#tsoa fanfic

[the-geeky-fangirl]

i wrote a patrochilles canon-compliant fanfic from achilles' point of view and like this is genuinely one of my favorite things i've ever written. here's a link to that if you're interested:

my dear, devoted, delicate: Achilles’ love for Patroclus ran deep and desperate— a fire rivaled only by the will of the Gods. And so, the Pthian prince showed his affection for his life’s companion in every way he could save for the one time he couldn’t.

Or, the five love languages Achilles loved Patroclus in, and one time he didn’t.

#patrochilles #tsoa #the song of achilles #achilles #patroclus #achilles x patroclus #fanfiction #tsoa fanfic #patrochilles fanfic #madeline miller #tsoa madeline miller #achilles and patroclus #greek mythology

[3am-thoughts-of-achilles]

i’m working on a tiny patrochilles new year’s drabble, i wonder if anyone would be interested 👁️👁️

#patrochilles #tsoa #tsoa achilles #tsoa patroclus #tsoa textpost #the song of achilles #tsoadaily #tsoa fanfic

[peggy-sue-reads-a-book]

Wound

Patroclus x Achilles | M | one-shot | hurt / comfort | bandaging wounds | broken ribs

Summary: At first, Patroclus was horrified by his love returning from battle smattered with gore. Now, he’s so used to it he only wishes Achilles would shower off and leave his sweaty armor outside their tent. So when Achilles comes back clutching his side, he can only assume it’s a prank …

It was a dry summer. Despite nearly daily sacrifices and chants, the fifteenth day without rain was drawing to an end. Flies collected on the backs of mules and the White Tent stunk with the sweat and blood of returning raids. Even Patroclus, though a seasoned medic, found himself stepping out for air more frequently than usual.

He plunged his hands into a jug of lukewarm water, wishing it were colder. The more he repeated to himself the day would end, the longer each minute stretched. But it would end. Achilles would be home. If he so much as sets foot in our tent with his crusty armor on … thought Patroclus, scouring his hands and forearms methodically. He was about to swear to himself that Achilles did not have a prayer of getting him in bed if there was so much a fleck of grime from his chariot wheel on his person. But of course, who could keep a promise like that? He grabbed a towel as he stepped back into the sweltering tent. If tries to kiss me with his helmet on, I’m not giving him head for a week.

There was so much to do. A huge man from Pylos needed stitches in his calf. Patroclus kept a stoic front, but by the time he returned to his own camp was irritable, hot, and tired. He knew Achilles would be home already. He hated leaving him to wait. It always felt like wasted time.

“Oh good,” said a clear, familiar voice, “I thought you’d never come.”

“‘Killes,” Patroclus mumbled, suddenly folded in the young man’s arms, his head pressed to his shoulder. He shut his eyes and allowed his neck and face to be kissed. He loved the feeling of Achilles’ firm, calloused hand cradling the back of his neck.

“You need to shave,” Patroclus said as his lover kissed between his eyes, “Can’t burn down Troy looking patchy.”

“Patchy?” Achilles pulled away, “Ugh.” At twenty two, his beard never quite filled in.

“Well don’t stop,” he said, stepping closer to murmur against Achilles’ throat, “Let me do it. Take a bath with me.” He grinned and pulled him close by the hips. He was warm and hardening.

Achilles was perfect. The sun left his skin a deep olive against the snowy linen of his tunic. He was hard, lean muscle, the fastest runner in the world. His hair always a little fairer in summer. It clean and tied in an easy knot at the nape of his neck. A few wavy strands framed his face, which now that Patroclus studied it, was tense. Patroclus took his chin, running a thumb over his lips. “What’s wrong?” he asked, “Never mind about your beard. I’m sorry I said anything.”

Inwardly, he was a little annoyed at having to reassure Achilles of his good looks. It wasn’t like him.

“Oh— no— It’s not that,” he said, wincing a little when Patroclus tried to pull him close again, “Love, I’ve got to sit down.”

Achilles stumbled to the edge of their bed, clutching his side and leaving Patroclus puzzled. He looked up and forced a smile. “Sorry about that bath, Pat, really.”

“Sweetheart?” Pat was beside him immediately, studying him closely, “Oh, gods, you got hurt.”

A protective arm drew around Achilles strong shoulders. He kissed the top of his head, then paused and said suspiciously, “You never get hurt.”

“Well I did, this time!”

“Pelides, if this is a prank—“

“No, no, Pat, I swear!” Next thing he knew, the hand gripping Achilles side was held out to him, slick with blood.

“Oh-oh.” It came out as two syllables. “Oh no.”

His brows knit in a worried frown. Patroclus took Achilles hand carefully in both of his. “Oh, sweetheart, what…? What happened?”

“Oh, come on, it can’t be as bad as how you’re looking at me right now,” said Achilles as he held up an arm to inspect his ribs.

“No. It’s not bad. It probably won’t even scar,” said Patroclus, but his voice was sadder than his words. “Hold still, baby.”

“Ok, ok, that hurts!” Achilles backed away, folding his arms defensively.

“I should think so. Why weren’t you wearing armor?”

“I was!”

“Achilles!”

What Patroclus had seen was a shallow, bright red slash where something sharp had grazed his ribs. He wasn’t looking forward to seeing the bruising tomorrow morning.

“You cracked a rib so whatever little stunt this was from I hope it was worth it.”

“Why are you angry?”

“Just tell me what happened.”

Achilles smiled, a little smugly, “I swung onto the back of a chariot and slit the throat of everyone in it. The horses panicked and scattered their whole formation.”

Patroclus rolled his eyes. “I bet your driver loved that. Did you even warn him you were going to jump?.”

He grinned. “I was on foot.”

“You fucking what? Achilles, you’re not faster than a horse. This is stupid.“

“Not weighed down with armor I’m not.”

“Oh gods.”

“What? You’ve raced me. You’d know.” He leaned back, self satisfied.

“Fucking show off.”

“Why are you so angry?” he took Patroclus’s face in his hands. “Pat, I’ve missed you all day. Like you said, it probably won’t even scar. What do you want for dinner?”

Tears stood in Patroclus’s large brown eyes. “You got hurt.”

“I’m a soldier.”

“You took your armor off! For what? For everyone to see your faster than all the Trojans and their horses?”

“I—“

“Are you twelve years old?!” Patroclus raised his voice as he so rarely did.

“You didn’t even ask me what happened after I hijacked the chariot.”

“Stay there. It doesn’t need stitches but you’re bleeding.” He rummaged through a trunk of clothes for an old tunic, which he began tearing into strips. It was his own and he’d have to replace it but the linen would be worn soft and more comfortable.

“And then,” said Achilles, “I trampled five people before someone threw a spear at me.”

“Someone threw a spear at you?” The blood was draining from Patroclus’s face.

“Serves me right. I throw spears at them all the time— ow!” He cried out as he tried to finish his joke with a shrug. “Anyhow, why do you care? They missed.”

Patroclus touched the open wound lightly. “Not by enough.”

“Pat, you’re crying. You’re seriously upset, aren’t you? Patroclus—“

“What? You did what you wanted to do and even I did been there I can’t stop you, can I?”

“Pat, don’t. Come here, baby.”

Patroclus shook his head. “I’m not cuddling up on your broken rib. You’ve gotten enough attention for one day. Sit still.” Achilles yelped as Patroclus wound clean cloth around his chest.

“Pat,” he whined, struggling to hold still as he pulled the bandages tight. Patroclus’s face was a flat, professional mask. “Don’t you feel sorry for me?” he teased, “Even a little?”

“No.”

“Pat! Patroclus, where are you going?” He sounded panicked as he watched him calming slip on his shoes and gather a couple of larger jars.

“The beach. You did a good job cleaning it yourself, but I want to boil some water and check it again in a few hours.”

“Oh no, you are not putting salt water on me, Pat, I am wounded. I am in pain.”

“What do you think the rest of us put up with?”

Achilles sighed and settled onto his good side, cheek resting on one hand. “Please come back and tell me what’s really bothering you. Was it just a long day? Wash up and get something to eat and then you can tell me about it.”

Patroclus set down the jars by the tent entrance. He sat beside Achilles and opened his arms. “You’re going to hurt yourself at that angle. You don’t need to pose for me to appreciate your slutty little waist.” Patroclus gave a half smile, playfully pinching Achilles’ sleek, perfectly straight side.

“It hurts more when you ignore me,” he said, resting his head on Patroclus’s chest.

“When have I ever ignored you?” Patroclus relaxed a little now that his dearest was right where he could touch and smell him, feel his heartbeat against his own skin.

“You were about to.”

Patroclus stroked his neck and upper back in a thoughtful silence. “I didn’t want to be angry at you. Not when you came home with a broken bone but … gods, Achilles, it was so close.”

“Hector is still kicking, yes?” Achilles was kissing his throat, clearly trying to distract him from the discussion.

“That’s not a good reason to be careless. I’ve been thinking.” He paused and pursed his lips for a moment. “You know how prophecies go. Like in plays and things.”

“Sure.”

“They’re never what you expect.”

“So? I’m alive. Hector’s alive. We’ll play again tomorrow.”

“Yes, but you’re banking on being the only thing that can kill him. He’s just a man, Achilles. He can get sick or in an accident. You’re only assuming he’ll die in battle because it’s the most obvious.”

“He will. I’ll kill him whenever I get around to it. Maybe I’ll hit him over the head with my cane just before I drop dead of old age. Did you think of that?”

Patroclus felt a chill thinking of it. He wasn’t sure where the words he said next came from. “The fates don’t like being tricked.”

“I won’t push it,” said Achilles, “For you.” He kissed Patroclus’s throat and along his strong jaw. “I won’t leave you.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“Ouch— too tight.”

“M’Sorry, honey,” said Patroclus. Achilles had slid down, his head on Patroclus’s belly. He curled up in a tangle of arms and legs to keep from hanging off the bed. Patroclus ran the back of his index finger down the bridge of his nose. “Don’t leave me.”

“You just said I can’t promise.”

“Promise anyway.”

Achilles kissed him right at the sharp angle of his hipbone. “I won’t leave you. Never.” He planted more kisses down Patroclus’s hip, each teasing and more intimate than the last.

“Oh no,” Patroclus stopped him, “You’re resting tonight. If you want that, you can come home in one piece.”

“You don’t want me?”

“I want you to heal your damn rib. Go to bed, Achilles.”

He lay his golden head on Patroclus’s stomach once again, restless and tense. He couldn’t help stroking the dark hair around his navel, tracing his finger in soft swirls.

“Excuse me,” said Patroclus, arresting his fingers in his. “Good night.” But despite his stern tone, he pressed Achilles’ hand to his lips in a kiss more tender than if he were caring for a sick child.

“It hurts to much to sleep,” Achilles confessed.

“I know. I’ll stay with you.” He massaged Achilles shoulders, rubbing slowly down his arms, then back up again. “Can I take your hair down, love?”

“Mmhhmm.”

His face always looked about three years younger when he was tired or sad. He smiled boyishly, burying his face in Patroclus and inhaling deeply. Patroclus gentled tugged his hair free. It spread across the mattress in soft, fair waves. Thought he would have been content simply to admire the beautiful hair, Patroclus began working his fingers in little circles at Achilles’ temples, back to the base of his neck. He knew Achilles was like a cat about affection. Hesitant to touch nearly anyone, but spoiled and eager when he wanted it.

“Never stop,” he mumbled, “That’s perfect.”

Patroclus rolled his eyes. “Brat,” he said.

“You love me.” He tried to sound cocky but he tumbled out almost like a question.

“More than anything.” Patroclus didn’t feel like playing games anymore. He was as serious as a devotee at an alter. His hand rested still on Achilles head.

They were quiet together, though neither fell asleep. And as the sun went down, an easy rain pattered against their tent.

@johaerys-writes @hycinthrt @shitfacedalways @tristicorde

#greek mythology #achilles #the song of achilles #the iliad #patroclus #patrochilles #tsoa #achilles and patroclus #achilles x patroclus #tsoa fanfic

[writing-till-i-am-dead]

The Song of Achilles- Achilles’s perspective

Transferring fic to this blog

I noticed that the boy, Patroclus, if I remember correctly, never gawked at me. Not like all the other boys in the castle. He would only glance, perhaps even glare, at me. I had never been glared at before. It was a strange feeling, to know that there’s someone who doesn’t care for me. 

I also noticed that he was always alone. When I’d walk past the beach while the other boys were playing so I could head to my training, he would just sit there, staring off into the distance, alone. All alone. There was no emotion behind his eyes, I saw. Not even longing for companionship. 

Why did I relate to that? My father is desperate for me to befriend one of the boys of the castle. But I’ve never been interested in befriending them. They all gawk at me too much. I want to be treated like Achilles, not Prince Achilles, son of Peleus.

I had tossed him a fig. I was juggling them. All the boys were staring in awe, even him. I felt some pluck of excitement to see him openly watching and admiring me. 

“Catch,” I whisper to him before tossing a fig to him. He catches and eats it. I feel a tingling of what feels like happiness well up in my chest. What is this boy doing to me?

I have befriended him. We take lessons together now. I made him share a room with me. He is so skinny. So scrawny. There’s barely any muscle on him. It was strange. I’ve only seen servant boys so thin. 

At night, when we sleep, when I have to leave to visit my mother, every time I return, he always asks how she is doing. 

The way he talks in his sleep. The way his face rests.. the way moonlight glows on him.. his eyelashes were so long when he slept..

But, for a boy who seemed so grouchy at the beginning, he has grown kinder. He’s told me of his time at his own castle. I have yet to learn what caused him to be banished. But he has many interesting stories to tell. But I don’t think he finds himself interesting. 

I want him to know I am interested. I want him to know I like his stories. 

He kissed me. 

He kissed me…

He..

Kissed…

Me…

And I ran. 

Why was I so foolish?

I prepare for war, to be the bravest and strongest warrior, stronger than Heracles, and yet I was cowardly in the face of the thin, brown haired boy with the soft lips. 

Up on the mountain with Chiron, we haven’t spoken about the kiss. I wanted to bring it up. But I feared he regretted it. 

We shared a bed up on the mountain. He is so warm. We wake up with our limbs tangled together quite often. 

I noticed he got more muscular on the mountain. 

How I wished to touch his arms. His legs. His hair. His lips. 

But mother would do unspeakable things if she saw this. 

Mother cannot see us here. 

The new knowledge ran through my head. 

She is completely blind to the mountain. 

My desires, my dreams, my craving. They could all be satiated. 

I saw his face when I told him mother cannot see us. One of hope. 

I’ve seen the way he looks at me. The embarrassment spread across his face when he comes back from the mountain. I can only imagine what he is doing and thinking in the forest. Is he thinking of me..?

We laid in bed. 

I kissed him. 

He tasted like figs.

And his body was even sweeter than the ambrosia of the gods…

Pa-tro-clus.

His name was like music to me. And I couldn’t help but whisper it in his ear as I felt him on me..

Pa-tro-clus...

#the song of achilles #tsoa #tsoa fanfic #achilles #patrochilles #patroclus #Fanfic

[literary-hoe]

This one's for all my Greek mythology fans.

I believe these were Achilles' thoughts after Patroclus' passing. I like to think he died in the battlefield the next day.

- Naaz

#patroclus #patrochilles #patroclus x achilles #song of achilles #achilles x patroclus #achilles and patroclus #achilles #the song of achilles #poems on tumblr #poems #poets on tumblr #poem #poetry #ancient greek mythology #greek mythology #tsoa achilles #tsoa fanfic #tsoa #my poem

[bitea-sweetea-roseytocin]

Writing a domestic modern fic about Patrochilles in Target. Should I finish it?

Edit: Guys I already wrote it and posted it, it's available to read I posted the link on here it's literally just called "Target"😭

#patrochilles #fan fic #tsoa fanfic #tsoa #tsoa patrochilles #the song of achilles

[human-trash-fire]

You ever write something, forget about it, then reread it years later and be like ✨oh✨

I’m rereading a fic I put I hiatus 2yrs ago (tldr I got really fucking depressed & forgot how to write) bc I desperately want to remember that voice & finish it, when I see this—

—And all I can think is damn, ain’t that the fucking truth.

#twbt au #patrochilles fic #patrochilles #patroclus #achillies #tsoa fanfic #there will be time #ao3fic #ao3

[averageambivert]

I NEED GENDERBENT PATROCHILLES FICS

#Patrochilles #Patrochilles fanfiction #Achilles #Patroclus #tsoa fanfic #tsoa achilles #tsoa patroclus #The song of Achilles #bigender achilles brainrot

[johaerys-writes]

Snippet Sunday

Two WIP memes in a week, new writer, who dis 👀

I've been working on the next chapter of High-Flying Birds and jsdkfah I'm so excited?? Firstly because I've missed this fic, secondly because there's good stuff coming, heh. Here's an excerpt from my take on the sack of Lyrnessus from Achilles' POV (and a Briseis cameo 👀):

Achilles’ spear and his sword sang, the sharp bronze ringing clear amidst the cries of pain and death and anguish. Waves of Trojan soldiers washed towards him, each of them yearning to claim the glory of slaying him for themselves, only to be broken at the end of his spear. He fought without thinking, his limbs moving as if on their own; there was the exhilaration of the fight, and then there was pride in seeing the men’s marvel and horror at his agility and speed. Achilles killed cleanly and swiftly, he didn’t let them suffer long, but the look in their eyes as they died at once shocked and thrilled him.  He was the best, the very best at what he did. Greater still than Perseus and Heracles, greater than the greatest that had ever lived. No other mortal could claim such fame.

When they were done, Lyrnessus’ streets were dark with blood and hazy with smoke, a cloud of it rising over the houses, the shops, the temples with their bronze altars. It was a fairly wealthy city, larger than the settlements they’d overtaken so far but much smaller than Troy. It was quite charming, all things considered, with its streets paved with white marble and the delicately curving columns of its buildings, the bronze statues of Zeus and Apollo, the trellises of the inner keep with their flowering vines, the lovely tapestries on the walls. The palace and its storehouses would be stripped of coin, treasure and grain soon, and the wealth they had gathered over generations would fill the Achaeans’ coffers. 

Only then did Achilles stop to take a breath. His hands were crimson and sticky, and so were his weapons and his armour. He took off his helmet, but the air that blew was hot and cloying, and not refreshing. Someone offered him a skin; the wine in it was watered down and still cool, and Achilles gulped it down greedily. It did little to sate his thirst, but his heart soon stopped thumping against his ribcage. The stench of death and fire and fear was overwhelming, then. He let the men gather the loot onto carriages as he tended to Balius and Xanthus, his horses. 

He was ready to get on his chariot again and have Automedon drive them back to the ships when Diomedes and his men descended the wide marble stairs of the palace. Behind them was a throng of women and children, young girls and boys, dragged along by the thick rope that was tied around their wrists. 

Slaves, Achilles realised as he watched them. Agamemnon had made his intention clear during their war council the day before: each general would have his pick of slaves during the next distribution of wealth, alongside the other treasures they would gather. Bed slaves and cupbearers, musicians and dancers and stablehands and cooks: this was the fate of most of this unfortunate lot, those that wouldn’t be ransomed back to the Trojans. 

“They were all hiding in the inner keep,” Diomedes informed him as he dragged the women before him. “Some of them managed to slit their own throats before we got to them. But most of them are unharmed. For the most part, at least.” 

He smiled his wolfish smile as he dragged a girl forward. She slipped on the bit of torn fabric that was hanging from her skirts and fell on her knees before him. The side of her face was red as if someone had hit her, a dark bruise already forming along her cheekbone. Her luscious black hair had escaped its intricate plaits and was hanging half-loose over her shoulder, covering the part of her dress that had been torn. Diomedes took hold of her chin and tilted her head up. 

“This one in particular,” he said, “put up one hell of a fight. But it didn’t do much good, did it?”

If she understood Diomedes’ words, she didn’t show it. She only glared up at him; her eyes were a deep dark brown, like fertile earth, and they blazed defiant. This was no slave or serving girl, used to keeping her gaze down. This must be a princess or a queen, proud and unafraid in the company of men, even as they circled her like vultures.

Dimly, Achilles remembered the men he had fought, with their finer suits of armour, their shining helmets. Perhaps some of those men were her brothers, her father or a husband— perhaps all. Achilles had lost count of how many he’d killed that day. 

“I’ll take her,” he said. At Diomedes’ questioning glance, he added, “I will carry all the slaves on my ships. You and Tlepolemus can take the rest of the loot. We will leave them all at the agora, to be sorted out later.”

#patrochilles #the song of achilles #tsoa #achilles #patroclus #tsoa fanfic #achilles/patroclus #achilles x patroclus #briseis #johaerys writes #wip meme #the iliad

[snehadarkacademia]

Did the song of Achilles make you question your sexuality or are you unormal?

#the song of achilles #tsoa #madelline miller #Achilles #patroclus #tsoa patroclus #tsoa achilles #tsoa fanfic #gay #gay urge #gay books #history #greek memes #gay memes #greek mythology #history memes #dark academia #dark academia aesthetic #love #romanticism #books #books memes #red white and royal blue #gay couple #darkacademism #dark acadamia aesthetic #literature #classic literature #deadpoetssociety #darkacademia

[lonelypersonhere]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/22795966

this fic

this fucking fic

its about patrochilles from like achilles' perspective and it is written So Fucking Beautifully, like Madeline Miller wrote it herself 😭😭😭

THANK YOU SO MUCH I just finished reading it and it’s SO SO GOOD. I literally read it soon as I saw my notif…DEFINITELY going to read the writers other works tonight

#the song of achilles #tsoa #patroclus #patrochilles #achilles #tsoa patrochilles #tsoa fanfic #save for later #og lonelypost #good fic #ily moots

[3am-thoughts-of-achilles]

so many hozier songs keep giving me patrochilles brainrot these days. An au based on First Light where they never enlist in the war; achilles says no to odysseus and that’s that.

He and Patroclus go back to Pelion for a bit before moving to some quiet island of their own where they live out the rest of their days in soft, golden companionship because obscurity doesn’t always mean unhappiness. Yes he doesn’t get the prophesied glory or godhood his mother told him about, but he does forsake the extremities of his pride because he’d seen the tragedy it would bring at Troy. His parents had filled his head with their own visions and hopes and dreams for what he could be and Achilles had taken it on, thinking it was his own ambitions and dreams. But for the first time he chooses his own path, chooses happiness; a life with Patroclus.

He won’t achieve fame for sure, but he’ll live long with his love, and perhaps tutor future heroes with Chiron. He still has his grace, just doesn’t use it for the war that would stain his hands red and take the love of his life from him.

He lives, he lives, he lives, and is happy.

#im gonna come back to this at some point in the future and flesh it out on ao3 #tsoa #patrochilles #tsoa achilles #tsoa patroclus #tsoa textpost #the song of achilles #tsoadaily #tsoa fanfic

[quedika]

As he spoke, the blond finally broke his focused gaze and eyed Patroclus. His eyes were gently set, unbothered, and wondering. Patroclus found himself engrossed in them, unable to break away until he snapped himself out of it, scratching the back of his neck from his awkwardness. The blond smirked like he was amused.

“What’s your name?” He said finally.

Patroclus hesitated, then answered haphazardly. “Patroclus.”

“Pa-tro-clus,” the blond repeated, the words flowing elegantly as each syllable rang. Patroclus could feel blush radiate his cheeks from his recitation- he had heard his name said before but it felt prettier now, full of the sweetness of a pastry with all the zest of a lemon.

#booklover #bookworm #ao3 author #author #writing #fanfic #tsoa fanfic #song of achilles #fanfiction #patrochilles #greek myth fanfic #greek mythology #writersnetwork #writerscommunity #poem #ao3 writer

[writing-till-i-am-dead]

The Song of Achilles - Tying Up Lose Ends

Transferring fanfics from my main onto here. This contains all the parts.

“Where is he?” I murmur, tapping my finger. “He should’ve been back by now.. perhaps he’s helping heal whoever’s fallen..”

Anxiety creeped up my shoulders, but I shrugged it off. Patroclus is ok. I know he will be. 

There’s loud clamor coming from outside. Men, panicked, but also angry. I could hear them outside my tent. 

I arrive outside. “What is going on?” I demand. 

The men pause. 

There’s something they’re all clamoring to hold onto. To keep safe and unharmed. I’ve seen enough dead men to know what the heap they were all surrounding was. 

“What’s this? Who is this? Where’s Patroclus?”

The men pause, frozen. 

“No..” my voice is caught in my throat. I push pass the men, grabbing onto the man they were all holding. 

The man..

My..

A scream erupts from the depths of my soul. Horror inducing. Blood curdling. No one would believe a scream such as this would come from the lungs of the fearless Achilles. 

“PATROCLUS!”

I grasp his face. It used to be warm and full of color. Now pale and lifeless. 

Another scream that shook the souls of the men around me. 

His eyes, once full of life and humor. Dull and lifeless..

Another scream. 

My voice.. my throat.. I can no longer feel it. But it doesn’t stop my sobbing. 

I grasp onto his body, wailing. I bury my face into his chest, whispering his name, hoping that would be enough to bring my beloved back.. that if I say his name enough, he will wake from the dead..

He is so cold..

The men around me are horrified. They had never seen me like this.. so agitated. I could only imagine what a sight it was to see me so pained and heartbroken. 

I’m once again reminded of how human I truly am. This pain. This sorrow. Only a mortal could truly understand this..

After about 10 minutes.. or maybe an hour.. or maybe a day.. I couldn’t tell.. my thoughts were all on my beloved..

Odysseus.. Odysseus had the audacity to urge me to eat and drink. 

I wish to lash at him. I wish to kill him. I wish to slice his throat and watch him die.. and I was just about to.. but I feel my grip on Patroclus loosen. Almost immediately, my arms are around him again, my face in his neck. I hear Odysseus walk away. 

I drag him to my tent. I lay him in the spot he would always sleep. As if he will awake, like he did every morning, looking at me with sun filled eyes as he greeted me for another day. And I fall asleep, holding his body. I dream of his soul tormenting me. I jolt awake, and go to shake my beloved up, to ask him to comfort me for I had just dreamt of his demise.. only to realize I was living the nightmare.

I wrapped my arms around his body, twitching and sobbing. This pain.. my most beloved..

“Awake.. awake..”

But he would not wake up.

I come into my tent and see Briseis over his body. Cleaning him. 

She dare touched him.. like she had touched his lips with her own filthy lips, trying to steal him once again.

“Get away from him!”

We yell at each other. I don’t remember what I say. I don’t remember what she says. All I remember were the words I tell myself every moment I am living:

“I hope Hector kills you..” she hisses. 

“Do you not think..” I whisper, not looking at her. “that I wish for the same thing?”

King Priam came to collect his son. 

I had desecrated Hector’s body, giving it no mercy as I shamed it in front of every Trojan who wished to see me. 

Priam dared to call Patroclus my friend. Like how every other warrior in my army, like how my father, like how everyone on the outside looking in will call him. 

I tighten my grip of the heap of my dearly beloved. 

“Philtatos,” I say, the word snapping out of my throat harshly. 

The old king seems surprised, but then nods. 

I return Hector’s body. I have no use for it. I don’t want his dreadful soul anywhere near the sweetness of Patroclus’. 

I’m in the finale battle. I hear the gods conspiring to kill me. I slice down every warrior who runs to me. I show no mercy. I kill them fast, but I hope their suffering is slow. 

I can sense the god, Apollo, with the boy. Paris. The cause of this whole damn war. 

Apollo..

He must’ve helped with the demise of my Patroclus. 

Apollo. 

I will never forgive the bastard that is Apollo.

But, he does one thing that I will be eternally grateful for..

The stab of the arrow, so sweet and deadly. 

Oh, thank the gods for Apollo’s arrow. 

Thank the gods…

I can see my Patroclus again. 

…

Achilles was tapping his foot impatiently, his nerves buzzing. Eventually the boat reached close enough to land. Before Charon could announce their stop, Achilles jumped off, landing in the Elysium Fields and throwing off his helmet into the grass. He pushed his way past many burly looking men, who all seemed to be looking at him curiously. 

“PATROCLUS!” He cried out. 

He looked around wildly. His soul felt cold and alone. His soulmate, his other half, wasn’t here. He couldn’t sense the warmth of his dear Patroclus..

“Where is he?!” He sobbed. 

The other heroes looked at him, mildly concerned. 

“Has anyone come in?!” He asked, yelling and panicking. 

“Not anyone named.. Patroclus, was it?” Answered one man. Achilles had seen enough art and sculptures of this man to know that this was Heracles. Usually, in any other circumstance, he’s be in awe of being face to face with the great Heracles. But right now, that was not his greatest concern. 

“Where could he be?!” Achilles sobbed. 

He turned to Charon, who was about to sail away, but before he could, Achilles grabbed onto him. The other heroes were shocked. No one dared grabbed onto the ferryman of the dead, not even Greek’s greatest heroes. 

“Take me to Hades,” Achilles said through snarled teeth and desperate eyes. 

Charon was surprised by Achilles’ boldness, but gave him a simple nod and calmly drifted off on the river. 

He reached a castle. It was relatively small, but it still managed to loom and cause dread. Surely, this was the castle of Hades..

Hades was already waiting outside, as if he was expecting Achilles..

“Where is he?!” Achilles demanded, stumbling off the boat. “Where. Is. Patroclus?!” He didn’t care that he was face to face with a god. Hades, no less. He didn’t care about the terrifyingly pale skin of him, or his black, glowing, haunted eyes that seemed to have spirits trapped within them. 

“Achilles..” he simply said, a whisper, a whisper of the Lord of the Dead. “You surely managed to avoid the Fates for quite a while.. the gods were afraid you would change the course of the future..”

Achilles was fuming with rage. He didn’t care about that. He didn’t care about what the gods thought of him, or the Fates. 

“Where. Is. He?”

“I’m afraid he’s not here.”

“What do you mean?! He’s meant to be buried with me! Why isn’t he here?”

“I’m afraid he was never properly buried.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Your son, Neoptolemus, refused to honor your final wishes. He’s still wandering the mortal planes.”

“My.. son..” Pyrrhus..“No.. please” Achilles legs were shaking and now, desperate and full of sorrow and despair, bowed on one knee before the god. “Please. I know. I know I have been rude. I know I have been disrespectful. But please.. please make an exception for my dearly beloved Patroclus..” his voice broke. His forehead pressed pressed against the cold ground. “I’ve heard stories of your cruelty. But I’ve mostly heard stories of your mercy. Please.. I cannot live even in the Afterlife without him..”

“I’m sorry..” he could hear the pity in the god’s voice. “There is nothing I can do for this..”

Achilles sucked in a sharp breath. 

“I understand your sorrowing, Aristos Achaion..”

“You.. You know nothing of my pain!” He lifted his head, forgetting once again who he was speaking to. “You are a god! You look down on us mortals and you love to ruin our lives! I know this to be true! I know what Apollo did! He helped them! He helped them… take away my philtatos..” he said the finale words, breaking into tears. 

“Young Achilles. I truly wish there was something I could do. I understand what it feels like to be ripped from the love of your life. I always experience this, every year.”

“Yes.. but in the end, you’re always reunited with your dearly Dread Persephone..” he said the name bitterly. He knew it was a horrible idea to speak badly of Persephone. If Hades wouldn’t kill him for speaking ill of his wife, she may kill you herself. But he was already dead. And he didn’t care if they made his soul cease to exist. It would mean nothing to exist without Patroclus…

There was a pause. 

“Yes.. I am..”

“Please.. I beg of you..” even though he no longer had his physical body, he could still feel the knots in his stomach, the nausea in his head. “Just one exception.. please.. for my beloved Patroclus..”

“I’m afraid it’s just not possible..”

The world was falling. 

“There are some things not even gods are capable of doing..”

His head is spinning. 

“He may never come to the Underworld..”

His voice now raw as he screamed in pain, on his knees, screaming, as the Lord With Many Names stared at him with the greatest pity a god could give a man. 

…

Achilles hid in the small area he always hid in. The spot he always lied in and never left. Where he felt his souls wither and rot. 

It was the coldest, darkest area he could find in the Elysium Fields. 

In the beginning, the others tried to bring comfort to him, but as the years went by, they realized it was a lost cause. Achilles was nothing without his Patroclus. Not even in the Afterlife. 

Achilles had kept track of how long it’s been through scratches on the stone. But, over time, it’s been harder and harder to keep track. And he didn’t see the point in trying anymore. There was no point. Nothing mattered. It didn’t matter how many days it was. Patroclus still wasn’t there. 

He’s sure it’s been years. At least 3 decades..

He lies onto the cold floor, his soul limp and useless. 

He hears cheering and welcoming in the distance. 

Someone new? A new hero? It’s rather rare for someone to come in.. and.. seeing as how long it’s been, it could be someone that he knew from the war. The likelihood was rather high. 

But he didn’t care. He didn’t bother moving as he felt his body still press against the cold floor. 

.

.

.

“And you’re sure he’s over here?” Pyrrhus asked. 

“Yes..” said one man. Pyrrhus didn’t know who, but he didn’t care. He was probably in no greater than himself. “But.. it’s really not worth it. He just kinda.. lays in the same area. Never moving or talking.”

Pyrrhus scoffed. “I’m his son. I’m sure he’ll be perfectly happy to see me.”

The men looked at each other nervously, but didn’t try to stop him. 

Pyrrhus followed the instructions and eventually found a crumbled, disheveled soul of a man. 

“Are you Achilles?”

The soul lifts his head. His eyes are dull, like an eternal cloudy evening. He didn’t glow with pride, like the souls of the other men Pyrrhus saw. He was rather pathetic. 

“Surely you can’t be Achilles..” he said with disgust. 

“Who’re you..?” The man asked, barely moving to even look at Pyrrhus. 

“I’m Neoptolemus. Pyrrhus. Your son. Surely you can’t be my father.. you’re so.. pathetic..”

The soul, once dull and sad, now glowing with a fiery rage, his eyes now like thunder. “Neoptolemus..” he hissed.

“That rage.. yes, you are surely my father.”

Achilles stood up. He hasn’t gotten up in 3 decades. He felt like he was being born again, like a phoenix. 

“You..” he said, his voice like a snarl. 

“That look in your eyes.. I know you did not want me, but surely that’s not why you are filled with such rage.” Pyrrhus kept himself distinguished, hiding the nervousness he felt from his father’s glare. “Was it the offerings? I gave you plenty. I even gave you a human sacrifice.”

“You did what?!”

“What angers you so much?!”

Achilles flinched, remembering that day.. the day of the ‘wedding’.. the blood.. her face..

“I can’t believe you.. you are not my son..” Achilles was still slumped as he stood, but his face and posture made him look like a lion on the prowl. 

“What? Of course I am. Because of me, you’re now officially a legendary warrior.”

“You were not the one to save my legend! The one who kept my honor was Patroclus!”

“Patro-.. you mean that servant boy?! Surely you jest!”

“I do not! Patroclus was my love! My best friend! My philtatos! And you.. you’re the reason he’s not here.” He clenched his fists in rage. “You will never be my son.”

Pyrrhus was frozen. He had expended a shower of gratitude and congratulations from his father for having carrying the torch of his legacy. He did not expect.. this.

“You..” Achilles said, hissing through his teeth. “Are the embodiment of everything I hate about myself.”

The atmosphere was still and heavy. 

“Now leave..”

Pyrrhus couldn’t move. Achilles punched him in the face, causing him to fall to the cold, dark ground. “I said leave!”

Achilles watched as Neoptolemus, the boy who had Achilles’ own blood run through his veins, scurry off, once again leaving Achilles alone. 

…

Yelling. 

Distant yelling. 

There was always yelling in the Elysian Fields, so Achilles didn’t bother getting up and looking. 

But something did spark his interest. “Go tell him… somebody go get him..” 

Were they talking about him?

Why would they want him? Was it something to do with Pyrrhus? If that were the case, Achilles couldn’t give a shit. 

Eventually, one person, Atalanta, came up to him. 

“Um.. hey, Achilles,” she said awkwardly. He looked up, absolutely miserable in appearance. “What?” He asked bitterly. 

“Um.. what was the name of that guy you were askin’ for all those years ago..?”

There was a pause. “Patroclus..?”

“Ya, that guy.”

Achilles began to sit up, a serious look on his face. He tried to stifle any and all hope bubbling in his chest. “What about him?”

“There’s a guy here who’s saying he’s-“

Before she even finished that sentence, Achilles was up and running. Despite not walking or running in 3 decades, his speed did not change. He was just as fast as he used to be. Or maybe it was just the hope. 

He shoved past all of the other warriors, looking around wildly. “Where is he?!” He yelled. 

“He’s with Charon,” answered one. 

Achilles huffed and continued to run. Run just like he used to. But instead of running into battle, to what he used to think he wanted from his life, he ran to Patroclus, the thing he truly did want in his life. The person he wanted to be remembered for. The man who saved his legacy. Who saved him. He jumped over the River of Styx. He reached a dark area with the faintest blue glow of flame. 

“Patroclus.. PATROCLUS!” He yelled out. His breathing was heavy and intense. 

There was slight movement from the corner of his eye. He whipped his head around. And there he was. In all his glory. 

His beard, his curly hair, his brown eyes.. has his eyes always been that stunning?

“Achilles..” his voice was soft, echoey. 

Achilles ran to him, his hand extended to him. He ran at full speed to reach him, but even at that speed, it felt like closing the gap between the two of them took 100 years. 

Patroclus extended his hand toward him. The two of them interlaced their fingers together. 

What a joyous day in the Underworld. 

…

A soft breeze ran through the golden hair of Achilles. I always liked his hair. He rested on my chest, having cried himself to sleep. My lips were red and raw and his were too and I could still feel him shaking. 

I was never much of a crier, but even I shed a tear or two when we had at last found each other. 

I caress his neck softly. We had not let each other go. He had been none stop sobbing for the past 2 days. I’m starting to think he’s going to cling onto me for all of eternity. But, truthfully, I don’t hate that idea. 

The other heroes of the Elysian Fields gave us curious glances and would attempt to ask questions, but Achilles would glare at them and force them to back off. 

But now that Achilles was sleeping, they approached quietly. 

“So, you’re Patroclus?” Asked one, Theseus. 

“Yes, I am,” I answer softly. 

“You don’t look like a warrior.”

“I’m really not.. but I suppose I’m still seen as a hero.”

“We were wondering who was the person that could make the Aristos Achaoin so.. weak?” Bellerophon said before giving Achilles a nervous look to see if he heard him. 

“Hm.. well.. here I am.. hah..” In all honesty, I didn’t know how to talk to the people here. Yes, I’ve spoken with warriors, but these men were ancient heroes. And while Achilles may count as one of them, I never counted him as one. To me, he was always just Achilles. And that was always enough. 

In the distance, I saw one watching, glaring. I recognize his fiery red hair and sour face. Neoptolemus. 

I choose to ignore him. The mere thought of him makes my blood boil, but I don’t dare try to provoke him. For a number of reasons, really. 

One, he is Achilles’ son. Two, I want to put everything, the war, the pain, the loneliness, I want to put it all behind me. 

Achilles began to stir and all of the other warriors quickly got up to leave. 

He looked up at me. I smiled. He smiled too, but it was sad. He reaches up to kiss me. I caress his hair and he pulls away. His face is now sad and I brace myself to comfort his tears. 

“I’m so sorry, Patroclus..”

I was surprised. This whole time through his tears, he hasn’t managed to get any words through. 

The tears began to come and he wrapped his arms around my waist. “I’m so sorry.. I’m sorry.. I’m so sorry for my pride. For my own stupidity. For my selfishness. I’m so sorry..”

His breath is ragged and I feel his quivering. I rub his back, hoping to comfort him and remind him that I am here. That everything turned out ok. 

“I’m so fucking sorry..!” He choked out. 

I kiss his shoulder, but instead of comforting him, he only cries more. 

“Achilles..” I whisper. He doesn’t respond. He can’t respond. And, truthfully.. that’s ok. 

I don’t try to have him stop. I let him cry. I let him apologize. I let him let out all his sorrow so that way once it’s all gone.. we can spend out eternity of peace together. 

So, I can wait. I can wait for his tears to subside. I can wait for him to remember how much I love him. 

I wait for him to remember my oath to him that I shall stay by his side.. forever. 

#The Song of Achilles #TSOA #Achilles #patroclus #Patrochilles #fanfic #tsoa fanfic

[peggy-sue-reads-a-book]

Soldier On, Achilles

Captive!Patroclus AU

rating: 18+ | violence, character death, slur

Additional tags: hurt/comfort, angst, soulmates, whump

Summary:

Regret sets in as Achilles waits for Patroclus to return from battle. Thetis is rude. Agamemnon throws a tantrum.

Chapter I

He did not know why his mother took the form of a sea monster around others. Probably just to be obtuse. In fact, she is graceful, glossy hair like a Persian warhorse, fair as new milk. But she did not like to garner attraction.

Achilles cannot not decide if he is relieved or irritated to see his pretty mother now. “Six hours,” he grumbles, aware of the sullen note in his tone, “I wish you had gone with them.”

“With him,” she corrects, mocking, “You don’t care about them.”

“You don’t either,” he bites, jerking around to face her. She stands only a little taller than him, softened in this form. A willow where she had been pine. Her eyes are not black but deepest green. Human. She looks at him as in childhood, ready to comfort. Something is wrong.

Achilles grits his teeth, flinching away. It hurts her visibly.

“Mother, if you let him come to harm—”

“If I let him?”

Her eyes darken, narrow. An eel poised to strike.

Achilles’ heart drops ten feet. His blood roars.

“He is injured?” He looks every direction, ears suddenly at twice their sensitivity. Any sound. Any sense at all. But there is only the empty camp. The murmur of girls, ignoring him in their tent. Slaves and grunt-workers who pass him as if invisible.

“I see you are not a favorite,” she says, “Achilles.”

She emphasizes his name: pain of the people.

“If you think a despised man earns favor with—”

“Gods be damned!” he shouts. It is foolish of him. “Can you speak of nothing else? Where is Patroclus?”

He does not wait for an answer. He shoves the flap of the women’s tent open, barking for any of them to follow, to help him arm.

“Why?”

Their collective reproach sounds through Briseis’s voice, a creeping python.

“Patroclus is hurt,” he says, attempting the curtness of a prince, “I will go.”

A sharp inhale. She follows. Briseis works quickly, but her hands are unused to buckles and bronze. Achilles clenches his teeth against the rockslide harsh words. Couldn’t she go any faster? He thinks of his love, his boy, a medic. An untrained soldier in armor not fitted to him, a sword balanced for Achilles’ alone. What was I thinking?

Competing answers:

I was not thinking

and softer,

I was thinking of myself.

Briseis keeps her eyes lowered like a slave. But he cannot mistake the flush of hate in her cheeks.

“If Hector kills you,” she hisses, shoulders trembling, “I will only be sorry for him.”

His prize has no leave to address him thusly. He raises his hand to strike her. Then lowers it.

“If Hector kills me,” he says, “You will say I punished you. No—that I took you to punish him. It is unseemly that my companion should take liberties I have not with my bed-slave. You will say you are pregnant and without your honor.”

“But I am not,” she says bitterly.

“Then lie!” he yells, cowing her, “You will lie, and he will reproach me. It will dull his grief. Honor will compel him to leave Troy with you as his wife. I’m telling you to save his life.”

“He won’t believe it,” she says softly.

“It will be easier than you think. You’ll enjoy spiting me,” he snarls, stomping out of the tent. She is alone among the men’s things. He was right on only one front. Deceiving Patroclus into marriage would save him. But defaming his lover would only sharpen the grief. And that was if he believed her.

The creek of chariot wheels. Horses’ crying sharp and panicked. A six-hour campaign. What could have happened? But they were returning now. His boy would be with them. Bruised, perhaps, even broken, but here. Tears stand in Achilles’ eyes and he all but runs to meet the returning army. They move slowly – he sees a shrouded body hefted between Odysseus and Diomedes. Their faces are creased, exchanging heavy glances. Someone of importance, he supposes. This does not matter. Not now. Achilles searches the company, escalating from fevered to frantic. Where was he? He would flog Automedon if it was he would had failed to make all haste. A horrible thought: the walls. An image, as if from a remembered dream. Of pair of them, Patroclus had always been more adept at climbing trees.

And on Scyros – he had been so upset. To upset to notice his feet cut to shreds when he had scaled that cliff to what – to howl Thetis into being? No.

Achilles dives into the crowd, elbowing past his own men, knocking them into the dirt without looking. He shoves soldier after soldier aside. If he fell. He would have caught himself, known to tuck his chin and roll, but there would be broken bones. His back, perhaps, or both arms. Both femurs, even. That would explain why he had been carried so slowly. Achilles shouts, howls his name. “Patroclus!” then, “Automedon!”

There was no way he had not been knocked unconscious by a fall like that. No way for him to hear Achilles’ voice, to be comforted at all. And it was his fault.

What was the word he had used again in their quarrel?

Hubris.

He nearly crashes into Odysseus and would have upset both counselor’s and their burden had Odysseus not stopped him with a firm hand, flat to his chest. A fatherly gesture. The prince of Ithaca looks in his eyes, stern, unintimidated.

Achilles stops in his tracks. The blood drains from his face as his eyes lock onto the shrouded form.

Your Grace. Automedon’s voice is blurred as if by a sudden strong wind. Achilles screams, and screams, and screams, pivoting to strike the boy in the face. The blow knocks him to the earth with a squealing cry. The crunch of a wrist breaking. Shame laces its way through Achilles’ rage. Reproachful eyes – he does not know whose—as a larger man helps the injured boy up, dragging him into the throng where he will be hidden.

When he raises his fist again, Diomedes catches it with a face full of scorn.

“Enough.”

Odysseus raises and deepens his voice at once. It is a king’s voice.

“You disgrace yourself and him, prince,” Odysseus says with cold authority.

“He is mine,” rasps Achilles, his face contorting as he stares at the body, just barred from his reach, “My companion. My right.” Two more have him by his other arm. He does not look to see their faces.

“I think not.”

The prince of Ithaca lifts his chin, arms folded calmly.

With an inhuman roar, Achilles wrenches himself from the other men. Odysseus steps deftly out of his way as a performer from a charging bull. It occurs to Achilles that he is being mocked but it does not matter. All that matters is to reach him. To see punishment for those who mistook his Patroclus for dead. For dragging him home shrouded when he needed immediate medicine, needed Achilles. They would all be beaten. Their women with them. He tears off his helmet, scraping his knees raw in the sand.

“I’m here,” he cries, voice finally breaking with tears. Everyone can hear him. Let them. “Patroclus—my darling—my precious boy, my love.”

He lifts the body into his lap, tearing the cloth away. Red hair, dulled with grey spills across his legs.

There is quiet. The crowd has stilled, backed away. Odysseys and Diomedes look at one another again, this time with held breath. Men part to clear a path.

A grim voice rumbles, close now.

“Faggot,” it sneers.

As Agamemnon approaches, one foot at a time. Heavy, yet noiseless. A tiger stalking. Diomedes snaps to attention, leaping on the opportunity to clarify loyalties.

“You sully the King of Sparta,” he says in an affected pitch, “I’m sure you can find another boy to dote on.”

Tentative laughter rustles through the army. Achilles is frozen where he kneels. His face that of a startled little boy.

“Silence!” bellows the general. Then, to Achilles. “Prince of Pthia. You indeed dishonor my brother with this . . . display. And so twice dishonor me. I will consider what to say to you when my grief has eased. You will leave now.”

Achilles moves to his feet, slow and trembling, anemic with terror.

“Go!” Agamemnon’s shout carries down the beach. “Men of Sparta! Your king is dead at Hector’s hands because the famed Myrmidon’s princess would cower behind his mother before doing what was necessary!”

Menelaus is dead.

Hector had killed him.

As Achilles darts through the crowd as a deer weaving past hounds he asks endlessly:

but where is Patroclus?

*Author’s Notes:

Yes, this is the fiction I began over a year ago and was unable to continue due to a depressive episode during my pregnancy. All seven completed chapters are posted to my AO3 but I also plan to release periodically on Tumblr. From the bottom of my heart, I appreciate the kind and encouraging comments and emails I have received on this project while my mental health was in the toilet. Comment if you want to be tagged. Minors will not be tagged.

@nambnb @withlovefromolympus @ygnoe @human-still-developing @hycinthrt @johaerys-writes

#greek mythology #achilles #the song of achilles #the iliad #patroclus #patrochilles #tagamemnon #tsoa #apollo #tsoa fanfic #angst #hurt #ok maybe it’s even a little whumpish #minors shoo

[mooinmybelly]

crazy how it’s been a year and i still think about achilles n patroclus… these two gay boys have taken over my mind I literally can’t listen to the cigs after sex song “nothings gonna hurt you baby” anymore without imagining achilles watching patroclus on the battle field making sure no one comes within 5ft of him OHMYGOOODDDDD i want madeline miller to release the sequel of them showering and eating figs tgt watching netflix in the underworld idc fanfics are not enough I want something canon at this point :’(

!!! BUT IF U HAVE ANY GOOD TSOA FANFICS IN THE MEAN TIME PLS RECOMMEND ME TY ILY :DDDD

#tsoadaily #rant post #personal rant #Patroclus #achilles #the song of achilles #tsoa patrochilles #tsoa fanfic #ao3 #ao3 stuff #ao3 fanfic #fanfic #booklr