* and will you see me for who i am?

TASK ONE : THE RUNDOWN

▼ STATISTICS.

full name: patroclus, son of menoetius.

moniker / nickname: officially goes by patrick in 2020, and he has the fake ids to prove it. generally isn’t the biggest fan of nicknames. 

titles: tbd.

gender && pronouns: demi-boy && he / him + they / them. 

dob && age: april 24th, 1205 BC && really old –– about 3224 years old, give or take, but he’s been thirty for a really long time. 

place of birth: opus, greece. 

previous residences: opus, athens, larissa, cape town, cardiff, inverness, paris, milan, caracas, && londinium –– in that order. 

zodiac sign: taurus. 

ethnicity: white && venezuelan. 

sexual orientation: demisexual. 

romantic orientation: homoromantic. 

occupational history: perpetual soldier, squire, orange farmer, lutist, revolutionary, boxer, harpist. among others. 

▼ PHYSICAL APPEARANCE.

face claim: sean teale.

height: 185 cm && 6′2. 

physical build: mesomorph && visibly muscular && painfully straight back from years of his father’s voice still stuck in his head. ( it’s 2020, maybe he really should go to therapy for his daddy issues, but how do you tell a therapist your dad died before the trojan war ?? asking for a friend. )

eye colour and shape: dark brown && hooded, really long lashes which he does oil at night && also lines his eyes with kohl. it’s habit. 

hair colour and style: dark, cropped, usually trimmed neatly. 

usual expression: bored, reluctant smile.

accent and speech style: heavily accented english, but it’s impossible to pin down where he might be from. speaks spanish and greek with more ease than he does english.

distinguishing marks / characteristics: both ear lobes pierced, gold studs in both. a shield tattooed on his left flank. plenty of scars –– one across his right eyebrow, scarred && calloused hands, a very large scar that refused to heal right on his left shoulder. 

clothing style: anything he can find, really ; athletic for the most part, but smart button-downs ( always button-downs, never button ups ) for work. 

jewellery and accessories: a thin, gold chain around his neck ; his an engraved ring hangs from it, tucked away. a deliberate collection of rings on his fingers: a curved edge, yellow gold signet ring from a third-generation foundry in greece ; a classic medusa ring picked up in florence during the renaissance ; a turquoise inlaid silver signet ring ; a silver plated band, worn on his left thumb.

▼ FAMILY.

father: menoetius, deceased ( thank fuck ). 

mother: philomela, deceased. 

siblings, if any: myrto, his sister. 

extended relations: none that he knows. 

significant other(s): achilles && only achilles. it could only ever be achilles.

children: none, except his –– 

household pet(s): he has two tabby cats named menelaus and ajax ( just a little fun joke for himself, okay –– don’t @ him. ) 

▼ FAVOURITES.

colour: gold ; every shade. 

weather: storms –– it reminds him of mornings spent inside, the air sticky and humid, sweat on his upper lip and a laugh on his tongue. 

food item: he’s a vegetarian –– he always has been, especially since he didn’t always have food, especially during the 1100s. so yeah, patroclus isn’t exactly picky –– anything veg and vaguely edible’s fine –– but he does love a vegan burger ( normal cheese, please ). the perks of the 21st century. okay, and he loves green olives. 

beverage: he’s a stereotype, he loves red wine. ( fine, he hates wine –– he likes tequila. )

time of day: late at night, late enough that the streets are quiet and the air feels thin and he can breathe deeply. 

television genre: not that patroclus has time to watch tv –– plus he’s got one of those old picture tube tvs from the dinosaur era –– but he loves a good underwater documentary. and shark week. and the history channel –– he likes to catch what they got wrong. 

favourite era lived: he’d do anything to go back to the day before he died –– anything. to say a proper goodbye, to say all the very many things he’d never said because he thought he had all the time in the world. but also, he really loved the ‘70s in londinium.

▼ PERSONALITY.

hobbies: boxing && reading && falling asleep in the sun. 

pet peeves: people talking in circles && liars. 

phobias: patroclus doesn’t like drowning. he’s died of drowning once && come back from it, but he absolutely hated it. he’ll take anything over it. 

allergies: coffee. which is fine, because patroclus likes green tea anyway. ( well, green tea with like three whole spoonfuls of honey. )

mbti type: isfj – t.

enneagram type: 

35% the challenger.

48% the skeptic.

22% the peacemaker.

positive traits: passionate && honest && loyal && dependable.

negative traits: reserved && mercurial && blunt && pessimistic && headstrong && forlorn.

morning routine: goes for a run every morning before dawn, goes to a boxing class, has breakfast at the bookshop on the way home, and gets to work at least an hour early. it’s boring and it’s too familiar and patroclus wouldn’t change it –– he’d rather have predictable than the alternative. he’s tired of losing people and places and old routines, so he’s holding on to this one until he has to move again in another twenty years.

beauty routine: nothing really ; patroclus keeps his beard neat and his hair trimmed. he oils and curls his lashes, oils his beard. he misses baths –– big baths that you could sit in and just stay in until you pruned. but he only has a shower in his apartment now. 

sleeping habits: patroclus hasn’t slept through the night since before his first death ; nowadays, it’s a few hours of sleep at a time, and plenty of nightmares to keep him company. the good thing is, he’s very used to waking up early –– rather than tossing and turning or watching his ceiling until dawn, he’s up and out of bed. 

oldest belonging: he doesn’t have anything –– nothing. patroclus always leaves things behind, always. it’s easier that way. and sure, he regrets it sometimes. but there’s no use crying over the past, right? not when he has an endless future. 

living space && home: it’s small –– it’s really small. but it has bay windows, a shitty little terrace with doors that the wind knocks open, and plants everywhere. there’s a kingsize mattress on the ground, one set of sheets total and they’re made of cotton-silk. orange, of course.  

INTRODUCTION : tw death ; tw war .

his childhood wasn’t pretty. patroclus was born too skinny, too weak –– maybe not sickly, but he wasn’t wanted. he wasn’t loved. he was born into a war, and his war was his father. his war was his father’s shame. so when he killed another by accident –– in anger, in frustration, by mistake –– his father was more than happy to ship him off ; and somehow, that was the greatest gift his father could have ever given him. thanks, dad. 

it’s been so long, everything feels like a dream. it feels too sunlit and too warm to the touch. it feels too easy. and sure, he can’t remember all that much about it. but he remembers achilles. he remembers being so happy that he felt sick to his stomach. but he doesn’t remember hector’s knife in his stomach or dying that very first time. but he remembers waking up to hades in the underworld, and he remembers the sickening realisation that he could never go back ever again –– he was here, and he was alive, and he still had to leave everything he once knew behind. 

patroclus didn’t want money or fame ; he’d only ever wanted a love to call his own and a place to call his home. and since he’d lost both already, he was tired. so he went off to work on an orange farm, right at the edge of the world –– or well, the edge of his world. he was still in greece, news travelling to them every few months or years, and it was alright. he was away from the rest of the world, labouring under the cruel sun and sleeping into the cool night, and waking up to do it all over again. he smiled at the kids on his way into town and gave them an armful of oranges each. and then when people began to wonder whywhywhy he wasn’t aging, patroclus moved on to the next village –– and then the next, and then the next. 

it was 1465 + he was in florence when he saw a lute again –– a laugh escaping him before he could start to remember when he last laughed out loud. it reminded him of home, of a long time ago. so he began to play for money and food and a place to stay. and it took him all over the world –– meeting people who’d die before he’d reach his next destination and learning things he’d never be able to forget. 

going to war became a habit. the crusades, the gallic wars, the jacobite rising, the war of the roses, the french revolution, the seven weeks war, world war i, the russian revolution, world war ii, and so very many more –– patroclus wasn’t really fighting, but he was trying. he was trying to make sure some good came out of them, that there was some death that he could stop, some blows he could take if it meant another lived. but at some point, he just couldn’t keep doing it anymore. his heart hurt and his nightmares followed him in the daylight. 

now, well –– he’s a harpist for the londinium symphony. patroclus has been her for all of about 12 years now ; he doesn’t want to move, not yet. but throughout his many, many lifetimes, he’s perfected and loved the harp –– it’s the only thing he recognises in this brave new world, and he’s going to hang onto it for as long as he can. 

WANTED CONNECTIONS.

survival of the stubborn: a mentor, someone patroclus met after a long, long time of being immortal, but someone who taught him to stop being completely miserable and enjoy the time they have. if it wasn’t for this person, patroclus probably wouldn’t have lasted all that long.

death becomes you: immortal friends ; the gang, the squad. the ride or dies –– so to speak. they can go decades without talking or meeting, but they get together again every fifty years and know they can rely on each other. plus, they can literally whatsapp each other now –– like, what. 

orange you glad to see me: he worked on an orange farm in greece after their first death in about 1200 BC, and met this person there. maybe this person owned the farm, maybe this person was just a guest of the owners, maybe they also worked on the farm, or maybe they just met each other in the village nearby –– but they met again years and years and years later and it was a lowkey lightbulb moment of oh, so i’m not alone out here for patroclus !! 

please turn the music off: musician friends + members of the orchestra ( mortal or immortal ) + anyone who’s into music and they might have met each other over the years !! perhaps a mentor or maybe they even totally hate each other, but just about any type of music relation !!

encore, encore: patroclus worked / played in a few different courts over the years –– always the lute or harp –– so this might be someone he might have played for !! 

tequila’s my best friend: drinking buddies !! what it says on the tin. patroclus is a miserable drinker, usually ends up spilling all of his secrets, sometimes ends up breaking things. 

the war followed me back home: patroclus served in plenty of wars until 1950 –– far too many, with new names and new titles and new ranks every time. to do some good in the world. or maybe they were just chasing their first death at hector’s hands. either way –– this is someone they might have served with !! could be a commanding officer ; a fellow soldier ; or even a doctor / nurse !!

old enemies, new friends: people he just doesn’t get along with. at all. ever. they’re always hated each other, maybe they even killed each other a few times, but just some sort of enemies !!