achilles of phthia aesthetic [aristos achaion]

greek myths masterlist

“any moment might be our last. everything is more beautiful because we’re doomed. you will never be lovelier than you are now. we will never be here again.” homer, the iliad

“In Greece the great goddess Artemis herself appears to have been annually hanged in effigy in her sacred grove of Condylea among the Arcadian hills, and there accordingly she went by the name of the Hanged One. Indeed a trace of a similar rite may perhaps be detected even at Ephesus, the most famous of her sanctuaries, in the legend of a woman who hanged herself and was thereupon dressed by the compassionate goddess in her own divine garb and called by the name of Hecate. Similarly, at Melite in Phthia, a story was told of a girl named Aspalis who hanged herself, but who appears to have been merely a form of Artemis. For after her death her body could not be found, but an image of her was discovered standing beside the image of Artemis, and the people bestowed on it the title of Hecaerge or Far-shooter, one of the regular epithets of the goddess. Every year the virgins sacrificed a young goat to the image by hanging it, because Astypalis was said to have hanged herself. The sacrifice may have been a substitute for hanging an image or a human representative of Artemis….”

—J. G. Frazer, Adonis, Attis, Osiris, part 1 (The Golden Bough, vol. V, 1914, p. 291-292)

The head of Artemis Aspalis, carved in marble (now found in the Archeological Museum of Lamia, Greece).

Phthia: the city of Phthia itself has not yet been unearthed by archaeologists, but ancient writers noted that it was home to the Myrmidons of ancient Greece who took part in the Trojan War under the leadership of Achilles.

by sunshineriptiee

tumblr: @heypax

When he came, I was on my back, plucking the lyre. I decided it counted as practicing. I heard him come in and waited for his introduction to begin, but nothing came. I let my head fall to my side and looked over to him. His posture was awkward. It was like he was internally fighting himself, wanting to shrink and wanting to stand tall at the same time.

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The early years of Patroclus and Achilles, as told from Achilles perspective.

Chapters: 9/9

@patrochillesweek 2021 - Day 3: Phthia

Nine years. Nine long years of war and though he doesn't show it, I know he feels as tired as I do. Achilles, who as a boy never knew how to sit down, now holds me tighter every morning, as though he cannot gather the strength to get through another day. Where before he used to chatter like a bird, now he's silent as he forces himself to rise and allows me to put his armor on him.

It's on these mornings that I wonder. In all the loathsome time spent on the plains of Troy, there was one thought in particular that I never allowed myself to consider. What if? a voice would whisper in the back of my head, insistent, cruel. What if you had never met him? What if he had not been Aristos Achaion? What if you'd stayed where you belonged? Home. Phthia. I never listened, never indulged in the nostalgia. Not until that ninth year. That terrible ninth year.

As soon as I let the memories wash over me, they will not stop. I stand there, hand still resting where I placed it on his shoulder minutes ago, but my mind is elsewhere.

Before my eyes I see the stretch of a beach, sunlit and bright, the boy running along it even brighter. I can almost smell the olive groves in the distance, those old trees we used to climb, Achilles recklessly reaching for even the highest of branches. The halls of the palace, narrow but never claustrophobic. His father's voice as he tells us of the heroes of old, the fire crackling close-by. Sneaking into the kitchen before dinner to secure the sweetest, ripest fruits for ourselves. Achilles' laugh as he tosses a fig my way just as he did that first time.

It's been a long time now since I heard him laugh that way. His once vivid eyes have since been casted over by a shadow, the light in them increasingly dulled by sorrow.

Does he, too, think of home? Does he feel the same longing that I feel, to leave all this behind and set sail, to return, blind to the consequences it would bring along? Does he dream of being back in his room sometimes, of how he hooked his chin over my shoulder and wrapped his arms around me from behind as we gazed out the window towards the sea? Does he miss the stolen moments, the smiles and the shy touches, the safety, the hope, the love we shared, innocent, not yet grown to its full potential?

My heart aches as I look at him. Slowly, my hand slides up his neck towards his jaw, cupping it as I catch his eyes. There's a strange expression on his face, lugubrious and fond all the same, but he does not speak. Neither do I.

I know he understands, even if he does not imagine the same things that I do. His thoughts, unlike mine, are not stuck on the past. It's the future that weighs down on him instead, the threat looming above both our heads, the imminent storm of pain and loss.

While I long for the Phthia of our childhood, a place we can never return to, he longs for the Phthia that could have been. Him, the king. Me, by his side.