The Fall of a Hero

Achilles was a hero.

All of Greece would know it when he went to war against the Trojans and killed their most valued warrior, Hector, son of Priam. Prior to that, Achilles was merely a boy. A boy, favoured by Phthia's people, who played the lyre and spent time on Mount Pelion with the wise mentor Chiron, learning music and hunting. He would grow up to be a somebody.

Patroclus was none of that. Unlike Achilles, Patroclus couldn't play the lyre and wasn't liked by his father's men. He only spent time with the centaur because of Achilles. He would grow up to be a nobody.

So how did a somebody fall in love with a nobody? How could someone so smart, beautiful and strong fall in love with Patroclus, a poor, scraggly boy who tripped over his own two feet?

And how could that nobody have fallen in love with that somebody?

* * *

 Patroclus stood outside Achilles’ tent. He knew Achilles wasn’t inside; he had seen the boy leave the tent a while ago and hadn’t spotted him since. Ever since Hector had taken his concubine, Briseis, he had been in a foul and irritated mood. Patroclus tried not to let that bother him. He knew Achilles cared for him. Even though Achilles had already fallen for Patroclus, the mere possibility of Achilles choosing her over him was painful. If Patroclus had been stolen, would he react the same?

Patroclus shook his head to rid these thoughts. Right now, he had more pressing matters. More drastic ones.When they took Briseis, Achilles refused to fight despite the decade-long war between the Trojans and Achaeans. He was their best warrior; they would lose without him. And Patroclus wouldn’t let that happen.

He hesitated before stepping inside the tent. Patroclus had been inside many times since he shared it with Achilles. But somehow, this way felt wrong. Perhaps Patroclus knew that what he was about to do wasn't exactly bad, but he didn’t think anyone would be happy if they found out. And Achilles would not approve. He took a deep breath, steeling his nerves. He’d have to do this. To secure them a win, he'd need Achilles back on the battlefield. They’d need Achilles.

He pushed open the flap and stepped inside. The tent wasn’t small, but it wasn’t large, either. Bedrolls lay on the floor, as well as swords and other weapons. It was the armour, however, that caught Patroclus' attention. He picked it up and tried the plumed helmet on, but it slid down his face and over his eyes.‌ Definitely Achilles’. He picked up the accompanying pieces and put them on. The metal was heavy and unfamiliar, but he tried to look confident in it. Achilles was always confident in his, after all. He’d have to look as close to Achilles as he could get. Despite Patroclus having to push up the helmet so he could see, he was glad for how large it was. That way, nobody could tell it was him and not Achilles.

He made his way over to the flap and hesitated, his hand outstretched. Should he do this? It had seemed like a good idea moments ago, but now that he was ready to play the part, he wasn’t so sure. He blew out a breath. He had to do this.

For Achilles.

For his people.

He stepped out of the tent, and a few heads swivelled his way. Patroclus just hoped Achilles wasn’t one of them. The Achaeans couldn’t remember the last time Achilles had stepped out onto the battlefield, and many wore astounded and astonished faces. Patroclus hefted Achilles’ sword and made his way to the chariot.

“I will kill them all,” he said to Odysseus, who stood there readying the horses. “Every last one of them.”

Odysseus turned to face him. “Achilles?”

“Yes?”

“You are fighting again?” His voice was suspicious, as if he suspected it was a fraud under all that shiny armour.

Patroclus dipped his head in a way he hoped looked respectful. “Yes, my friend. I am returning. I will end this war.”

“I do hope so,” Odysseus said. For ten years he had gone without his wife, Penelope, and his son, Telemachus. It was no secret Odysseus’ biggest wish was to return home to them. “End them all, Achilles. And curse old Zeus who has banished us here for reasons unknown to man.”

“Yes, King of Ithaca.”

Odysseus climbed into the chariot, and Patroclus followed. He hefted his spear in one hand. It was odd and unfamiliar. Achilles’ spear had been made for his own hands, not anyone else’s. He knew if Achilles saw him, he would be proud.

Right?

With a snap of the reins, Odysseus got the chariot moving to the Trojans’ camp. Many gasps met them, and a few soldiers lifted their swords, spears, or any other weapons they possessed.

“Achilles?” someone in the crowd asked, and Patroclus gave a curt nod of his head. If he spoke, he would be discovered. He couldn’t let that happen.

Patroclus’ plan was simple: he would arrive on the Trojan side, perhaps kill a man or two, and then retreat back to the Achaeans’ side. Everyone would think that Achilles was once again fighting, and then the war would end.

Odysseus glanced at Patroclus. “Achilles?” Odysseus asked, and Patroclus nodded. “Is this smart? Why not wait till they charge at us—”

“I know what I am doing, King of Ithaca,” Patroclus told him, doing his best imitation of Achilles’ strong, confident voice. Odysseus looked skeptical, but continued to drive the chariot deeper into the Trojan’s land. 

What happened next took Patroclus by surprise.

He knew the Trojans would be angry, and Patroclus was prepared to be lunged and stabbed at by the enemies. Similarly, If Hector had crossed into the Achaeans' land, he would have been slaughtered in a matter of moments. 

Nearly the entire camp lunged at Patroclus, cursing his name into the depths of Tartarus, stabbing and shooting arrows, trying to get their hand at killing the best warrior of his age, Achilles, son of Peleus. But of course, it wasn’t Achilles under the armour. Just a stupid fraud who was pretending to be something so much more than what he really was.

At last, it was too much for Patroclus to handle. He had killed a few men, but they just kept coming, their rage and hatred clear in their aggressive actions. Patroclus jumped off the moving chariot, ignoring Odysseus’ protests. 

Then he ran.

He didn’t care if he was ruining Achilles’ perfect reputation. He had to live. Because life, after all, was where Achilles was.

He managed to make it all the way to a sheer rock. Patroclus thought about attempting to climb it, but then he thought better. He would surely fall to his demise before any of the Trojans got to him. Patroclus darted behind some foliage, hoping to conceal himself. A laugh bubbled up and escaped his lips. If Achilles could see him, what would he think? How dare he hide and run and run from a fight donning my armour? Would he be angry? Or grateful that he hadn’t yet gotten himself killed?

He put a hand over his mouth to stifle the noise. It was devoid of any humour. It was a laugh that people made when they knew they were about to die.

A shadow loomed over him, and Patroclus looked up. Hector stood in front of him. Much like how Achilles was their best warrior, Hector was the Trojan’s. He smiled wickedly, his eyes glinting maliciously. Hector hefted his spear, and Patroclus shot to his feet, his shield and spear in hand, ready to fight. He took off his helmet and threw it aside. He couldn’t win a fight if it was obscuring his vision. Then Hector stood there, dumbfounded. Slowly, his smile faded as realization struck him. “You’re not Achilles.”

“No, I’m not,” he agreed. He gripped his spear tighter, never taking his eyes off Hector. And then Hector grinned again, like he knew he would win this fight against this nobody. To him, Patroclus was easy prey. Just another man to kill.

Hector lunged at him, and Patroclus narrowly dodged the point of his spear. He thrusted his own forward, but Hector easily deflected it with his shield. He laughed and lunged. This time, the spear bounced off Patroclus’ armour. But it still knocked him back a step, which Hector used to his advantage. He hit Patroclus hard on the chest with the flat of his shield. Patroclus fell, and Hector loomed over him, grinning from ear to ear. “You’re over, son of Menoetius.” And then he drove the spear into Patroclus’ chest.

* * *

It wasn’t being dead what bothered Patroclus. Or the fact that he would forever be in the Underworld, or even the fact that he couldn’t even go there until the ashes of his burned body were buried. He would be stuck up here, in the living world, unable to touch, to communicate.

No. It was none of these.

Achilles wasn’t with him.

Patroclus’ spirit stood over his body, watching Hector laughing. He had killed someone, and he was laughing. He saw Achilles run over, saw him kneel next to Patroclus’ body. Patroclus placed a hand on his shoulder, but his hand passed right through.

Achilles wept.

It remained like that for a long time. With Achilles weeping by Patroclus’ rotting body, Hector laughing, antagonizing and taunting the boy. And then Achilles stood and drove his spear through Hector’s body. Hector fell and never moved again. 

Then Achilles started to kill. He killed every Trojan he could see, and Patroclus begged for him to stop, but he couldn’t hear. Achilles couldn’t be stopped. He wouldn’t stop.

And then, just like that, he did. The world stilled. Warriors lay on the ground in pools of their own blood, crying out with pain or already dead. And Achilles was among them.

Paris stood by the Sun God Apollo’s side, a bow and arrow in his steady hands. There was an arrow embedded in Achilles’ heel. His only weak point.

Paris grinned. He had killed the ever-famous Achilles, guided by Apollo’s hand. And Achilles didn’t even mind. In fact, he welcomed death. Because death, after all, was where Patroclus was.

* * *

It had been years before Patroclus and Achilles reunited once more. After Achilles had died, his body was burned and buried, and his spirit had moved into Tartarus, into the afterlife. But Patroclus’ body hadn’t been burned; it lay there to rot, and he was fated to walk the living world as a dead soul.

Until Thetis.

Thetis, the Nereid goddess and mother of Achilles, had come along one day, burning his body. Thetis had never liked Patroclus. Maybe she burned the body because she felt she had to respect a dead man’s wishes of being buried next to his lover, or perhaps it was because somehow, someway, she could see Patroclus and knew he was lonely and in despair. But she burned his body and buried his ashes with Achilles’. And then a warm, solid hand intertwined with his.

“Patroclus,” Achilles breathed.

And from that day forward, Achilles would be known as a tragic hero.

END