A/N: A few nights ago, I read the novel The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller, and it's one of the best books I've read in 2016. However, the one scene where Achilles finds out about Patroclus' death seemed rushed, and I wasn't fond of how it was written, especially since it's the tragedy and climax of the novel--the most important part. So because of this (and also being I am obsessed with the notion that Achilles and Patroclus were more than just friends), I decided to re-write it. I call this Repercussions.
I had woken up late that morning. The dry air smothered my throat as I shifted my body in discomfort. I laid on my back, quietly, shivering under the cool sheets where he should be sleeping.
Patroclus. Even his name could melt me into liquid.
However, a wave of eerie calmness settled around me just then. The lolling sound of waves licking the shoreline brought anxiety; I had not heard it in a while. They were always overrun by the screams and cheers of rowdy men. It took me less than a second to know something had gone wrong.
“They should be back by now,” I whispered to myself.
I got up from my cot and walked to pour myself a glass of water, my hand bringing it up to lips. I swallowed the cool liquid and sat down at the small table, completely unaware and oblivious to my surroundings. The poignant thought of, “Where is he?” was keeping me awake.
Where is he where is he where is he.
It was only a few moments later that I heard the soft beating of feet against sand and dirt. The familiar sound of clanking metal grew louder and louder, but I dared not to move from my chair. They have arrived.
I knew what would happen next:
He would come into my tent (for he obviously need no permission to enter).
He would tell me about the men he had killed.
I would comfort him in soft words and kisses.
He would ask if I would be joining him this time while I soothed his tense muscles in my hands.
He would leave the next morning in my armor once more.
I would miss the smell and taste of him, longing for him, slowly regretting it.
For certain, he would be here, and he’d be Patroclus again; it would be us again. Even just for a moment.
I felt my heart beating rapidly in anticipation, but all I found was the swaying curtain door in the wind, waiting for someone to move it—for him to move it. Except, he never came. My teeth rattled with suspicion and worry while my eyes stung with confusion.
It was not long before I could not stand the feeling that was buried deep in my stomach. Quickly, I stood and pushed aside the tent flap. My knees were shaking in pools of emotion, but I dare not let any of these men see it.
I skirted my eyes around the area. Soldiers were still coming in, like waves in the distance. Somewhere in the center, there were a pool of them gathering around a body, blood blossoming under the white cloth. I thought, Patroclus would tell me what happened. Of this I was certain.
The men that had arrived all sat down lazily, beaten and bloody, their armor hanging from their bodies limply. It was pathetic.
“Where is he?” I asked them. Everyone knew who I was talking about. No one answered.
“Where is he?” I repeated. Many averted their eyes. I could not breathe. My ears were ringing loudly.
Looking up, I saw that Odysseus and Menelaus were close now, just a few footsteps away. They held the dead body I had seen before. The two of them saw me, looked down, and numbness overwhelmed me. I looked at the body. Dark locks slipped from under the blanket, a grass-stained arm laid limp on the side. The blood was rust on the cloth covering whoever that was. It is not him, I thought, it could not be.
It was not long before they were standing next to me, their eyes downcast. They placed the body down, gently, by my feet. Knowledge rushed to my head, and I pushed the two of them away, knocking them off their feet. Kneeling before the shroud, I unveiled the cloth to reveal him, and just like that, for a single moment, the world stilled completely. The sound of birds and waves hushed in silence, holding their breath. The men were not looking at me; I was not looking at the men.
How odd it was that just yesterday I traced his jaw and collarbone with my fingers, his soft skin against mine. His breath, voice, muscles, eyes, lips, I had memorized every corner, every nook, every breathing, living inch of him in the dark.
The world then stole the air from lungs like a burglar. I gasped and trembled in horror as I now fully understood.
No. I collapsed onto the body that lay still, pale and wounded. My tears turned into howling cries, and I ripped my hair out of scalp in such uncontrollable and fiery anguish. Patches of it fell by his face—his face that was still so beautiful. I cradled his body in my arms, trying to leech any last gasp of breath, life out of him.
Someone—Odysseus, I believe, reached out for his body, trying to take him away from my grasp, urging me to rest. Rage overwhelmed me; I almost killed him, but that meant I would have to let go of Patroclus. I could not. I would not. His skin was still smooth, but it was cold as ice. I screamed even louder. Patroclus, I wailed. Patroclus, Patroclus. I could not let go of him.
I pressed my heart against his chest, only to meet his still one, and I cried even louder.
It is much later when many soldiers leave in discomfort. Let them, I think wryly, they do not understand. Agamemnon, Menelaus, and Odysseus still crouched around me, however, but they did not dare to touch me, nor his body.
I was laying on top of him, cradling his face with my hand as I would have before. My lips shook. “Who did this?” I strained out. My voice was unrecognizable. Cracked. Broken.
Someone replied, “Hektor.”
I grabbed my ash spear roughly, standing.
“No.” I swiveled around to face Odysseus. “Tomorrow we will leave. Rest,” he said. “Eat.”
No, I remember thinking, for that would keep me alive.
I turned to look at all of them, their useless lives spared. They stared back at me in pity or fear—I could not tell.
I growled. “He should have just let you all die.”
It was later in the day. I took his body to our tent and gently placed him in our bed. I laid down next to him, thinking.
Even just the sound of his name, rolling off my tongue or thoughts, sent vengeance boiling and rippling through every nerve in my body. I had never tasted so much hate in one word before.
You killed the man that I loved, I mused, as if talking to him. Know that I will beat you, torture you, kill you and dishonor your body as it deserves. There will be no mercy upon you or your pleas, and not even the gods will think or do anything of it.
My anger mixed with my agony. The ceaseless tears rolled down my face and neck.
I looked down at my beautiful Patroclus. He did this to you, gods, he did this to us. He only laid still, and I wept. It was his face that made me stop thinking of anyone else. I loved him with enough passion for both of us.
An ordinary night, he would have stared back at me, tracing the planes of my body underneath the softs pads of his fingertips, our faces pressed against each other’s underneath the sheets. It was then that I howled and cried once more, holding him in my arms. I never moved.
Even when the sun disappeared under ocean, marking the end of the day.
Even when it rose the next morning, marking the start of a new one.
Life, as I saw it, was just a repercussion of my sorrow.
~
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| Achilles Lamenting the Death of Patroclus (1855) by Nikolai Ge |
