Chapter VI: Golden Boy
The war was not going well for the Greeks, but the war was not going well for the Trojans either. The whole bloody debacle had reached a point bordering on insanity where the troops no longer knew why they were fighting in the first place.
None of the Greeks truly cared about rescuing Queen Helen, except for her husband Menelaus, of course, because to the soldiers she was just another damsel in distress, albeit a gorgeously beautiful one. She was a distant beacon, unattainable behind the walls of Troy, and she did little to motivate the Greek troops.
Funnily enough, the Trojans also cared little for Helen of Troy. In their eyes, she was the cause of the war and wasn't worth defending in the first place. She was a trophy wife for Pretty Boy Paris — that was the name the Trojans had bestowed upon their prince, who was too delicate to fight in the war himself — and she meant nothing to your average Trojan.
The Trojan War had been raging for nine long years.
Nine years that had seen boys become men, with spears and swords in their hands and fear in their hearts. Nine years that had turned soldiers into generals, with experience and leadership hardening the softest of hearts into steel. Nine years that had seen both the Greeks and the Trojans wear themselves down to the breaking point.
And now, as ever, there was a battle being fought.
Achilles charged into the battle, fighting on the frontline, decorated in his golden armor and breastplate with an image of galloping horses, down to his leather skirt and gauntlets and greaves on his arms and legs. He was radiant, the sunlight reflecting off his suit of gold and blinding the Trojans he was fighting against. "Charge, Greeks! Charge!"
The Greeks did not need to be told twice. They followed Achilles's lead, raising their swords high and keeping their shields low, running straightforward into the war. "Fight for the gods! Fight for your city-state! Fight for Greek glory!"
Achilles yelled a primal cry, wild and angry, as he ran into the chaos. He slashed his sword into his enemy's flesh, not caring who he fought against as long as he won.
And of course, Achilles was immortal save for that single spot on his ankle. No matter how many enemies threw swords in his face, or at his exposed forearms and forelegs, his skin was never cut. The swords shattered as they struck him, and he saw the fear in the Trojans' eyes as they realized that against Achilles, they were surely doomed.
Achilles mowed down Trojan after Trojan, one after the other, as if he were a lion taking on a field of sheep. The lion hunted at his pleasure, and the sheep could do nothing but bleat fearfully and run away in the meadow, but the apex predator chased them down with ease and feasted gluttonously.
"Will anyone give me a challenge?" Achilles roared on the battlefield. "Who will fight me and prevail? I seek a Trojan worth fighting!"
The Trojans who were within the vicinity looked at one another, gulped nervously, and backed away before they too were cut down like fields of wheat under the scythe.
Then one man stepped forward, a general amongst the soldiers, a long-horned ram amongst the sheep. He was a tall fellow, brown-skinned and black-haired with handsome green-flecked eyes, and he wore a suit of bronze armor. His gauntlets and greaves, breastplate and helmet, were made of that shiny brown metal that reflected the sunlight almost as well as Achilles's own golden suit.
"My name is Hector," declared the bronze warrior, "and I will fight for Troy."
The two warriors began circling each other, prowling like alley cats gearing up for a fight. The Greeks and Trojans paused their fighting when they realized they were about to witness an epic clash, and the war slowed to a pause.
Each army had put forth a champion, and now the champions would clash.
"Nice to meet you, Hector," laughed Achilles arrogantly. "Pity you won't be around to get a drink with me after the battle."
"I would never share a drink with a filthy Greek," spat Hector.
"Well, now I have to kill you," said Achilles, shrugging.
The men dashed into the center of the clearing of soldiers, yelling at the top of their lungs. Achilles lunged first, throwing his sword at his enemy's arm, but Hector expertly blocked by raising his bronze shield. Gritting his teeth, Achilles backed off and raised his own shield, taking a blow from Hector's sword.
Then they dropped their shields and their swords met in a ferocious clash, metal banging against metal, sparks flying as they struck faster and faster, until finally Achilles landed the first blow, slashing Hector's left arm.
The Trojan general yelled in pain, but he was used to taking cuts and bruises, and soon enough Hector was back on his feet, shield raised and sword held high. "I'll do you one in return!" yelled Hector. He lunged forward, thrust his sword, and…
The sword shattered against Achilles's exposed arm. Hector's green eyes went wide as he realized in horror that he was now weaponless, but more than that, he realized that he was not fighting an average Greek. This was a demigod, invulnerable, invincible.
"Spear!" Hector cried, backing off to stand by his fellow Trojans. One of them tossed him a wooden pole with a sharpened metal point.
Hector reared back, aimed, and threw the spear at his enemy. He aimed right for Achilles's face, and his aim was true. The spear struck Achilles in his exposed cheek, but the blow didn't wipe the smirk off of the Greek warrior's face. The spear fell aside, worthless, wasted. Hector realized, in that moment, that he didn't stand a chance.
"You have won this fight," grumbled the Trojan general. "Congratulations."
Hector turned his back on Achilles and disappeared into the crowd. While Achilles was not satisfied, he knew he wasn't going to kill Hector today, so he swore that he would get him one of these days. Let him live for a while longer, Achilles thought.
The battle raged on for another hour, two hours, until both sides had fought to a standstill. This was how every battle had been going for years and years now. For several months the Greeks would have the upper hand, advancing closer to taking the city, but then the Trojans would turn the tide and run the Greeks back off again. And just when the Trojans thought they were close to driving the Greeks back to their ships, back to the ocean, the Greeks stood their ground and lasted several months longer.
The Trojan war had lasted nine terrible years this way, and every soldier was tired. Deeply, deeply tired. So the warriors retreated for the next few days, regaining their strength, while they waited for the next battle.
The Greek troops returned to their campsite, and no one was back in the tents faster than Achilles. What he wanted was to find Patroclus and spend hours cuddling together in their hammock, but what he got was a mandatory meeting of the generals.
Achilles thought about standing the generals up, like he used to do with his father's war council meetings, but if the war had taught Achilles anything, it was that he was the prize bull of the Greek army, and he wasn't allowed to skip strategy meetings.
In the generals' tent, there was wily Odysseus, sitting at the table and staring at the battle plans written with quill-and-ink on papyrus paper, sketches of troop positions, strategic maneuvers, and plan after plan to take the city of Troy.
"Ah, you made it," said Odysseus, looking up from his papers. "Nice to see the immortal warrior survived the battle. Again."
"Enough of your sarcasm, Odysseus," declared the mighty Agamemnon, a bearded redhead, large and muscular, with a kingly presence. "Let the boy rest."
Achilles huffed at being called a "boy," because after nine years of war, surely he was a man by now? But to arrogant older men, all younger men were merely boys.
"How did the fighting go today?" asked auburn Menelaus.
"Same as every day," spat Achilles, sitting at the table without being invited to do so. "We made no progress. We lost good men to a meaningless cause."
"Meaningless?" scoffed Menelaus. "We're fighting to save my wife!"
"You can't find another wife?" groaned Achilles.
"Not when you're married to the most beautiful woman in the world."
"Then I'm glad I like men," said Achilles.
There was an awkward chuckle among the generals, and once again Achilles was reminded that while gay men were tolerated in the army, they did not truly belong. Zeus could have his cupbearer Ganymede, and the legendary Socrates could fall in love with his younger male pupils, but still he had to be the pariah of the army.
No matter how he fought for them, they couldn't accept the way his heart worked.
"I think I'm tired of strategy for tonight," scoffed Achilles, standing up from the table. "If you need me, you can find me in Patroclus's tent."
There was another meaningless laugh from the men, and Achilles stormed towards the exit. He gave his all for the Greek army day after day, so he decided he would keep his nights to himself. If he didn't, he would go insane.
The Trojan War was pure insanity as it was.
"Let's get out of here," Achilles said out of the blue. He was lying in a hammock next to brown-haired Patroclus, swinging gently in their comfortable strung-up bed.
"And go where? Do what?" laughed Patroclus, brushing his lover's golden hair.
Achilles thought for a moment, then he had the perfect idea. Something they had not done for nine tragically bloody years. Something for old times' sake.
The beach was serenely quiet, a haven compared to the crowded and noisy campsite, save for the occasional squawks of seagulls searching for scraps. At night, the sand glowed a pristine white, like they were on the heavenly shores of Olympus itself. The water lapped gently against the shore, and all was quiet, until a thrown stone splashed into the sea. They had walked for half an hour, an hour, until they had left the Greek campsite far behind and found a secluded spot on the shores of Asia Minor.
"You can do better than that," laughed Achilles, knocking Patroclus playfully on the arm. "I've seen you skip stones a hundred feet."
"Well, it has been a few years," said Pat, grinning. "I'm out of practice."
"Let the master show you how it's done."
Achilles searched for a moment until he found the perfect skipping stone, smoothed by centuries of time in the water. He leaned back then thrust forward, flicking his wrist, releasing the stone… and it made a heavy splash, not skipping once.
"You sure are the master," giggled Patroclus, and soon Achilles was laughing too.
The two Greek soldiers sat on the white sandy shore, boys grown into men, their bodies weathered by years of conflict in the damnable city of Troy. Patroclus had put on muscle, no longer the scrawny boy he used to be, his brown hair longer, falling to his shoulders. Achilles's skin had baked under the sun, browner than ever, but his hair was still strikingly gold. He made a beautiful contrast, fair hair and dark skin, and Patroclus loved him for it.
The men stared into each others' eyes, Achilles's nut-browns gazing longingly into Patroclus's hazels, and they drew into a close embrace. They kissed slowly at first, then rapidly with their arms flung around each other, falling down into the sand.
Achy was on top of Pat, caressing his lover's face like he was the only thing in the world that mattered, because in that moment, he was. From underneath, Pat moaned and giggled playfully as Achy kissed his neck, then put his hands around his waist and pulled him closer.
Their kiss was a drawn-out affair, never-ending, more eternal than the gods of Mount Olympus. They wanted to do nothing but lay on the beach and embrace each other, forgetting the war, forgetting Helen. What did she matter when they had each other?
Then they drew away. Achy sat up with his arms around his knees, rocking back and forth on the sand. Pat put a gentle hand on his shoulder. "What's wrong?"
"I wish this could last forever," whispered Achilles. "Do you feel the same?"
"Of course I do. You know I do," said Patroclus. He brought his boyfriend's hand to his lips and kissed it tenderly. The music of the night, the violins in the air and the slow guitar echoing across the beach, and the word itself sang alongside Patroclus. "Golden boy, golden boy, don't you know I love you?" He kissed his hand again. "Golden boy, golden boy, promise me you'll be true."
Achilles stood up, his chest swelling proudly as a song welled up inside him. "Sing to me, my sweet love. Sing a song of our future life," he sang, pulling Patroclus to his feet as well. "Tell me we'll be okay, after the war, after the strife."
The lovers ran along the coast, white birds flying around them, leaves and flowers from the coastal trees swirling around them in the breeze. They laughed and jumped, dancing in the sand. Achilles lifted Patroclus into the air like he was a feather, spinning around with him. "Sing of peace, sing of joy, paint me a picture of our love. When the last soldier dies, forget the hawk, forget the dove."
Patroclus danced around his boyfriend, twirling in a brilliant ballet. He was caught by Achilles, his hands around Pat's back, dipping low to the sand. "Golden boy, golden boy, don't you know I love you? Golden boy, golden boy, promise me you'll be true."
They raced each other along the beach, jumping into the water and splashing around the gentle waves. They were soon both soaking wet, but they didn't care. They threw water at each other like children, laughing and splashing, and soon they were in each other's arms again, kissing slowly. They broke apart, beaming, then they kissed again. The freedom to do as they pleased away from the judgmental gaze of their fellow soldiers was invigorating. True, they didn't care what the soldiers said, but imagining a world without petty homophobia… well, that was the stuff dreams were made of.
Achilles knew what was on Patroclus's mind without him having to say anything. "I don't care what they'll say, I don't care about prejudice." He took his lover's hand and held it over his chest, so Pat could feel his beating heart. "When this war is over, and there is finally justice."
The men walked out of the sea and back onto the beach, dripping water on the sand. They left the white sand and strolled through the copse of trees that grew alongside the coast. The trees were in full bloom, and Achilles reached up and picked a pink flower, which he offered to his boyfriend. Patroclus stuck it behind his ear and felt very pretty indeed. "Sing about summertime, sing about apple trees in spring. When we finally go home, just you and me and everything."
Pat plucked an apple from one of the trees and took a luscious bite. Then he offered it to Achy, and the demigod took a bite of the juicy red fruit. The war had started with a golden apple, so the men thought it was appropriate to share another apple.
"Golden boy, golden boy, don't you know I love you?" Patroclus interlocked their fingers, and although Achilles was a little taller, he didn't have to reach up too much to kiss him tenderly. "Golden boy, golden boy, promise me you'll be true."
Then the wind died down, the flower petals sank to the ground, and the music in the night slowed to a halt. Their dance may have ended, but their kiss was only beginning.
"I promise," Achy said, holding Pat in his strong and sturdy arms.
Achilles and Patroclus stayed in each others' grasp for what seemed like hours, kissing, embracing, sharing a gentle moment in the calm before the storm. Before the war resumed.
They walked hand in hand through the tree grove, slowly making their way back to the Greek campsite, where a thousand tents were pitched. Pat and Achy didn't want to leave their beach of romance, but they had to return to the mortal world at some point.
They couldn't live on Cloud Nine with Aphrodite forever, after all.
There came a time when the real world came calling.
Achilles stormed into the Greek camp, covered in sweat that was his and blood that was not his. He took off his golden helmet, and in a fury, tossed it to the ground, where it clattered and shone sunlight. The other Greek soldiers looked to him for leadership and inspiration, so when Achilles was frustrated, they were all frustrated.
The daily battle had not gone well. It was the same story that they had been living on repeat for nine years — they tried to breach the walls of Troy, but the Trojans held fast and defended their city, pushing the Greeks back to the seashore, but ultimately the conflict ended with both sides giving up for the day and returning to their respective camps.
"It's futile!" shouted Achilles as he marched past tent after tent. "Completely useless! We never get anywhere!"
Following his lead, his fellow warriors began complaining about the battle, wondering aloud why they had spent nine years of their lives fighting for a woman they had never met. It was madness, a fever caused by the God of War.
Neither side had made any progress. Neither side could be declared the victors.
"Where is Agamemnon?" declared Achilles, rushing into the generals' strategy tent. "I demand to speak to him. He won't ignore me."
"Of course he won't," said the only general who was present in the tent, King Menelaus. A pleasant fellow, but not the leader Achilles wanted to speak to.
"Where's your brother?" asked Achilles impatiently.
"He was fighting another campaign to the south of the city. He left hours ago, I expect they'll be back any moment now. Can you wait for him?"
"I'm the star of the army, aren't I? I shouldn't have to wait."
"What's this blabbery I hear about you being the star of my army?"
As if he were summoned at the sound of his name, the giant of a man, King Agamemnon, appeared in the entranceway of the strategy tent. He was wearing his shining suit of armor, painted a metallic red to match his hair and beard. It struck Achilles that the king looked strikingly similar to Ares, the war god. He didn't think it was a coincidence.
"Agamemnon," said the demigod in his most threatening voice. "I'm fed up. I've been fighting your war for nine years of my life, and you haven't brought us victory."
"I thought you were the star? Shouldn't you bring me victory?"
"Don't be funny with me," spat Achilles, narrowing his eyes. "Why can't you devise a strategy to take the city already? What's the holdup?"
"I am assured by Odysseus that he is working on a master strategy to do just that."
"I don't trust the Fox of Ithaca to win us the war. He's only out for himself."
"Well, then he's in fine company, isn't he?"
"What's that supposed to mean? I'm not out for myself."
"Aren't you?" asked Agamemnon, raising a red eyebrow. "Every fortnight you come storming into my tent after a battle, demanding to know when we're going to end this war so you and your precious little boyfriend can run home and live happily ever after."
"Don't you belittle Patroclus like that."
"I'll belittle whomever I like." Agamemnon marched into the tent, taking a seat at the table without inviting Achilles to sit down with him. "All you care about is your happy ending with your loverboy. You don't care about this war. You're the selfish one, not me."
"How dare you," growled Achilles, snarling like a rabid dog. "After all I've done for the Greek army, this is the thanks I get? Being called selfish by a pompous old king?"
"Don't call me old," seethed Agamemnon.
"Don't call me selfish," Achilles threw back at him.
The demigod picked up the helmet he had thrown down, but instead of putting it back on, he threw it at Agamemnon' chest. Then Achilles unbuckled the straps of his breastplate and tossed it at the king's feet. He removed his greaves and gauntlets, and they too were thrown at the king-general. Achilles stood naked save for his trousers. Part of him wanted Agamemnon to see every muscle of his body, to know that he was the stronger man. The king may be strong, but he was not demigod strong.
"You can keep your suit of armor," hissed Achilles. "I quit."
Agamemnon blustered and blinked and looked so furious he could punch a hole through the table. Menelaus just looked disappointed, like he'd just been told his favorite hunting dog had died. Achilles savored the looks on their faces.
"Y-You can't q-quit," stammered Agamemnon. "You'll d-devastate the army."
"I don't care about this war, and I don't care about the army."
The demigod whipped around and stormed out of the tent, leaving Agamemnon stuttering and Menelaus moaning. The thrill of defiance had come over Achilles, and he reveled in the despair he caused. When he marched out of the tent, however, he ran into someone he was not expecting.
"Were you listening, Pat?" asked Achilles.
Patroclus looked ashamed of himself. "I saw you go in, and I was curious what you were saying to them." He looked even more disappointed than Menelaus. "Are you really quitting? You know what that will do to the army's morale."
"That's not my concern," said Achilles. He took Patroclus's hands in his, holding him like he never wanted to let go. "We can finally run away. Let's leave this bloody war once and for all. We've already given it nine years of our lives."
"Achy… I've told you, I enjoy being a healer. It gives me purpose."
"Then you can be a healer back in Phthia. Or wherever we go. We'll just hop on a ship and sail wherever our hearts take us, just you and me."
"Achilles, I — I don't want to. I want to stay in the army. I want to fight."
"Well, I don't." The demigod let go of his lover's hands and crossed his arms over his chest. "I quit and I'm not joining up again."
Achilles brushed away from Patroclus, turned around and marched off. His boyfriend was left alone outside the strategy tent, thinking desperately. He cared deeply about the Greek army, and he didn't want the soldiers to lose morale by learning their great hero had abandoned them. Patroclus was sure they'd lose the will to fight without him.
Pat stuck his head through the tent flap, where he saw Agamemnon and Menelaus in furious discussion about what to do now that they were down one demigod. Patroclus saw the golden suit of armor lying on the ground, discarded, unwanted.
A desperate idea seized him. It was madness, it was lunacy… but it just might work.
"Excuse me, King Agamemnon? King Menelaus?" Pat cleared his throat to get their attention, fully stepping into the tent. He pointed to the golden armor on the ground. "May I retrieve that for Achilles? I'm sure he'll change his mind in the morning. He's so temperamental, you know, and once he sleeps off his anger, he'll rejoin at once."
"You'd better be right," growled Agamemnon. "Take the armor."
Patroclus picked up the breastplate, helmet, gauntlets and greaves, and of course, the sword and shield of Achilles, so iconic, so recognizable. They were heavy, but he wasn't the weak boy he had been back home in Phthia. Nine years of war had put muscles on his body, and Patroclus thought he might just fill out the armor himself.
The Greeks needed Achilles leading them. Or at least, someone wearing his armor.
"Golden Boy" by HeroicDisney
Golden boy, golden boy, don't you know I love you?
I
Golden boy, golden boy, promise me you'll be true.
I
Sing to me, my sweet love. Sing a song of our future life.
Tell me we'll be okay, after the war, after the strife.
I
Sing of peace, sing of joy. Paint me a picture of our love.
When the last soldier dies. Forget the hawk, forget the dove.
I
Golden boy, golden boy, don't you know I love you?
I
Golden boy, golden boy, promise me you'll be true.
I
I don't care what they'll say. I don't care about prejudice.
When this war is over, and there is finally justice.
I
Sing about summertime. Sing about apple trees in spring.
When we finally go home, just you and me and everything.
I
Golden boy, golden boy, don't you know I love you?
I
Golden boy, golden boy, promise me you'll be true.