#glorystarved

IT SEEMS TO BE A UNIVERSAL TRUTH THAT THE SOUNDS OF BATTLE ARE THE SAME, NO MATTER THE PLANET. She wakes up with a gasp, eyes flying open suddenly as she is jerked out of unconsciousness. The emptiness of her stomach and the taste on her tongue makes her gag, turn on her stomach as she tries to alleviate both. The sound of sword against sword penetrates the ringing in her ear and she forces herself to her feet, legs trembling. Military training has taught her to never leave herself so defenseless, she thinks as she searches her person for weapon. Her own pride dictates that she cannot die without putting up a fight.

Coming up empty, her legs trembling even before she moves, Tzipporah walks towards the sound of war cries and screams, unclipping her heavy mantle of gold all the while. It’s not easy to force her shoulders back and to walk with purpose rather than displaying her weakness. When the first MAN sees her, he hesitates and that is his downfall. She disarms him, hooking her leg behind his knee, bringing him off balance so she can get her hands on his sword and decapitate him with it. She’s not sure which side she would choose to help; her mission is so much bigger than skirmishes.

What she does know is that she’s HUNGRY. A single black, inky tendril wraps around the dead soldier’s ankle through the sand, dragging it down and under. Her absorption of organic matter had been disconcerting even on her planet and she was still too weak to fight them all should both sides turn on her.

The only sign she gave of her healing and return of strength was her head tilting back with a satisfied sigh.

patroclus wants to pretend as though he is not in desperate need of sleep. hands do not want to ache and stained fingertips do not want to catch helplessly in tangled curls. through stubbornness alone he keeps eyelids from falling shut, but it cannot conceal the blatant exhaustion written across his figure —- all he might do is fight the threat of collapse. all at once he wants to obey and resist the suggestion —- to fall into achilles’ warmth and sleep, and to hide what the war has done to him.

it is not want, but need that drive him to shield his lover from his own aches to ensure that he does not become a distraction ; that he does not cause the mistake that will bring their end.

but a week has passed, and he has not slept for more than a few scattered hours. on the first nights, it had been attending to wounded soldiers that had kept him from returning until the sun had begun its gallop over the horizon. hands bore stains that had not yet washed away, blisters from grasping instruments to ease the pain caused by arrows and swords.

and when influx of injury had slowed back to a trickle, anxiousness had replaced business —- in bed, he’d laid awake, watching the gentle rise and fall of his lover’s chest. unwilling to wake him in search of comfort.

patroclus does not question that time they have left, or the manner in which death will rip them apart ( for little more than a month, he thinks ) ; the worry in his chest is nameless and overpowering, and though it does not fill his head with wretched images, it makes closing his eyes impossible. he has not uttered a word of it, but still it sits in the forefront of his mind, and even when occupied, he cannot forget it. it does not matter —- so long as he never speaks of it and makes it real.

and unless he is asked —- unless it becomes significant —- he never will. resistance might bring questioning, and so head instead dips in a nod before careful movements bring him to his side. patroclus had already been leaned against achilles’ shoulder ; this adjustment requires little effort, and in seconds, his head is rested against achilles’ thighs and his hands are folded over his stomach. his voice is quiet against the faint sound of the sea outside, and each crashing wave threatens to overcome it. “ you should rest too. ”

patroclus knows that achilles has returned before he hears his voice ; the rustle of an opening tent flap alerts him to air disturbed by movement and a faint  and familiar shadow painted across pale canvas. it stirs him —- a knife used to whittle mindlessly at a piece of wood is placed at his side, and half - formed figure is held lightly between tired fingertips as he rises to this greeting. no amount of exhaustion might lesson the small surge of relief and excitement that comes when he comes back at the end of those long days.

patroclus’ gaze does not yet search for the mentioned gift —- tradition comes first. figure is placed aside, and neck stretches slightly as he takes the other in, checking for injuries that he knows he will never find ---- not while hector remains alive. this ensured, a small smile will tug at his lip, and when he crosses the floor, steps still threaten to reveal the eager affection that maturity has allowed him to more effectively restrain. even when shrouded in dim candlelight, there is none more beautiful than achilles —- this belief has gone untouched by age.

“ you didn’t have to —- ” he says. your return every night is enough for me, he wants to add. but patroclus is quiet, and still has not quite learned how to avoid stumbling over his words when trying to speak affectionately. a pause —- his head tilts and his tone holds only gratefulness and curiosity. “ what is it? ”

he does not need to hear these words to know them. hands tremble, and it is practiced restraint that prevents a mouth from gaping open. it is the need to conceal his hurt that cuts short the flash of agony in his eyes. fingers, numb and cold, want to reach out, and find themselves incapable of doing as much. patroclus has long accepted that they are not made for the domesticity once shared in the days before this enduring campaign against troy had begun, but it makes every small loss the war imposes no easier —- loss is not amongst the things with which one might grow familiar.

and it is loss to hear these words and to know he may never hear them again —- he might never hear them spoken in a time when the burden of their circumstances does not weigh down his shoulders, and the ever approaching end does not linger in his thoughts. were there ever in his mind some inclination to refuse achilles forgiveness ( for his love, or for anything else ), it is crushed by intrusive thought. and yet still the tension in his expression does not dissipate, and he does not reach out to rejoin them, as though to promise that no bitterness is held.

the enduring sense that he will never see the end of any of this becomes present in his mind again, threatening to sour the space between them.

a deep breath is drawn, and shoulders drop. part of him wishes that achilles had said this in some other moment —- some part of him longs for the quiet peace of mount pelion, where they might have freely exchanged their affections. the other part knows that they would never had been allowed this, and that he should not yet mourn what sadness has not yet passed. that he should be glad to have been told this, even if it is bittersweet.

and the latter notion prevails ; patroclus shakes his head, and he reaches forward, only enough so he might brush achilles’ fingertips with his own. “ why would you be sorry to love me? ” 

he has lived so long with this truth that it no longer stings ; the dull throb of lifelessness does not persist when it becomes familiar. memories disembodied in search of reunion with him have filled an indistinguishable stretch of time. to think of achilles is to stare at the sun. the feel the burn in his eyes as pain overcomes beauty, and yet to refuse to look away, because the warmth is more valuable than the agony it causes. it is desperation ; the hopeless weariness of a soul curled around a grave, stagnant. unable to move forward, and unable to leave.

the distance patroclus has come is immeasurable, and he remembers every second. words ringing still in his ears ( go. he waits for you. ) cling to him as in afterlife hands that have reached into the darkness find purchase. familiar, and different all the same, and together. he will not let go of his hand.

every second of life is remembered —- every touch and every breath against his skin, every moment closeness. and perhaps more acutely, every second of separation. it is difficult not to hold onto it ; difficult to release himself from had been in a wandering soul so powerful. his heart feels a stone in his chest, and yet still it beats rapidly against his ribs. smile overwhelms and yet holds in it uncertainty, and still it is not enough to express the onslaught of emotion within him. words sing of unsaid goodbyes and tears against cold flesh, and patroclus cannot help the ache it awakens in him. reunited, and still he feels the stunning absence of resolution.

“ i am sorry. ” for what he apologizes, he does not know : how long it has taken for him to come, or how he had left so quickly. patrocus does not regret his death, but instead mourns the time spent watching his beloved live without him. hand tightens around achilles’, and he thinks to draw it to his chest, but hesitates. “ i did not want to leave you alone. ”

“Atalanta.” 

She says it accusatory, sharp-tipped and well-aimed. A story she heard once, of a huntress unwilling to marry, filling her days with competition, raised by bears; the kind of hero that makes stories. The kind that has her name remembered. 

( The kind that lived her days a hero, the kind that died a lioness. Briseis would take that bargain. )

In truth, it’s perhaps a stretch; perhaps an attempt to beat Achilles at his own game. Briseis sets her mouth in a firm line anyway, and silently dares him to argue.