When we arrived back at the palace, mostly everyone knew what had happened. Menoetius had decreed to the court that Patroclus would be disowned in three days' time due to the murder of a boy. He also decreed a "last night" with all laud and honor with the prince. "A feast the kingdom had never seen," Menoetius had said.
Patroclus was barraged by various people asking for details: what happened regarding the murder, why his father was giving him laud and honor, where would he go, what would he do as an exile?
He eyed me, sighing of social exhaustion. So many people, so little patience for them, his intriguing eyes said.
Patroclus spoke, explaining that he had gotten angry over a game of dice, shoved the boy to the ground and beat him with a rock. He had asked his father for leniency as he was sentenced to death. He begged for mercy and his father would exile him. He had no idea where he would go or what he would do. His voice was heavy with weariness.
"Now please, let me leave and enjoy the few days of my life I have left."
Patroclus grabbed me and we left the main hall, leaving his subjects behind.
We heard some slaves whisper as we passed, planning their revenge on their master's son for all the times of cruelty: "Three days and he will be no better than us. And then…we better wear dark that day."
Patroclus grimaced at the veiled threat and ran faster.
I glared at the slaves, fire burning in my eyes. They stopped and gulped. Not men enough to face my anger. The fury of a god, I thought.
Patroclus did not deserve any hatred or revenge. He did this for me, and I had no idea why.
We ended up in his bedchambers. I looked around. Polished marble floors, an intricately carved bed, colorful woven blankets, and aged wooden trunks amongst other worn furniture.
No precious metals or austerity to be seen: a first for any royal. Kings and queens loved to display their wealth and value, physically defining their imperial status and the differences entrenched within it. A laborer or slave saves enough over years to get a single golden coin…when their king has many golden coins smelted to trim a chamber pot. Menoetius's chambers had molten gold and precious metals line the doorframe itself.
The lack of largesse here said two things.
This meant Patroclus either enjoyed life's simplicities or, more likely, Menoetius did not even dignify him as a prince. The former was rare for humanity, but the latter was rare in civilization: Patroclus would not be honored as a prince later but now? He was entitled to the gains and riches of temporal power.
The panting drew me back to reality. Whilst I was surveying, Patroclus sat on the edge of his bed. He had held back tears in the atrium but here he let them flow. It hurt me to see someone, specifically him, suffering for no reason. He looked at me, eyes glazed. His dark skin contrasted against the tears dripping down his face. They glistened in the natural light.
He wiped his face dry.
He motioned for me to sit on a chair across the room. I disregarded his motion and sat next to him on the bed. He grimaced and moved away.
I now understood why Patroclus was so reticent, so hesitant. So aloof. Why he cowered at any affection, disregarded any compliment.
He felt alone. And for a good portion of his life, he was. Not anymore.
He was hated for existing. Not anymore.
He was unloved. Not anymore.
I looked at him again. He curled himself up like a child swaddling to his mother. He retreated into his own little world.
I did not know what to do, what to say, how to help.
"Thank you."
"Huh?" He tilted his head, sitting up to speak. He put his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. His face faced mine; I could smell the saltiness of his tears and feel the breath from his mouth.
"Thank you."
"What for, Achilles? I do not understand."
"You lied for me. I do not know why. It should be me that is deemed a murderer, me that is exiled."
"You should not have to go through that."
"But why, Patroclus? Why is this societal disgrace good for you but bad for me?"
He paused, turned his head away from me to stare at the wall.
He whispered but I could not hear him.
"I did not hear you."
He spoke up but I still barely heard him. He did not meet my eyes.
"Because…because I deserve this." I went agape.
"What could ever make you think you deserve this, Patroclus?"
He started to speak, but as he went on, he went faster and faster. His voice grew louder and louder. I let the words flow from him like a gentle brook turns into a ravenous river.
"Because…because…. I am a failure. No matter what I do, it is always my fault. My father hates me. My kingdom hates me. I hate me. Everything I do does not work. When I try, I fail. I double and triple guess myself. No matter what I do, or option I take, I always, always, always FAIL. I am a shame upon society. Some days I wake up and wish I could just turn back over and sleep until all of creation is gone. There are days when I wake up and feel fine. I step into my father's presence, and I think everything is fine but then he asks me why I did not follow up on something that I had planned to follow up on from the day before. I said it needed to wait a day or so for the servant to act and he said it was unacceptable and horrifying that I wanted to wait a day longer. So, I then do it and the servant involved gets annoyed that I followed up since he just got the command yesterday to do it and now, I am the villain. Which then gets back to my father and then I stand there and listen to him berate me on how good and grateful I should be that I am not out begging on the streets, that I have a roof over my head. I then tell him he told me to go pester the servant despite him not being ready and he says Patroclus, I never said that. You are crafting falsehoods. You are mistaken. Why are you lying to me? I REMEMBER HIM SAYING IT AND HE MAKES ME DENY MY OWN SANITY BEFORE I CAN LEAVE..."
Patroclus poured his heart out to me: the fear, the anxiety, everything he said…I knew what I needed to do. I leaned forward and hugged him.
I would not let him feel this way or be this way. Not anymore.
"Enough."
He tensed at the affection. I forced his head into my shoulder. I smelt the balsam in his hair. It reminded me of a smell I once encountered: muron. Pungent but addictively pleasant.
"Relax. Cry."
He hesitated, and then sobbed. No more words. I pushed his head deeper, savoring the odor of his locks. I did not intend to enjoy his pain then, nor did I ever in the times we were together, but I reminisce often about that scent. It was beautiful and pure. Innocent. Just like him.
He ceased crying: I did not remove his head.
We sat in silence. This beautiful soul had been tortured so much by his society, by his father, and all of it unwarranted. But the worst of all was that he believed it himself.
After a while, I whispered: "Patroclus, why did you lie for me?"
He tried to sit up, I pushed him back.
"I think…I think I lied because I merit punishment. My father needed a reason to give it. Since I heard of you being prophesized to be a hero, I knew that your path was set by the Fates. And it was mine to be eschewed for you to achieve your glory. One light must always decrease for the other to increase. Selene must dim for Helios to shine."
That was the first time I ever heard that horrid word: prophesy. Oh, how I hate it now! But then, I was innocent, and it passed my ears unnoticed.
"Patroclus, I swear. If it is my destiny or fate or whatsoever it be for me to shine, you will be beside me excelling as well."
"You do not need to…"
"Patroclus. I value you. Beyond words. Even if you do not value yourself. You are an exile to be."
I pushed him away and arose off the bed.
"As prince of Pythia, I demand you as a subject to claim me as your therapon."
Therapon. A multifaceted word and concept: servant, substitute, companion, attendant. It personified dedication, loyalty, courage, friendship. Declaring someone as such was an act of trust, confidence, adoration, and…love? I shook my head.
I held out my hand to him.
"I affirm to and before the gods that you, Patroclus of Opus, are my therapon. And always will be from this moment henceforth. Until we die together, side by side."
Patroclus went agape, as he did when we met in the middle of the night.
"You are my friend, and I cannot abide your emotions when you feel friendless. You doubt me, and I cannot see anyway else to make it clearer."
I grabbed a blade, cut my palm, and let the blood fall.
"Promise the same, do the same, Patroclus."
He also arose, also cut his palm, shook my hand, and swore it.
"I do so avow."
He sighed.
"At least I know where I am going after Opus. I hope Pythia is a pleasant place to live."
"Oh, it's a beautiful land!"
"Great, tell me about it while we take care of your haphazardness."
"You chose to reciprocate!"
"What was I going to do? You would stick me if I refused!"
"Yeah, I would really stab people because of you." My sarcasm dripped from my mouth as the blood did to the floor.
We left to grab wet clothes for our palms, and I started to blabber about my homeland. As I did, I saw that gapped smile grow and grow. That wonderful smile spread to me and warmed me.
Patroclus and I would always be friends. He and I would never be alone again. Not anymore.
Which, of course, I am again.
There is more to the story, and as the Queen commanded, I shall continue to write it.