Within the great tapestry woven by the fates, there are many stories. The fates stitch and they spin, spooling their threads of red and gold. They labour day and night, through calm skies and raging storms. But sometimes, though the gods will never tell you this, they make mistakes. Sometimes the tales they weave are so riddled with holes that the fates just shake their heads and carry on. No use crying. After all, there are always other stories.

This particular story began in a death. A death coated in gleaming armour.

It had been built in the silences between scenes. It began when they were just children, drinking up each other's smiles and glances, until they were old enough to reach into the depths of their minds to find that word which was hidden — a simple word, but so many meanings. What is love? Is it the shared signs brought to life by two lonely boys at play? It is the reluctant trudge into war made more bearable by the human warmth of the other? Is it the cruelty of Hector's body dragged face-down in the dust?

Achilles and Patroclus knew they were in love long before the word was spoken. But war is a beast that hungers, and it can never be satisfied.

Patroclus remembered dying. It was something like the lifting of a fog, the sense of a dream giving way to the light of day. The clashing of weapons and the roaring of men slipped into silence. The war raged above him. But in his heart, there was an uneasy peace. Down in the dark of the Underworld, he waited.

In the land of the dead, time spilled like thick milk. Seconds passed into eternity. And Patroclus stood in the shady fields of asphodel, waiting, as one by one all the soldiers and heroes drifted down into the dark, their faces pale and lined with pain.

Hector died wanting what he had always wanted: a home and a hearth and walls that did not fear burning. For a moment, his eyes were fixed on Patroclus's. But then he turned away. Greek or Trojan — it was hard to care when you were dead. Patroclus wanted to say he was sorry. But the words were too weak to carry the heavy days of a wife's weeping and a father's long trek beyond enemy lines. So instead he watched, as Hector passed him, heading somewhere, anywhere — away. Perhaps the Elysian Fields were waiting for him. That is his secret now. It is outside the tapestry.

Eternity flitted past, as did the spirits: Antilochus. Machaon. Memnon. The great doomed Penthesilea. Their names are footnotes, ink smudges dark as night. The fates who watched from the void sighed, and carried on. Over and over and over.

Suddenly, in the night, came a voice. "Patroclus."

Patroclus turned, and there was Achilles. Red-gold hair gleamed in the dim silvery light.

Achilles did not remember dying. When he was alive, he had dreamt of the kind of death that blazed and burned. But now he only felt resignation. He could still feel the blood of other men under his fingernails, beneath his skin, scratched into his very soul.

"I missed you," said Patroclus, his voice raw from an eternity of silence.

"I missed you too," said Achilles.

Their words were aching, stilted. Achilles and Patroclus stood, inches from each other and yet so far apart. The endless churning of life and death had drowned them both in sorrow and had spat them out in the sand.

"How did you die?" As soon as the question was asked, Patroclus regretted it.

"I think..." said Achilles. "I think… Paris killed me. All it took was one arrow..." Achilles, who had always been so sure in life. He, who had always run the furthest and fought the hardest, who had danced through the war like a festival in summer, now sank to his knees. "I want to hate him. I want to feel that rage. I used to love and hate, passions burned like pyres. But now, I am tired, and there is nothing left but shreds."

Patroclus knew he had no way with words. He had never learnt how to speak cleverly at banquets, or at the table of the council of war. But he knew Achilles like he knew his own name. And now, in the land of the dead, with their souls laid bare, Patroclus knelt by Achilles.

"The day we met. Do you remember it?" he asked, a slight tremble in his voice.

"Yes. You came to my house in disgrace. Others believed you a murderer and worse. But I learned how wrong they were."

"You smiled at me—"

"I did. Because I believed you a killer, the only thing I ever wanted to be. But, you were different. You were kind ."

"I never did fit in."

"No. And for that I thank every god on Olympus, or wherever they go when they want to watch us kill each other for their sport."

Patroclus laughed. The sound rang hollow in the stillness of the air. They had their arms around each other now, clasped in an embrace that was like everything warm and good in the world. But Achilles shuddered. In his mind, he could still hear the clashing of men as they fought. And died. And in his mind, he killed every single one of them. "The blood and the death, they never leave."

Patroclus could never tell a lie. "Never."

They held each other. Minutes passed, or perhaps years. Achilles picked at the ground. "These flowers… what are they?"

"Asphodel."

"Beautiful..."

Slowly, Achilles rose to his feet. He stumbled, but Patroclus steadied him.

"Now," said Achilles, and for a moment he appeared as he did in life, splendid and untouched by sorrow. "Is Elysium waiting for us? When all is said and done, have we been heroes?"

Their eyes met in a sea of uncertainty. But they would face what would come. Achilles and Patroclus, forever and for always.

Together, they walked out of the fields of asphodel and out of the story. Forever.