Page 44 of Where Darkness Bloomed
“Do you think I don’t feel this?” Patroclus whispered. “Every scream that echoes through this camp, I feel it in my spine. The fire. The blood and pyres.” His breath shuddered between his teeth. “And I look to you, and you are silent—you aregone.”
His voice grew hoarse, breaking. “I do not know if I mourn these men... or you.”
Achilles looked at him, truly looked, and saw everything: the tremble in his shoulders, the fire behind his eyes, the grief in his heart that bled into every line of his dark, beautiful face.
Patroclus—lit from within by courage and anguish.
“I cannot sit idle as they fall,” Patroclus said, barely more than a breath. “Even if you can.”
Not just his companion or brother-in-arms. His other self. The better half Achilles’s heart, as he had been since boyhood.
Until Troy. Another spark of light that had been stolen by this godsforsaken war.
Achilles could not speak.
So he turned wordlessly and stepped out into the sunlight. The tent flap fell closed behind him.
Outside, the camp was alive, preparing for combat. Armor clinked, spears scraped against shields. As they fastened buckles and cinched straps, soldiers murmured prayers to the gods. For whatever good that would do.
Achilles moved past them all, his bare feet sinking into sun-warmed sand. At the shoreline, he stepped into the surf and splashed water over his face, the salt stinging his skin.
“Well rested, are we?”
A voice rose behind him, laced with dry amusement.
Achilles’s mouth twitched as he turned, finding Odysseus just above the tide, leaning on his spear. Wind teased his hickory-dark curls, the morning sun catching in the king of Ithaca’s sea-blue eyes—bright, sharp with a cleverness Achilles had never fully trusted.
“Praying for divine inspiration?” Odysseus drawled, all mockery.
Achilles arched a brow. “Cursing the bastard who dragged me into this.”
“Really?” He leaned forward with languid interest. “How do the gods answer you?”
“They say to bolt the rutting door next time Odysseus comes speaking of honor and glory.”
Odysseus threw his head back, barking a laugh. Pulling his spear free of the sand, he stepped into the surf beside Achilles, and both men surveyed the stirring camp.
“You think I want to be here—on this cursed beach, instead of in my own bed with my wife?” Odysseus scoffed. “Not even you love war that much.”
“Then why come?” Achilles asked, eyeing him. “Better yet, why drag me into Agamemnon’s madness?”
Odysseus’s grin faded into a somber, thoughtful expression. “Few kings have the luxury of fighting only for themselves. Ithaca is a small nation, one that could not withstand Agamemnon’s wrath. I yielded for my people.” He cast a sharp glance at Achilles. “As for you—we need you. And you know it.”
Achilles shook his head, crossing his arms. “Wars have been fought and won before my time. They’ll rage long after my ashes are scattered.”
“This is different.” Sharp, blue eyes glittered. “Even the gods are in this war. You know this better than any, son of Thetis.”
“The gods fight for their own sport, not for us,” Achilles replied bluntly. “Agamemnon can seek their aid, instead of mine. I sail for Phthia in three days.”
Odysseus let the wind speak for a moment. Then, more carefully, he asked, “What of Patroclus?”
Achilles’s shoulders tensed. “He is not a warrior,” he said, voice low. “Not like you and I. He will leave with me.”
Odysseus’s brow pinched in. “He’s more of a warrior than most still standing.”
Achilles said nothing. But his throat worked silently, his gaze sliding back to the sea.
“You trained him,” Odysseus went on. “Put the sword in his hand, the shield on his arm. He’s been on killing fields since adolescence. He’s no green boy.”
