achilles

A face shines up at the sun, head thrown back, a shock of golden hair spiraling from the scalp. Eyes closed, lips red as the berries crushed beneath delicate, petal-veined feet, heels pink as licking tongues. Muscles shift beneath a fine tunic, undulating like a thousand snakes, twisting and serpentine. The fabric clings to a lean figure, a creamy glow wrapping itself around him, smooth and heady like whipped butter in a clay amphora. Light ripples through the leaves, marbled patterns coalescing on fair skin. Rough cheeks red with exertion, the tip of the nose flushed and rubescent. The skin around the calves is stretched tight, bulbed and swollen with muscle, a rosebud pregnant with life.

Ankles flashing, he walks towards the crest of the hill and bends down, picking up something. Fingers, deft and soft as a maiden's belly, grip a large spear, deadly and pointed, ragged and splintering at the edges. Knuckles tightening, he leaps into the air, tunic billowing, and thrusts the stick outwards with a flick of his wrist. He spins, slashing his arms in a wide arc, slicing at the air. He lands with a soft thud, spear whirling around him with unimaginable speed, cutting through the air in vast, violent sweeps. There is a juxtaposition to be observed between the venom with which he moves, and the grace with which he carries himself. An ambivalence, a disparity that baffles the simple mind. His actions flow like water, springy and sparkling, steadily poured from a clay urn into thin palms; like constellations stitched by an uneven hand onto a sheath of raw satin, soft as the hair at the nape of the neck, a swath of white milk spilling in rivulets into a mud pot; like the flaxen hair that frames his face, forming a divine halo at the crests of his temples, pure and fine as spun sugar, as Arachne’s silken cobwebs.

His agile feet slip over the earth like quicksilver, tip of the spear flickering and forking like a snake’s tongue. His face is a cool drink of water, forehead unlined as he dances, slim hips swaying. He throws the spear, arms outstretched, slender fingers extended, thighs ripe and red. The tip strikes the bark of a fig tree. Fruit hangs from its branches, pulpy and gravid with seed. A single fig drops onto the hard ground, pink and bruised. The gold band wrapped around his arm glints and glimmers, blinding the birds flying overhead with scintillating beams of white. He stares at the fig. His chest rises and falls as he breathes, dragging crisp, cold air into his lungs again and again. He stands, unmoving, gaze trained on the singular piece of fruit that lies before him, beckoning, taunting. He walks towards it slowly, picks it up. The curved flesh is supple, pliant to his touch. His fingertips press small indentations into the sweet sticky skin. The breath catches in his throat.

He remembers a silhouette outlined in the sun, tousled locks, warm brown eyes. A smile that eclipsed the sun. Tawny, sun-sweetened skin dotted with freckles, long limbs tangled up in his. Snatches of drowsy whispers, murmured susurrations, a bed stripped of its wrinkled sheets, night air cooling heated skin. Lithe bodies pressed together, cupping each other like hands, soft gasps rippling through distilled air.

He falls. Knees collapsing, torso folding, body crumpling over the fig like water breaking over rocks. A great, ragged sob tears from his throat, the sound animalistic, barely human. He presses his face into the soil, eyes spilling warm water like summer rain. The fig bursts in his palms, pink mulch seeping through the gooey membrane, staining his fingers. He flings it away, fisting his hands in his hair. Another scream wrenches from him, a terrible thing that trembles, that shakes the underworld with its rage.

Patroclus, he says.

Patroclus, where are you?

He weeps. Hyacinths bloom from his tears, bitter and salty. He presses his fingers into his chest where his heart beats no more. A mystical, magical organ which forces blood into our cheeks upon embarrassment, painting them a bright, blushing red. A living, roiling thing that labors under assault, under the ache of love, under the deep, dwelling misery of it when it is unrequited. A steady thrum that persists despite our self-loathing, an unfailing constant despite our hatred for ourselves, a rhythm to soothe us in lieu of the acute pain we feel. His palms slip against the clammy stillness within, the empty quiet that follows a throbbing heart long silenced. He is dead, a voided ghost, pierced by an arrow that tore out one half of his soul.

He fists his hands in his hair. Golden hair showers down around him.

Please, he whispers, voice scraped raw with pain, Come back to me.

My eyes open in darkness. I cannot see anything, hear anything, feel anything. My hands are shapeless blots of ink, my body drifting in and out of focus. Then, a light. Small, but it grows with surprising speed, filling up the blackness of this void I am in with yellow. I see a tree on a hill, a row of pulchritudinous hyacinths, a hunched figure. Hair like gold obfuscates his features. He is doubled over as if in great pain, slamming great palms against the lamenting earth. He lifts his face, contorted and wet with tears, and my lungs crumple. My chest hitches. The man whips around at the noise, jumping up. Clear green eyes I know as well as my own focus on mine, and he stumbles. The sure, quick feet that have never been wrong in all his life, give way beneath him. He scrabbles at the ground for purchase, pulling himself up.

He is frozen, lungs deflating. Once again, he feels his heart beating in his ears. He is alive.

We were half of each other's souls, as the poets say.

I take a step toward him, lips forming his name. He surges towards me, arms open, and we collide.

Patroclus, he says.

Achilles.