using the pillar as his support. His head swam when he stood, the room spinning and his vision darkening, so he clenched his eyes shut and clung desperately to the column until the spell had passed.

Already trembling from the exertion, he cautiously opened his eyes and was elated when the room remained stationary. But he frowned when he looked down and saw troubling stains of red on the white column to which he clung and on the surrounding floor. Then he remembered.

Stunned as though struck by the broad side of a sword, Patroclus sank back to the floor, his legs giving way beneath his deadweight. He groaned as the memories came crashing in on him – the argument with Achilles, his capture on the beach, and the subsequent journey to the city in total darkness. And the pillar – this hated column to which he now clung for support – he had been bound to it not long ago. Bound and tortured. A shudder of cold fear coursed through him, and the youth battled the sudden urge to vomit. He had to get out of there before his tormentors returned, and fast.

He let go of the repulsive pillar and backed away from it across the floor, gradually making his way toward the distant door, but still not able to support himself unaided. But despite his compulsion to escape at any cost, a part of him still argued against it. He must be missing something. After all, he had been released and obviously cared for by…someone. Then he saw the strange spear leaning against the wall not far from the door and froze. The Elf King – that was what he'd forgotten.

Suddenly confused, he hesitated. Had the Elf King been the one to give the order for him to be tortured, or to be tended to afterward? Perhaps even both? But deciding it wasn't worth the risk to wait and find out, Patroclus determinedly got to his feet and stumbled the remaining distance to the door, leaning heavily against the wall when he got there so his head could clear. He didn't know where to go once he got out of the room or how he would even get there in this unstable condition, but he had to try. He reached for the door.


Gil-galad strode down the hall, having just come from another session of counseling with Cirdan after briefing his own troops on the current situation. He would have liked to stay longer with his invaluable mentor, mainly to discuss issues that awaited him upon his return to Lindon, but now it was time to check on his captive. He had spoken truthfully when he'd told the boy it was only a mild sedative, and it should have worn off by now, unless the youth's exhaustion was such that it kept him sleeping. Gil-galad certainly hoped that would be the case.

He paused to unlock the door to his chambers and stepped inside just in time to see the young Greek jump back away from the doorway, his blue eyes wide in panic. Gil-galad likewise stopped short in surprise, allowing for a brief moment of silence in which the youth backed up until he bumped into the far wall, eyeing his captor like a wounded animal caught in a snare. But, Gil-galad noted with some relief, at least he had retained his will to escape.

"The door was locked, child," the raven-haired Elf King said at length, slowly moving closer to the boy. "Though had you escaped, I doubt you would have made it far. You can barely stand."

Indeed, despite his best efforts to conceal it, the youth's breath came in ragged gasps, and he was leaning back against the wall behind him for support, trying to shrink away as his jailor grew nearer.

"Please," he begged in a hoarse whisper. "Please…"

Gil-galad slowed his approach then and spread his hands out at his sides, palms upward so the boy could see them.

"Don't be afraid, child," he said, keeping his voice calm and steady. "I promise I will not hurt you – nor will the Trojans any longer, for that matter. You're safe now, little one."

But even fully conscious, the boy barely seemed to heed his words. No doubt the memories of what he had endured at the hands of the Trojans were so vivid and painful that he was intent solely on escaping that fate before it could repeat itself. He kept his back to the wall, legs shaking unsteadily beneath him while his distrusting eyes never left the Elf.

Gil-galad took another step closer, and the boy moved, suddenly darting around his captor and towards the door with surprising speed in a desperate attempt to flee. But it was not enough. The Elven King grabbed him easily, hearing the youth choke back a cry of pain as the rough contact was made against his bruised flesh. Yet he still resisted with what strength he had, and Gil-galad was forced to restrain the boy by pinning his arms down at his sides and drawing him back against his own broad chest.

The frantic youth fought to pull away, despite his pain, but his captor held him fast, even bringing his hand up to encircle the boy's neck so he could not lift his head away. Gil-galad could already hear Cirdan's denouncement of the action with vivid clarity, yet he hoped such treatment might perhaps get through to the child where words alone had failed. He leaned closer and whispered into the boy's ear.

"Whatever harm you may fear from me, child, know now that it is well within my power to do so." The youth went rigid in his grasp then, trembling fearfully, and the Elf could feel the child's heartbeat pounding wildly against his chest. "But I will not – not now, not ever."

He released his hold then, letting the young mortal stagger forward a few paces until he was caught once more against the wall. He still looked back at his captor, blue eyes apprehensive; but the fight was gone, and resignation seemed to have at last set in. Yet with his adrenaline rush and blind fear fading fast, the boy began to sway unsteadily on his feet, feeble strength finally failing him, and Gil-galad swiftly stepped forward to catch him in strong hands before he could fall.

And although the youth still tensed at his touch, the Elven King was grateful that no attempt was made to pull away. He guided the boy over to the room's large bed and eased him down onto the edge. The young Greek leaned over where he sat, holding his aching head in his hands and quivering with each excruciating breath. Clearly, his mad dash for freedom had done him little good. Gil-galad retrieved a cup of fresh water and sat down on the bed beside the boy, just within arm's reach.

"Here, little one," he said, holding the glass out in front of the child. "It is only water."

Raising his head, the boy eyed him warily, but he took the cup with still-shaking hands and slowly drank. Gil-galad accepted the empty glass back when the youth had finished and simply observed his weary captive in silence for a moment. Thankfully, the tension no longer hung in the air like some thick fog.

"Do your injuries still pain you, child?" he inquired at length.

A mute nod.

"And I'm afraid it will continue so, for full recovery will require much rest and time. Do you remember what happened?"

Another nod.

"Then you needn't be frightened, for I swear I will not allow such things to happen to you again."

The boy continued to stare down at the floor, his brow furrowed. "We are in Troy?" he asked softly.

"Yes."

After another pause, the child at last turned to face at him directly. "And you're Gil-galad, aren't you – the Elf King?"

"I am. And what is your name, child?" Gil-galad knew the youth's name, of course – had heard the older Myrmidon mention it several times during his first excursion into the Greek camps. But he wanted to hear it from the child himself, to know if the boy could be trusted to answer truthfully.

And indeed, the youth hesitated, nervously working moisture into his dry lips as he weighed the alternatives. He wisely decided on the truth. "Patroclus," he replied quietly, "son of Menoetius."

"Well met, Patroclus," the Elf responded with a gracious nod.

But the boy still frowned as he tried to piece things together. "What time is it?"

"Late afternoon – I imagine there are four or five hours of daylight left. And you have been here since very early this morning," he added when he saw the unspoken question in the youth's eyes.

"Patroclus," Gil-galad deliberately continued when the child remained silent, "surely you must realize now that there is no escaping this city, as you must also realize that the Trojans have little love for you or your cousin." The twitch of the boy's face at that comment was almost imperceptible, but the Elf's keen eyes missed none of it. "I can protect you, young one, but your safety is guaranteed only within this room, and not beyond."

The King reached over and gently lifted the youth's chin with his fingers, turning him so that their eyes met. "Child, if you can promise that you will not leave this room unless attended by me personally, for your own security, it will be sufficient for me. Manwe knows I have little desire to keep you bound here all this time, but I will if necessary."

The young Greek paused, considering, then nodded his head, even as it was still held in the Elf's grasp. "I promise."

"Will you swear to me on your honor?"

"Yes – I will stay here. I swear it."

"Very well, then," Gil-galad concluded and released his captive's chin.

Patroclus swallowed hard, eyes sporadically flickering to and from his captor's face. "What do you want with me?" he whispered, helpless and confused.

"It is not so much what I want with you, as with your cousin," Gil-galad answered after a deep sigh.

"Achilles?" the boy exclaimed immediately, his voice rising in concern for his beloved kinsman. "What do you mean?"

"Before bringing you back to the city last night, I left a note of ransom in your tent, detailing my demands to Achilles in exchange for your return."

Terror filled the youth's eyes once again, but this time, it wasn't for himself. "Don't hurt him," he pleaded, fearful that the Elf King's terms would require Achilles to give up his own freedom, or even his life, for the child he had raised over the past seven years. "Do what you want with me, but please don't hurt him!"

Gil-galad couldn't hold back a grin at the boy's impassioned response, though he quickly proceeded to allay his young prisoner's fears. "Do not worry, child, for I can see where your thoughts have led you. But I assure you, my intentions are nothing of the sort. All I want is for your cousin and his men to leave Troy and never return. If Achilles agrees to this, you will be returned to him alive and well, without any further trouble. Although, perhaps not as 'well' as I would have liked, thanks to the Trojans." He ran a light fingertip along one of the swollen bruises on the boy's cheek, pleased to see that the child did not shy away.

Patroclus relaxed visibly, though his countenance soon darkened again as he absorbed this latest information. "How long?"

"I have given your cousin three days to respond, as of this morning."

The boy frowned, puzzled. "How did you know which tent was mine?"

"I discovered that during my first time in the Greek camp, the night before last. It was also then that I discovered who you were and conceived my plans."

The youth nodded his understanding, then abruptly let out a weak and bitter laugh.

"What is it?" Gil-galad questioned, perplexed by the outburst.

"Achilles has been right to tell me that the Fates are cruel; we were going to sail home today."

"What?" the Elven King repeated sharply, all bemusement gone from his voice. "When was this decided?"

"Yesterday morning," Patroclus replied, flinching, and he was suddenly anxious again after his captor's terse response. "Achilles is angry with Agamemnon, which is why the Myrmidons didn't fight the other day. Then Achilles decided to leave the war altogether and go home. He gave orders yesterday for everything to be readied so we could leave this morning." Patroclus stopped there, not wanting to provoke the Elf King further or delve any deeper into that subject, lest fresh and painful memories of another sort be brought to light.

Gil-galad waited in contemplative silence a moment before replying. "In that case, it would seem your cousin's departure has only been delayed. But I fear you have already spent too long in the presence of Achilles, Patroclus, for not all anger need have such dire consequences as his." He let his gaze drift out the window for a time, then turned back to the boy. "Are you hungry, child? I imagine it has been long since you last ate."

Lost in his own thoughts, Patroclus roused himself as though waking from a daze and shook his head, doing his best to ignore the consequent pounding. "No – no thank you. I'm just…tired."

"Then sleep," the Elf commanded mildly, rising smoothly from his place on the bedside.

The young Greek made a move to follow suit and return to his place on the floor, a hand reflexively covering his tender side with the action, but a firm grip on his shoulder stopped him.

"Do not trouble yourself, young one," Gil-galad said softly. "Stay here. I will leave you soon, for there are other things that I must see to."

Patroclus faltered, uncertain how to proceed after that; but he found there was little choice in the matter when his captor suddenly took hold of him and eased him back with meticulous care so that he was lying on the bed, a pillow somehow being moved under his head at the same time. The youth tensed again, anxious, but he was simply too exhausted to resist the Elf's gentle manipulations. Another blanket was placed over him, and he was aware of a warm hand on the back of his head.

"Rest easy, child," his companion soothed, feeling the boy's tension beneath his hand. "Relax – and sleep." Gil-galad let his fingers travel slowly down the length of the boy's scalp, along the nape of his neck, and finally to his shoulders. He repeated the motion several times until the child grew visibly more relaxed and finally was still, his breathing quiet and even.

Satisfied that his captive was sleeping soundly, the High King withdrew silently from the room and headed outdoors, engrossed in his contemplations. The boy had been sensitive to his shock upon hearing that Achilles had already determined to leave Troy, yet Gil-galad had never explained why, hoping the child would move past the subject without further thought. But in truth, the noble Elf was deeply troubled by such knowledge.

He had previously credited Achilles' delayed response to the idea that the famed warrior wished to make all the necessary preparations for departure prior to claiming his cousin. But if what Patroclus had told him was true – and there was little reason to doubt the boy's sincerity at this point – it would mean that Achilles had been ready to leave that very morning. That the Greek warlord could have, and should have, come to collect his cousin no later than noon this same day. Yet he had not come. He had sent no word of any kind.

With a disgruntled sigh, the Elven monarch finally ceased his restless pacing along the wall of Troy and turned his gaze westward, toward the dark blemishes along the distant shoreline which were the Greek ships, and toward the Sea, whose alluring whispers would surely beckon his immortal people home throughout the ages until none remained. Heart heavy, Ereinion Gil-galad watched with grim foreboding as the sun set on the first day of Achilles' ransom.