@achillespelides
It had been two years since they’d been in Troy. Long enough for their camp to start to feel like home, even if not far off there was a war that raged. Both armies took breaks from the war when festivals rolled around and the Argive forces had built small buildings to store food and stolen cattle within. Most still had tents, he and Achilles did, but they were both content with their large tent. It wasn’t so different from Pelion, in the dark of night, when the camp was finally quiet and they had to curl up to one another for warmth.
To nobody’s surprise, Achilles was the greatest warrior among them. Patroclus had followed him out to battle several times, at his request, and both times he’d never had to raise a spear. He could stand, pacing in circles, watching his lover cut down hundreds of Trojan men as easily as if they were ants.
But most days, he did not follow Achilles out to battle. He promised not to kill Hector and so as long as Hector stayed alive, Patroclus could let his worries fade to a dull ache in the back of his mind. It still came up, though. He’d wake from a terrible dream and hold Achilles tight, as if scared he would slip away any moment. Other days, Achilles would be gone late and when he returned, Patroclus would cling to him, asking why he took so long, is Hector still alive, is he hurt? It happened less frequently. Anything could start to feel normal, even war after enough time, but the fear remained.
While Achilles went to fight, Patroclus more often stayed behind and worked out of the medics tent. He quickly made a name for himself, where his lover was the best killer of the Greeks, Patroclus was often regarded as the best healer. He got to know the other soldiers this way, too. He would often greet them by name when he and Achilles strode through the camp and then tell his love how he’d stitched a wound of theirs or pulled an arrow from their shoulder some months ago, and that’s where he was now. In one of the tents for the injured, rubbing a salve over a wound.
