Grim-faced Mycenaean soldiers, oblivious to the girl still clad in her bloody wedding veil, had begun to tear down their encampments. Between the gathered soldiers stepping back, Patroclus finally spotted Odysseus. The king was following Agamemnon, Menelaus too, towards Agamemnon's tent in a fierce march. Independent from Achilles he was determined to follow, but Achilles was by his side just as fast. They pushed aggressively through tent flaps to witness Agamemnon at his own seat, faced down by Menelaus, Odysseus, and a tall woman whose face was a ghost of Iphigenia.
"Explain how your war justifies my daughter's life," the woman snarled, flanked by Odysseus and Menelaus, her fists clenched as if to stop herself from tearing into the king. "She was promised a wedding, a future."
So this was Klytemnestra. Not only was she the wife of Agamemnon and de facto queen of Mycenae, but sister of the missing Helen. The rockruff in Achilles' arms twitched ears towards her.
Agamemnon chose his words slowly, casting a cold gaze to the tent entrance where Achilles and Patroclus stood. He spoke flatly, almost dismissively, "Any of our children should be willing to sacrifice for justice and glory."
"Her life?" Klytemnestra seethed. Her eyes flicked to Achilles and back to Agamemnon with renewed rage. "How dare you summon us, promise my daughter a demigod husband, and slaughter her in the name of sacrifice. How dare you claim to know such a concept!"
"Be silent," Agamemnon ordered. He looked down his nose at her, as he had at the trial all those years ago. A king who could not control his wife was no king at all, so said the old customs.
But Klytemnestra was an heir of Sparta, and not so easily restrained by stern words. "I hope in your war you find riches as valuable as my child. None of your presumed glory can wash her blood from your hands."
Agamemnon clenched his jaw, and his mouth contorted into a sneer. He stomped towards the queen with such intensity that the other kings stepped back, but not her.
"Be silent, or you will join her," he spat. His face was a breath away from hers.
Klytemnestra merely watched him, head level. When she replied her voice was cool and cold as stone, "I hope your war teaches you the meaning of sacrifice." And then she strode for the exit, dismissing herself, but not before pausing to address Achilles and the rockruff. "Keep her. It was Iphigenia's wish that she travel and grow strong."
Achilles nodded solemnly, and the rockruff rested her head in his arm. Her eyes were lackluster.
All eyes followed Klytemnestra out, and then promptly turned back to Agamemnon. Three voices spoke at once, Patroclus and Odysseus and Menelaus.
Patroclus knew his own voice was overpowered, but it did not stop him declaring, "What have you done?"
Menelaus was least coherent, some frustrated point about angering wives and secret plans.
"There is no need to sail on today," Odysseus repeated himself, once it was clear the kings would cede to his words. He spoke calmly but the surprise still had not ebbed from his face. "With rest and preparation we can cast off tomorrow."
Patroclus glanced at Achilles, who was staring hollowly just like the rockruff. Blood dark as wine dried in streaks across his lips. Rest not for the idle Mycenaeans, but for the shaken hero.
"Must I entertain every measly opinion?" Agamemnon sighed bitterly, glaring from king to prince and king again. He stood with feet sternly apart, braced for a fight already, and his face was still red with anger. "We sail on now. I will not have this war delayed any further."
The rockruff shrank against Achilles, tucking her face away from Agamemnon. It stirred the demigod's blood again and he frowned. "I will camp the night here. You are welcome to cast off without us."
Agamemnon faced Achilles, staring at his eyes, puffing his chest out as if he could possibly break Achilles' will. But the golden boy stared back, eyes dark and back straight, unrelenting. Though Achilles had every physical advantage his greatest strength was that reputation. Sail on and disrespect the Achaean hero, set that as the tone for the rest of the war. Or remain, and bend to the whims of Achilles.
"One night," Agamemnon declared curtly. He turned sharply aside, flicking Achilles with the corners of his cloak while the rockruff hid her face in the crook of Achilles' arm. The other kings opened their mouths to speak and Agamemnon silenced them with a wordless exclamation, a raised hand. The rockruff flinched at the gesture even cowered as she was. Patroclus waited just long enough to determine there was nothing to be gained by speaking further, and then he set his feet away from the tent.
But he had to grab Achilles by the arm, and tug him away from the tent because the golden boy glared fiercely at Agamemnon and seemed poised to speak much harsher words. There was a time, not so long ago, when Patroclus only remembered Agamemnon as an irritating, pompous king stuck in his grandiose castle—not a liar, or murderer. As soon as they were free from the tent Patroclus wished to stop, to assess Achilles and wash the blood from his face. He restrained himself because of the Mycenaean soldiers still watching him, and the whole army turning confused eyes to Achilles. If the demigod himself was aware of their attention or not, Patroclus couldn't say. He walked with eyes dead ahead, focused on nothing but the path before him.
The Phthian host had made camp on the edges of the established army, closest to the beaches and assembled in hasty but professional rows. Refreshing were the eevees—and their many transformations—still milling about the encampment, chirping and playing no matter the circumstances, and acting as ill-behaved as ever. Patroclus could tell, now, that every beast brought along was obedient despite appearances. And the men, curious as they were about the sudden attitude of their prince, for once held their tongues and minded the distance between them and Achilles. Patroclus hadn't considered how years of drills, formations, and rigid schedules would actually turn rambunctious boys and feral eevees into an army. If he were not so concerned with Achilles, he may even have paused to appreciate the change.
It was not difficult in the Phthian camp to find the tent meant for Achilles. Many of the other soldiers shared barracks-style tents, or else erected bivouacs or even slept under the stars. But just as every host in the Achaean fleet had a commander, so too did every corner of the camp have a large tent meant for said leader. Patroclus picked out the tent and pushed Achilles into it, and the space within felt vacuous until Argos, Kallias, Pedasos, Iolaus, Kassandra, and Korinthia all invited themselves inside.
Achilles laughed weakly at them, and reached one hand to gently pet each animal in thanks. Those not receiving his attention investigated the newcomer in his arms, and Patroclus slipped between Argos and Iolaus to investigate the meager contents of the tent. One cot, one large vessel of water accessible by all the creatures, and one lyre. Below the cot, though, a pack identical to those Cobalion had provided for their trials.
"It's like Cobalion's cave," Patroclus attempted to say lightly. "It isn't so bad."
Achilles nodded, one hand still resting on Argos and the other cradling the rockruff. "We will go back as soon as this war is over."
A lump formed in Patroclus' throat. He had to swallow against it. "We will."
Achilles' shoulders eased, succumbing rather than relaxing. His hand, however, gripped Argos' mane in a fist.
"What are you thinking?" Patroclus asked, stepping around him and searching for his eyes. Their green was dull and vivid simultaneously, drained of color but not of monochrome life. He could see Achilles' mind fogged by thoughts but could only guess what they were. Memories of Pelion, of Phthia, or perhaps nothing at all.
"I want to name her," Achilles answered, mumbling at the rockruff more than Patroclus. "And I have to introduce you to the generals, so you can command them. And my charioteer, I had to pick him out of all the options my father provided but you need to meet him. And my mother, before I came, I spoke with my mother–"
He interrupted himself, sensing the discordant trails of topics. Patroclus placed hands on his shoulders, and trailed them slowly up to his chin, his jaw, his cheeks. And Patroclus met his eyes, hoping to steady him, imagining what he would want if their positions were opposite.
With a thumb, Patroclus swiped at the blood beneath Achilles' eye. It had dried mostly, leaving a scar of red dust when Patroclus shifted his thumb down to Achilles' mouth. But enough of it came free that he no longer looked fresh from battle.
Achilles chose a thought then. Fixing on Patroclus like a ship to a beacon in the night, he softly declared, "I want to name her Iphis."
The rockruff's ears twitched towards Achilles, but her round eyes flicked between both boys. Patroclus reached one hand gently to her, and she sniffed, but he decided not to touch her just yet. He returned the hand to Achilles' shoulder.
"Iphis is a good name," he said. At its simplest, it meant strength. Rockruff and her late companion both drew names from that root.
Achilles inhaled, exhaled deeply, and followed the next thought. "I had to choose generals. There are five, but I think you will know Phoenix. He was our history tutor. I can introduce you to the rest, so you can command them as my companion."
Patroclus nodded. He remembered Phoenix, though not by name until now. All of Achilles' tutors were selected specially by Peleus, which meant they were studious and kind even if their knowledge was shallower than Cobalion's. And if Achilles had chosen his own generals, they were sure to have similar traits. But to be made a commander over them…
"And a charioteer?" Patroclus asked.
"Yes." Achilles smiled at this. "So I can focus on fighting. His name is Automedon."
"Does he come with the chariot?" Patroclus teased.
Achilles laughed softly. "In a way. He has two rapidashes to keep up with Argos. We will be the fastest chariot on the battlefield."
"You will be." Patroclus tried to be brave, to smile for Achilles and imagine anything other than a chariot racing for outstretched spears and walls of flame and stone. "Fast enough to end the war without giving Agamemnon the satisfaction of battle."
"Imagine his face," Achilles agreed. But then his expression grew dire again, smile fading and eyes storming over. He inhaled deeply and removed a hand from Argos, trading it instead for the cuff of Patroclus' tunic. "I wish it could be so. But I have to tell you what my mother said."
Patroclus nodded. He loathed to recall Thetis in her terrible glory, nor her dismissive eyes that had watched him from the sea for years. Even worse was the dread, every encounter with the goddess chipping away the armor he spent years building. Her presence only served to set Achilles back on the course of fate.
But much as he couldn't bear to hear a prophecy as terrible as the last, he steeled himself for Achilles' sake. He kept both hands on Achilles' shoulders, hoping Achilles did not feel them tremble, and waited with bated breath.
"I–" The words were caught in his throat, dragging daggers the more he tried to voice them. Patroclus' fingers tightened against him, but he still waited. And Achilles said, looking down at the poor rockruff, "I will fall after one of Priam's sons. After Hector."
Without so much as a word to speak, Patroclus felt his eyes burn with tears. He blinked against them and nodded at Achilles. What was there to say? Fate narrowed down to a single trajectory, a war so glorious it would etch Achilles' name into the stone of history and seal his death. Patroclus hadn't considered the aftermath, the aching hollow left in the world without Achilles, the emptiness he had felt years ago when Achilles had been sent to Pelion alone. He hadn't considered that even in death they may never be reunited. Achilles would ascend to Elysium, perhaps godhood, and Patroclus would be cast into the desolate fields. Death would only affirm what he long feared in life: he was unworthy of the demigod.
Achilles watched him with growing panic. Patroclus could feel the tension returning to his shoulders, his heart pounding. His lips parted, then shut again. His brows creased, running deep lines across his face like cracks in a mural. But Patroclus could not find the words to comfort him.
Instead, he released Achilles and dug into the pack laid at the foot of the cot. It was clearly prepared by Cobalion, a parting gift to his greatest student. Patroclus retrieved a rag, dipped it in the water vessel, and brought it to Achilles' face. Gently, while his gaze slid between Achilles' eyes and the rest of his face, Patroclus began to wipe away the blood. From the faded red streak beneath his eye to the flakes that melted into the water near his lips, Patroclus washed the blood from Achilles' skin. And Achilles stared, his expression indiscernible.
When he finished with Achilles he turned his attention to the rockruff. Little Iphis regarded him with a similar panic as Achilles, but Patroclus introduced his hand first and then the rag. Iphis received both with a wary sniff, though as soon as Patroclus touched the rag to the splotches of blood adorning her stones she settled. Achilles used both hands to turn her about. And together they cleaned blood from every fiber and fleck of the tiny beast.
"I protect you, and you protect me," Patroclus said at last, his voice shaking.
Achilles nodded. "We stay together."
With that, he set the rockruff on the ground. He stayed knelt beside her, watching as she approached Argos and the great beast lowered his head to sniff more thoroughly. Kallias, naturally, was second to meet the newcomer, popping between Argos' forelimbs. Then the rest came, slowly as if sensing Iphis' reluctance. The poor pup stood with her tail drooping and her ears pinned, and leaned away from each new face. Once they retreated, though, her ears flicked back up. She padded away from Achilles. So he stood.
Patroclus hitched the rag between his fingers and used his now free hands to reach for the buckles on Achilles' armor. Achilles helped him with every gleaming clasp, and slipped the metal shell off his shoulders not unlike a shelgon blooming into a salamence. In armor, Achilles was simply a warrior, but in his own skin he was unrivaled. Patroclus balanced the armor on one arm, and carefully re-wet the rag.
"You're not my squire," Achilles insisted.
But Patroclus took the breastplate anyway, and scrubbed at the blood with the dampened rag. "You should have one. Ajax does, you know."
"Ajax?" Achilles looked bewildered. "Who would squire for him?"
"Lycophron," Patroclus answered. He'd met the so-called squire a few times, usually in passing, when searching for Ajax. Though his own heart was still heavy, he decided it was appropriate to lighten the mood. "You know, when we saw your ships, Ajax told me my bride had arrived."
Achilles snorted. "He has no place to say such things, when he has his own bride masquerading as a squire."
"You're not so different after all," Patroclus teased, brandishing the breastplate for good measure.
"Give it here." Achilles reached unsuccessfully for the armor, which Patroclus shifted out of reach. "You're more important than these chores."
A smile made its way to Patroclus' face. "So are you."
"We both need squires," Achilles determined. He searched for Iphis, who had curled into a tight ball only to be surrounded by Argos. "Or less responsibilities."
"We could travel lighter without armor," Patroclus said, drawing on fonder memories of riding Argos across windy plains, through forests, and walking into palaces with clay-soaked feed. Now they were bogged down with armor, and weapons, and the bloat of a full army around them.
"If it were us alone, we would have the war sorted out before it could begin." Achilles frowned, but in his petty way rather than seriously. It was the same expression he'd made, trapped by Agamemnon's bastiodons and fed up with pomp. "We would find Helen and return her."
Patroclus set the cleaned breastplate down. "You would foil Agamemnon's plans to conquer Troy."
"He deserves it."
Even with the heaviness of the camp air surrounding them, Patroclus hadn't felt so light in weeks. It had been so long since they had separated, hiding themselves away from war. His heart ached for Pelion, and Cobalion, as he laid that night with Achilles in his arms. But no matter how much he longed for days gone by, he couldn't dissuade the relief. The warmth of the golden boy's skin, his sturdy breath, even his restlessness. Neither of them could sleep much, not with the grim sight of Iphigenia's sacrifice still imprinted in their eyes. But even without sleep Patroclus found rest, relieved even though the morning would bring war. Even though he had witnessed firsthand the brutality, the unbothered bloodlust of the king leading them to war. He felt light because Achilles was there, and for that one night no one could force Achilles away.
Early in the morning they were woken by Kallias. His ribbons trickled across their faces, and he chirped quietly, nervously. Patroclus was first to sit up, watching the sylveon for any indication as to why he was so timid, and in those moments of silence before Achilles sat up too he heard the clamoring of camp. Agamemnon had only given them the night after all.
The sun was barely above the horizon when Patroclus exited the tent. Scurrying past were Phthian soldiers, breaking down temporary shelters and loading supplies into warships. Patroclus barely recognized the faces, nor the creatures that bounded around with them attempting to help—sometimes successfully. He was followed by Kallias and Iolaus, while Kassandra took to the skies alone and circled above the host.
By the time Achilles emerged, Patroclus was already helping with the preparations. He'd been a longshoreman for those months alone; it was all he could do to feel useful now. No matter what Achilles said about his role, the position of power he was meant to hold, Patroclus didn't very well have the fortitude to give orders. Not yet. He worked with Kallias on his shoulder, Iolaus aiding with ropes and fetching items aboard an actual ship, and Kassandra trilled gently while still soaring. But at the sight of proud Argos, and the clattering of Pedasos' scales, the entirety of the Phthian army halted their work.
Patroclus was not allowing himself to think about the circumstances. Instead, he smiled at Achilles as if this were any morning, speaking to him with a formality he remembered from another lifetime. "We will be ready to cast off soon."
Achilles, no such concern for pleasantries, huffed, "Let's not give Agamemnon that satisfaction."
"Then," Patroclus abandoned his task, and the ever-helpful Iolaus jumped away from the ship he monitored, "you wanted to introduce me to your men."
"You're too productive," Achilles said with a smirk. But he beckoned Patroclus along nonetheless, and they parted the seas of soldiers. Achilles searched them for the promised generals, and the charioteer, while Patroclus watched all the proud eevees marching to show their loyalty.
They walked the line of ships, sturdy and freshly painted, the wind of the sea familiar if nothing else. Patroclus met Phoenix, the first commander, an elderly man whose face drummed up old insecurities as Patroclus recalled his lessons. And he needed little introduction to the second commander, Eudoros, one of his brethren from his first weeks in Phthia. Eudoros was accompanied by a flareon, who churred with jealousy at Kallias on his master's shoulder.
And the flickering fiery manes of two rapidashes could be none other than Automedon. Patroclus envisioned the charioteer as another bold man, one like Eudoros with sturdy shoulders and a polite but unfriendly air. In actuality, Automedon was younger than them, and held reins on both the rapidashes as they tossed their heads and stomped. While the beasts seemed to respect him, minding his subtle cues and flicking their ears towards him as he spoke, he was young and uncertain still. And the rapidashes, in turn, were uncertain.
Such unsteady feelings began to weigh greater on Patroclus after they were loaded onto the boats. The seas, roiling under the now ferocious winds, caused his stance to sway. He searched for the eyes—for the sea nymph who hated him so—but was met only with seafoam and wine-dark waters. He gripped the rail and stood against the wind, and Achilles stood behind him to watch over his shoulder. Achilles only rested a hand upon the rail, only to draw closer to Patroclus, and with his free arm held Kallias in case the boat pitched unexpectedly. The winds would propel them with ease all the way to Troy, but there was no certainty the seas themselves would not dash them against the rocks.
Like rattling bones were the first few ships to crash into Trojan sand. Their soldiers leapt into the shallows, slogging through mud and seafoam as a host of beasts better prepared sprinted ahead. Of the Phthians, Eudoros was the first in the sands with his flareon patrolling a wide arc around him; he carried a grand spear and pointed it for the throats of what Trojan soldiers had assembled, and the path he cut up the beaches was widened by the Phthians who followed. Bursts of flame from the flareon ignited the sand and Eudoros marched in the wake of them. While there were many streaks of Achaean forces pushing up the beaches, Eudoros led them all.
Patroclus braced himself as their own boat neared the shore. The oarsmen and the wind hurtled the ship at breakneck speed, wind roaring, lumber groaning. Further up the sandy hills stood rows of archers, just awoken from an uneventful watch, but even as they scrambled to gather whole quivers they loosed enough wayward arrows to blanket the sky. Troy had been well prepared.
The ship lurched against the sand, and Patroclus with it. He felt Achilles' hand grab his tunic, but the gesture was distracted. He turned back and saw Achilles' eyes trained on the hills, brows knitted, shoulders taut. Achilles released Patroclus and set Kallias on the deck of the ship, and then leaped ashore.
Argos hurdled after him, and Pedasos too. Even as the sand sucked down the ankles of other soldiers Achilles ran through it unhindered. Argos' mighty paws beat the sand in dull thuds, like war drums, and he quickly overtook Achilles. The golden boy's shouts directed Argos, and the bold arcanine sprinted through the trench forged by Eudoros. Achilles himself followed, but Argos would mark the introduction of Aristos Achaean to battle. Argos surpassed the furthest of the Achaean forces, sprinting fluidly but thunderously, weaving between the hail of arrows, and locked onto an archer. In another moment, Argos pounced on him. Patroclus could just barely see as the archer's head snapped backward into the sand, and Argos' flames ignited around him.
All this before Patroclus had even disembarked. The other Phthians were already leaping ashore, a host of eevees and bolder monsters following. Patroclus waited for Kallias to climb onto his shoulder, and scooped up the terrified Iphis in the same breath. Iolaus and Kassandra made their own way over the rails of the ship and Patroclus followed. His feet landed in the mud and were engulfed. But he and the few soldiers who remained hauled the ship further up the beach, out of the reach of stronger waves. He searched for Korinthia amongst the ripples but could not find her—he assumed she must have followed Achilles in the fray, then.
Neither he nor Achilles had been armed. Armored, yes, anticipating that they would reach Troy, making a show of it. He saw from afar that Achilles had disarmed an unsuspecting Trojan, using the soldier's spear in brutal thrusts, drawing blooms of red blood. Patroclus kept the rockruff tucked tightly under one arm, and Kallias perched on the other shoulder, and attempted to find any wayward spear on the ground. Anything to defend himself and the tiny creatures.
He was not prepared to fight.
The sky was silver and swollen with rain. As Patroclus brandished his spear the rain burst through, as did howls of distant thunder. He was surrounded by soldiers still reaching for weapons, leaping off ships, pressing together and rippling apart like the waves. He couldn't walk forward, not without asserting his way through more eager men, so instead he followed whatever surges allowed him to see flames climbing the hill, and Achilles golden like lightning through the misty raindrops. And like lightning, he only saw him in flashes.
The wayward Trojans soon retreated to their walls, pursued by all manner of howling monster and feral soldier. He had barely crawled from the wet sand when Achaeans raised their voices in a triumphant cry. Patroclus' shoulders sagged, tension snapping out of them, nearly dislodging Kallias had the sylveon not been so accustomed to shifting. Barely a first battle, skirmishes after a hasty landfall, but he had come away unscathed. More importantly, his companions were safe.
Ships continued to crash against the beaches and lightning tore open the clouds. Patroclus pushed through dry sand, into clay and dust, through weeds and patchy grass, following a scorched and smoldering trail in search of Achilles. His heart threatened to catch in his throat, but he clung to baby Iphis and breathed deeply, confident that Achilles could survive just a skirmish. He was jostled, sometimes intentionally, by other Achaeans freshly bloodied and still surging from battle. He was directed to Achilles by warriors who had no clue where the golden boy was, congratulated despite having no part in the fight. It shook worry from him, enough to quicken his pace, even against the gradual hill. Iphis whimpered into his arms, so he lifted her higher. Still they ascended, Patroclus and Iphis and Kallias, Kassandra soaring overhead, Iolaus dashing between legs. Their feet stirred the dust, greaves clamoring at each step, still steered by well meaning soldiers.
Like a crown, Achilles shone atop the last lines of soldiers. Salt wind whipped his hair, like flames, like Argos' mane. He faced Troy, back turned to the beach, so as Patroclus approached he too stared up at the city. Korinthia stood solemnly beside Achilles, mirroring his posture, but Argos was roaming and sniffing, and bounded up to Patroclus with his tongue lolling happily. But Pedasos…
He didn't recognize the grand beast at Achilles' side. Taller, packed with muscle, shimmering golden scales in trellises that clattered in the wind and rain. Slowly swishing his tail, dragging its plates in the sand, Pedasos was a kommo-o.
Some sound escaped his lips, unintelligible. Achilles and his companions swirled around, the golden boy's face gentle despite new streaks of blood and mud. Patroclus offered him a brief look but could only focus on Pedasos, who dropped his head almost sheepishly.
"When did this happen?" Patroclus asked of the beast, though it was Achilles who answered.
"He was with Argos, and overtook him." Achilles rested a hand against Pedasos' bulky shoulder, the jangling scales. "He must have been strong enough to earn this."
Patroclus reached curled fingers for Pedasos' nose, and no matter how noble the dragon rested his muzzle gratefully against them. Bred to fight alongside Achilles, raised to rest with Patroclus.
"Cobalion will be proud," Patroclus said. Even as the words passed his lips, he knew they were a lie.
He tried to envision the scene, crafting it from the splatters of blood on Pedasos' claws, the gore on his fangs. And he tried not to envision where the blood came from, human or animal, neither choice a good one. But he could imagine Pedasos forging ahead, determined to outpace the flashier arcanine, and one of the bolts from the sky striking as Pedasos' form suddenly rivaled Argos. The soldiers surely fled when they saw it, knowing Zeus had chosen sides in the conflict.
His blood went cold. Conflict amongst the Olympians. If Zeus had chosen sides, who else would?
"Perhaps we will be done with war in time to finish our trial here," Achilles offered quietly, glancing back over his shoulder. Further up the hill rose Troy, pillars of its impregnable walls like mountain peaks. They had scaled more treacherous than that.
Denying every prophecy in play, Patroclus nodded. "We can find a dratini while we're at it."
Troy, the City of Dragons, unconquered and unyielding. Patroclus tried to pretend they were here only for the trial, that the gates would be open and welcome them in, and that Priam would usher them off to some son running his trial instead. The sacred dratinis were said to roam the city streets, making their dens in architecture developed with creatures in mind, friendly but very particular about choosing human companions. He hadn't had time to dream of trials in Troy—so close to being freed from human politics forever—but if he had, he would dream of those dragons. An entire lineage blessed by Zeus, and all of them kindly and beautiful.
They returned to the beaches together. Descending through soldiers and clamoring spears, Patroclus watched his step. His skin crawled at the thought of disturbing a body, though thankfully there were few to be found. Achilles was summoned away by kings to discuss the early victory, and though Achilles beckoned him along he could not stomach the thought. He returned to the boats with his own companions, with Achilles' rockruff still carefully wrapped in his arms. He only set Iphis down when it came time to assemble camp.
The Phthians tried to dissuade him, already informed of his status within the army, but Patroclus would hear none of it. He drove stakes in the sand, and strung the careful trappings about them, like any lowly squire whose sandals barely survived the muddy beach. He worked in tandem with Iolaus, whose sailor training translated well to such a task, while Kassandra soared overhead keeping watch. He kept an ear trained on her, convinced that if she saw danger he would understand, and hoping she would herald the return of Achilles. Surely he would find his way back; they were at the very edge of the fleet, far away from Agamemnon's flagship, their camp bordering jagged rocks and wilderness beyond. As he tied knots and heaved jugs, preparing not just Achilles' tent but the Phthian camp as a whole, he found his eyes wandering to the woods.
The sun was high in the sky and blazing on their camp by the time Achilles returned. Patroclus was arranging lances when his fellow soldiers stiffened, signaling the prince's return before Kassandra. When Patroclus noticed, he checked her position in the sky and still found her soaring lazy circles, little more than a cloud. She was not watching for Achilles anymore.
Achilles shed his armor like a ninjask, and lowly soldiers rushed to pick it up. "Troy has been sealed up since we arrived. They say there is no point in attacking the walls today."
"So we've started a siege?" Patroclus guessed.
"Unfortunately," Achilles snorted. He paused before Patroclus and tore the greaves from his feet. He was not meant to be shod. "There will be a raiding party soon. We may as well participate."
"Don't you need armor?" Patroclus eyed the sandals and greaves sinking into mud. More boys and especially bold eevees scampered forward to retrieve them.
Achilles kept walking for his tent—recognizing it better than Patroclus, with its grandiose standards and especially large boundaries. "It will hardly be a fight. Help me choose."
He disappeared within the tent and Patroclus was quick to follow. While he heard the boys leave Achilles' armor outside he did not check to ensure every piece was accounted for; Achilles made a game of dressing and undressing him, casting the bronze plates and course fibers, the supple leather, across the secret space. Patroclus hadn't arranged the inside yet, and hadn't much cared to, so Achilles dug through the possessions allotted to him to find all manner of treasures and gifts. Plenty of fanciful, showy armor, helmets with enormous mudsdale plumes, breastplates with godly battles carved into the metal. Patroclus allowed Achilles' hands to wander him, tightening buckles, because Achilles touched him reverently and all of it was still a game. Hidden in the shade of their own tent, a poor imitation for Cobalion's cave, he believed they were only playing at war.
Iphis nestled herself amidst discarded shields, and Argos—who had muscled his way inside the tent despite his size—curled around her. But Kallias participated in the armor game gleefully, twirling between Achilles' legs and reaching for glimmering buckles with his ribbons. Patroclus could swear he saw Kallias laugh.
When they had settled on Patroclus' armor, negotiating for a more standard soldier's garb, they dressed Achilles lightly. Reluctantly he allowed Patroclus to string his sandals, admitting they may be necessary on a battlefield littered with fallen weapons and splintered wood. And they emerged from the tent to the meandering Phthians, all who averted their gazes from the tent but clearly lingered nearby waiting for the command. Kassandra dove back to greet them as Achilles rallied the troops, which drew smiles all around as her cloudy plumes brushed a lucky few. Iphis remained, hidden safely in the discarded armor.
Automedon waited near the edge of the camp, with his rapidashes already hitched and a jolteon waiting shyly behind the chariot's grand wheel. Patroclus knelt to introduce himself, and the jolteon sniffed while Automedon beamed. Achilles fitted Argos with the yoke himself, and Argos would always trust him but stood rigidly within the straps. They had never thought to practice such a thing.
"I will cut you loose," Achilles promised softly, hands buried in Argos' mane, and Argos bowed his head. And then he mounted the chariot, Automedon following swiftly, and called them to march.
As they joined with the larger host, set on a collection of local villages, Patroclus fell in beside Eudoros. Though he remembered the boy—the man, rather—from his youth he couldn't think of anything worth saying. They had shared what to Patroclus had been torture, and in a sea of eevees Patroclus only ever recognized his own. But Patroclus would fulfill his duty as therapon, taking up arms amongst Achilles' generals, and if that meant rubbing shoulders with a strapping soldier like Eudoros, so be it.
"I'm sorry," Eudoros said, jolting him. When he turned his attention on Eudoros, the soldier fidgeted with the hilt of his short sword. "When your zigzagoon, er, linoone, when that happened. I didn't intervene."
Patroclus shrugged. "No one did."
And to regret it now was only to curry favor with Achilles.
"When Peleus assembled us for war, I made sure those responsible were passed over." Eudoros glanced at Patroclus and then retracted his gaze. "Such character shouldn't be rewarded."
"We were children," Patroclus said. An old, grim memory stirred in the back of his mind. A boy, his beloved Iolaus, and jagged rocks.
"Even so. None among the Myrmidons has a right to be power-hungry."
"Myrmidons?"
Eudoros smiled within his helmet. "Achilles' chosen."
Patroclus watched him, gauging the truth of such a statement. Proximity to Achilles made any of them desirable, and Eudoros was as close as any of the Phthian boys could hope to come. But the name, Myrmidons, was hardly a heroic title. Worker durants and little more.
"I like it," Patroclus admitted.
He donned his own helmet then, sick of carrying it and hearing the initial clattering of swords, but more importantly he saw Achilles perk up. And then Automedon was shouting shaky commands to his mounts and to Argos, and the fiery trio roared off. It sent a ripple through the Myrmidons, and with spears brandished they began to charge. Patroclus still had Kallias on his shoulder, as always, but he struggled to keep a line of sight on Iolaus. He could only trust that the swift-footed beast would follow, and wouldn't be swept away in the emerging chaos.
The soldiers flowed like waters undamned, from marching to sprinting. There were no tactics at play; one moment Patroclus was pushed between the Myrmidons and the next he was sprinting in open air. The nearest buildings—barely more than fishermen's huts—were already littered with arrows and spear shafts. He was carrying a spear of his own. He gripped the weapon between shaking hands and tried to steel himself for using it. The tear of flesh made his own crawl, too similar to scissors in thread, the Fates pulling taut lifestrings. Kassandra soared above like Achilles' standard-bearer and the clouds still spilled rain aggressively, though the thunder was long gone, so she shimmered as a single point of light.
Argos bayed somewhere in the distance, and the rapidashes whinnied with him. Patroclus searched for Achilles and forgot himself, arms hanging with the spear uselessly slung between his fists, and he didn't see the spear shaft until Kallias leapt from his shoulder to dodge it. He ducked and Kallias returned, climbing gracefully while Patroclus' every step danced around the attacker. It was a true soldier, not just a desperate fisherman. And he had no time to overthink the moment.
He fell into the familiar positions, Kallias as counterweight, losing sight of every other creature but the point of the spear. His heart bade him to stay light, to allow the soldier to tire himself out with hefty stabs and gained footing. He deflected with the shaft of the spear and protected himself, dodging haxoruses and lucarios and lycanrocs. He didn't even notice a monster alongside the soldier.
Was this how Achilles felt? Tactics to the wayside, letting wordless memory guide his steps, absorbing blows with his own weapon.
No, because while Achilles chose to wait for his moment to strike, Patroclus had to. Achilles had disappeared in a path carved in flames, no hesitation. But Patroclus fought on, dodging, biding time, until finally the soldier swung just wide enough. A gap beneath his arm, between the plates of his armor, and Patroclus aimed his spear right for it. It plunged in with surgical imprecision.
The soldier screamed and Patroclus felt the blade sawing through tendons, through the layers of flesh that parted like spinarak webs or dried grass. And then he felt it grind against bone. He wrenched it out with blood and slips of skin spewing.
The soldier's arm fell uselessly, and he tried in vain to raise it in any way. His grip weakened, his weapon clattered to the ground, and Patroclus' own resolve faltered. Kallias leaned back, positioning him against another blow, so he planted the butt of his spear in the ground. The wounded soldier stared at him, suspicious and confused, pacing without turning away. When Patroclus nodded sharply away from the battlefield the soldier grabbed his useless arm and sprinted.
But Patroclus watched as a thrown spear ruptured through the soldier's head, and he collapsed into the dust instantly. And he watched as a poliwag pushed its way through the crowd, as the small creature bumped into its fallen master's damaged arm. He felt sick, and clung uselessly to his spear.
Kallias reached for the poliwag with his ribbons but Patroclus marched them both away. He was now desperate to find Iolaus and the depths of his heart longed to chase after Achilles too. Scars from chariot wheels and faltering flames painted a map of the golden boy's destruction and Patroclus wondered if he could reasonably follow them. He avoided engaging anyone else, ducking and dodging and sprinting. When needed he deflected blows with the shaft of his spear but he avoided raising its sullied point on another creature. He dared not watch the ground below him and its trails of blood and bodies.
But another soldier came at him, and this time he stumbled. He wasn't as graceful as Achilles, and had tired himself out foolishly in his haste to escape. This new soldier was equipped with a basic sword and shield, which gave Patroclus the advantage of reach and little else, and even that was useless if he couldn't keep his ground. The soldier pushed at him, hacking away at his spear which was Patroclus' only defense. But Achilles had armored him well, and when his spear shattered in two he blocked blows with his bracers. The sting of the blows still reached him, and he rattled, but the blunt sword couldn't pierce his armor so easily.
Kallias hurled stars at the soldier, and then new beams of light which flowed like white fire and left scorches on the attacker. Patroclus tried to lighten his feet again, but he couldn't move quick enough for every swipe and stab. He could only absorb blows and try to back up.
The soldier's face erupted in agony suddenly, and a feral screech made Patroclus look down. Beige jaws with surprisingly sharp teeth had sunk into the soldier's unprotected calf. He recognized Iolaus with a rush of relief, though Iolaus tore a chunk from the soldier's leg.
As the soldier recoiled from the wound Patroclus surged into him, knocking him to the ground. Kallias leapt recklessly from his perch and bit the soldier's sword hand, and the weapon clattered to the ground where Iolaus kicked it aside. Patroclus swung a wild fist at the soldier and connected, knuckles shattering up his arm, with the soldier's jaw. Unlike Patroclus, he wasn't wearing a helmet. But he still threw Patroclus back with his shield.
Patroclus scrambled to recover. He dropped to one knee and his hand touched down in the mud, but he felt frayed leather and cold metal and retrieved the fallen sword. When he regained his balance it was with a sharp upswing from the sword, blade whistling, its gale alone pushing the soldier back. He still had the shield but Patroclus had two beasts and whatever strength was left in his arms. No more dodging; he didn't have to guard anymore, only coax an opening.
An inferno bloomed from nothing. It engulfed the soldier and he screamed, trying to leap away from the flames. Patroclus stepped back and shielded his eyes, the soldier threw himself into the mud, and the telltale arcanine appeared shortly behind his flames. Argos leapt upon the soldier and Patroclus turned away. He still heard the soldier beg for mercy and Argos snarling, jaws snapping.
"Come on," Patroclus commanded, calling off the war-dog. Argos left the blubbering soldier with a final warning bite and bounded after Patroclus. When he dared look at Argos his mane was flecked with blood and mud, his jaws filthy, but his eyes were the same puppyish as ever. His heart broke but he grabbed a ruff of Argos' mane and dropped the sword.
He saw the chariot with twin rapidashes still racing circles around the battlefield, spreading trails of fire, but it only bore Automedon. Achilles must have grown bored with riding. And the arcanine by his side certainly meant he had taken the field properly.
The fighting was beginning to thin. The battle decidedly won by the invaders, with the small force amassed by fishermen worth nothing against the best of the Achaeans. Patroclus held onto Argos, and nobody attacked him again. Even his allies stepped aside. He slipped Kallias from his shoulder and held tightly to him, clutching him in one arm, and Iolaus padded along. With the strained limits of his vision he saw Kassandra still above, up in the clouds.
He followed an assembling crowd and Argos' subtle guidance. It led him away from the town in shambles, towards Achaeans shouting victoriously and brandishing spears, banging on their shields, chanting for the honor and pride of one king or another. He began to see the red strings of trial tokens, stitched into armor or strung around beasts, an army gathered not just from loyal vassals but from traded favors. From the manipulation of children. He wondered if Lyta had been summoned, if she had ignored the call and it hadn't been worthwhile to search for her. He wondered if that was why she went so publicly by Lyta rather than Hippolyta.
He saw Achilles and Pedasos gathered among other important men. Unlike them, or at least unlike Agamemnon, he stood with a bloodstained breastplate and his face sprayed with mud, still patterned around his helmet which he held under an arm. For a moment Patroclus was consumed with worry, searching the golden boy for any new injuries. Achilles could bleed, he had seen it. But as far as he could tell, still shoving his way through the crowd, Achilles was unscathed. In fact, he almost looked bored.
Until he saw Patroclus. He shouted for Argos and the beast in turn pricked up his ears, starting to trot as Patroclus released him, and the crowd parted in kind. He removed his helm, breathing the metallic air, and Achilles melted at the sight of him unharmed. They stood together while the other kings and princes finished assembling, and only then did Patroclus see the heaps of plundered goods. And the woman.
Her wrists were bound and she stood, a smoldering expression trained on the lowly guards who bordered her. By her side was a furret that growled and swiveled its head at every slight shift in the guards and the crowd. She had Achilles' spitfire sternness, compliance as frustratingly as possible. The last girl he'd seen led by Agamemnon's soldiers had paid the ultimate price, and fear rose in his throat. He tugged a loose strap on Achilles' armor.
"Who is she?" he whispered urgently.
Achilles was trying to take the helm from his hands, fretting despite watchful eyes, and glanced over his shoulder at the woman as if this was the first he'd noticed. "Apparently they rescued her from a pyroar. She's to be one of the war prizes."
"Claim her." Barely comprehending what Achilles had said, Patroclus acted entirely on the instinct he should have heeded before.
"Why?" Achilles was distracted with the deep gouges in Patroclus' bracers.
"Just claim her."
Achilles was a strangely familiar pale. Holding his arm tenderly, unkempt after a battle. Patroclus blinked and was back on Pelion, in a night filled with luxray lightning. He hadn't thought about those scars in so long, but Achilles caressed the armor the same way he had the fresh wounds all those years ago.
Nevertheless, Achilles nodded. He released Patroclus and they waited together as the kings finished assembling and spoke empty praises to the gods for this victory. Patroclus could only watch the captive, and the spears, and he prayed silently to any god that would listen that she would remain safe until Achilles could make his claim.
She noticed his gaze, though. And she regarded him with a festering hate.
When it was announced that the kings and princes may begin to claim prizes, Achilles leapt before the others. It was not his place, not even as Aristos Achaion. Some of the kings clearly had only come for the spoils, and hadn't even made the effort of dressing for battle, while others had worn ceremonial armor. Only Diomedes and Menelaus seemed bloodied at all, them and Achilles, but even among them Achilles cut the most daunting figure. He marched before Agamemnon and his teeth glimmered through the blood sprayed across his lips, and claimed rights on the girl.
The grand king made no effort to contain his disgust. His own breastplate shimmered fresh without a hint of the battlefield, and his braviary perched behind him with feathers ruffled menacingly. But Achilles stood with Argos, and Pedasos lingering nearby, and all of them were darkened by dried blood. As improper as it was for Achilles to jump the order, it would look even worse for the glimmering king to refuse a battle-weary hero.
Patroclus' heart pounded. He'd seen enough bodies torn apart today, enough homes on fire. A girl saved from a pyroar deserved better than a forced role as an invader's prize.
Agamemnon ceded. He spoke nobly, emphasizing his generosity and gratitude, and Achilles was already ignoring him. With this permission Patroclus stormed the woman's guards and subtly signaled for Iolaus to chase them off. Though he was no mighty monster, Iolaus' bloodstained teeth were scary enough to send the guards running.
"Come with me," Patroclus murmured to her, hoping he wasn't too threatening with his helmet removed and any trace of weapons long gone. The furret growled at him, wrapped around her master's legs, but Kallias growled back. The girl watched his face for a long moment, dark eyes thundering, wrists testing the strength of her bindings. So he added, even quieter, "I'll keep you safe."
Achilles was already leaving the assembly, so Patroclus followed. The woman hesitated and her furret swished her tail, but one look at the remaining men and she made her choice. She went with them.
