Enemy At The Gates
by Trust No One
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Enemy At The Gates Part IV
Author: Trust No One Rating: this part R Pairings: Achilles/Hector, Achilles/Patroklus (implied Hector/Andromache, Achilles/Briseis) Disclaimer: Homer’s and Warner Bros’. Summary: Patroklus’ POV, his memories and the decision he ultimately makes.
Beta by Montmorency
A/N: Just a reminder that this is movie-based and that it’s seriously AU, especially where it concerns Achilles’ relationship to Patroklus. This whole story came to me as a *what if* speculation so, please, don’t get too mad about the developments.
Part IV
Patroklus had sought refuge on the beached Myrmidon ship. He stared at the sea, his legs dangling over the wooden edge. The quiet lapping of the waves against the hull did little to appease his misery. An empty wine skin and the goblet discarded on deck were telltale signs that he had drunk too much. But drunkenness would not claim him, no matter how much wine he ingested.
A short distance away from the Myrmidons’ tents, the rest of the Greek army was in the midst of feverish battle preparations. With every fibre of his being Patroklus ached to be doing the same. Instead, he watched with increasing resentment as the Myrmidons bustled around the camp, packing crates and collapsing tents, some with a spring in their step that spoke volumes of the relief they felt to leave for home unscathed.
For as long as he could remember, Patroklus had idolized Achilles. He was nothing short of a god to the young boy who had at first followed his older cousin around like a puppy. Achilles was no more than a teen himself at the time and the more he tried to chase the younger boy away, the more grit he extracted from him. When Patroklus’ parents died, it had naturally followed that Achilles would train Patroklus.
The young man endured admirably the rigorous training regimen that would eventually lead him to become a Myrmidon. In less than half the time expected, Patroklus had honed his skills to near perfection. He revelled in the undisguised delight that Achilles displayed at his progress. Except that, somewhere along the way - and Patroklus could not tell exactly when - he had begun to secretly desire that Achilles’ brotherly pride would turn to something deeper. By that time, Patroklus had grown into a striking young man, openly lusted after by both males and females. But for him, there could be only one: Patroklus worshipped the one he privately called the god of war and had eyes for no one else. If only Achilles had reciprocated his feelings, Patroklus liked to think that his life would have been complete, yet in spite of this he was careful about revealing his feelings. Until the moment chance reared its head most unexpectedly.
The night three years ago seemed to Patroklus like it was yesterday. He remembered the summer festival that, on the spur of the moment, Achilles had agreed to attend, more at his mother’s insistence and wanting to please her than anything else. They were drinking together for the first time as equals and Patroklus was all but bursting with pride. He matched Achilles drink for drink until he realized that he might become too intoxicated to carry out the plan that had sprung up in his mind earlier that evening. The wine flowed, strong and heady; the dancing girls were beautiful and eyed both of them with unabashed interest. To his delight, Patroklus noted that Achilles thoroughly enjoyed the feast, tossing back – quite uncharacteristically – more wine than Patroklus had ever seen him drink. As the night progressed, they drank and laughed, relaxing and enjoying the entertainment. Predictably, before long the cousins and three of the dancers were wobbling down the corridors seeking more private surroundings. They ended up all tangled together in Achilles’ bedroom.
Patroklus endured patiently as one of the girls plunked herself on top of him and thrust her tongue in his mouth and her hand between his legs. His body responded to her ministrations in spite of himself but mostly because, out of the corner of his eye, he watched the other two girls stripping Achilles and setting about skilfully arousing him. Choosing his moment carefully, Patroklus twisted his tunic around in a makeshift scarf and tied it around Achilles’ eyes.
‘I see you’re in a mood for games, cousin,’ Achilles slurred, but since the girls giggled their approval, the blindfold stayed in place and no further protest issued from his lips.
The wine had worked its magic on Patroklus, giving him an adventurous edge that otherwise, in his limited experience, he would have never dared exploit. He saw that Achilles was getting slightly impatient, tugging blindly at the girl who straddled him, eager to enter her. Swiftly, Patroklus pushed the girls aside, dismissing them with a summary wave. In spite of his uncertainty, Patroklus settled astride Achilles’ and, clamping shut his jaws, he impaled himself, with some difficulty, onto Achilles’ awaiting arousal. Nausea rose in his throat at the violent tumult of emotions, and tears of gratitude and pain flooded his eyes instantly. Yet the tautness of Patroklus’ untried muscles no doubt caused Achilles unpleasant abrasion, for it elicited a roar from the elder man, who instantly shot up and flung the blindfold aside.
‘What are you doing?’ If Achilles was truly intoxicated, Patroklus could not tell, but it certainly seemed that his drunkenness snapped out of him. To Patroklus’ worried ears, Achilles’ question held more incredulity than complaint.
Propped on his elbows with Patroklus still astride him, Achilles said nothing else, instead staring for a long moment at his cousin. Patroklus remained frozen still expecting Achilles’ wrath but he could not help admiring the sight before him: dilated pupils and heaving breath told of the unquenched lust that demanded attention. In his mind, although he had never seen it, Patroklus likened this expression to what Achilles’ face must look in the throes of battle. He hoped that, if Achilles had not tossed him out yet, he would be less inclined to do so in the next moment. And to his delight, Patroklus felt that Achilles was still rock hard.
In the next few moments, it became evident that impatience and blind desire had kicked all reason out and away when Achilles groaned instinctively, slightly shifting his hips underneath Patroklus. The young man had his answer. Boldly, he pushed Achilles back against the pillows.
‘Are you sure this is what you want?’ Achilles spoke to the ceiling.
‘Yes, this is what I want,’ Patroklus replied evenly.
‘Then we have to do this right.’
Jolted into action and belying his slight inebriation, Achilles swiftly extricated his body from under Patroklus. Without so much as caress or a kiss, he flipped Patroklus onto his stomach as if he were weightless. Mindful of the youngster’s tightness, and certainly his own abraded skin, Achilles pressed his fingers into Patroklus’ mouth to wet them, seeking what little lubrication he could have. The young man remembered Achilles opening him up expertly, even if not very gently. He shuddered violently when Achilles sheathed himself inside him again. On the fringes of his consciousness, Patroklus mourned for the fact that Achilles had not even looked him in the eyes. Not really knowing what to expect, Patroklus made peace with the thought that he was, after all, being plundered readily, if a little mechanically, by the one man he adored more than anyone in the world.
It did not take long for Patroklus to give up his lust. Achilles barely noticed, rocking and writhing in a rhythm pleasing to himself and oblivious to the pain he was causing. He pressed on tirelessly and before long, Patroklus’ every nerve ending screamed, raw from contact prolonged far beyond his point of endurance. Any man who had ingested the amount of wine that Achilles had would have been spent in minutes. But Achilles endured, taking his pleasure almost selfishly, until Patroklus started whimpering softly in pain. Only then Achilles, remotely acknowledging the damage he was causing, forced himself to climax, plunging wildly and almost desperately at the mass of shivering flesh that was Patroklus. When it was over, he kissed Patroklus perfunctorily on the top of his head and curled loosely around the still trembling form. He fell asleep within seconds.
In the stinging aftermath of their lovemaking Patroklus remained stock-still, with Achilles’ arm draped over his chest, sleepless until the light outside turned grey and the sea keened in high tide. He was sure that when eventually did fall asleep, he was smiling. Nothing in the world, except maybe the burning pain of Achilles claiming him, could have made his victory more perfect. He trusted that, given time, the pain would turn into pleasure.
But the gods, in their whimsical disposition, blessed mortals at night only to curse them in the morning. Patroklus awoke from strange, stifling dreams to an empty bed.
He did not see him again until that evening, when Achilles sought Patroklus out at the training grounds.
‘I know what you want to hear, Patroklus,’ Achilles began. There was so much gentleness in the way Achilles spoke his name that, foolishly, the young man allowed his heart to feel briefly triumphant.
‘I love you like no other, cousin.’ Achilles paused and grasped Patroklus shoulder, firmly, ‘just not in the way you want me to.’
If Patroklus had to thank the gods for small favours, he thanked them in that moment, because Achilles’ gaze held no trace of pity.
‘It is for the best if what happened between us last night – however pleasing - remains in the past.’
Patroklus knew that his agony was written all over his face, yet he did not wish to break the moment of doleful intimacy by speaking empty words.
‘You are too dear to me for me to let you get hurt,’ Achilles continued truthfully. ’Your idea of me is just that – an idea, even if I cannot convince you otherwise right now. And I have to protect you from that. But I cannot do that if my heart is not in the right place.’
Patroklus beheld his cousin for a long moment, suddenly wishing for harsh words instead of hearing Achilles apologize.
‘Forgive me for acting so foolishly last night. I did not mean to hurt you. I was drunk and in bad need of release.’ With a tender gesture, Achilles brushed Patroklus’ hair out of his eyes and saw the unshed tears. ‘Believe me when I say that I cannot give you what you are looking for. You deserve better.’
There is nothing better, Patroklus wanted to bellow, but instead he fought back the woeful words that threatened to spill out of his mouth and instead spoke the ones he thought would repair his wounded pride: ‘No. It is you who must forgive me. I acted thoughtlessly.’ But it was as far as his pride would allow him to soar for in the next instant, his poise splintered and his voice broke. ‘I only hope that you don’t regret it too much.’
‘Regret it?’ Achilles shook his head, smiling ruefully, ‘Never. Don’t you see? It would be easiest for me to accept what you are offering, but you are so much more than what you think you are. You need someone who returns your love the way you want it. I do not want you to be my shadow. One day, when you are a great warrior, perhaps even greater than myself, you will understand.’
But Patroklus had yet to understand it. From that day onwards, he had thrown himself into his training with renewed frenzy. Still, Achilles seemed to delay the moment when he would acknowledge Patroklus’ readiness to fight in a real battle, until at last Patroklus understood that Achilles still felt guilty and recognized how far his wish to protect him extended.
When Odysseus had come with the news of the campaign being mounted against Troy, Patroklus had not remained silent:
‘I wish for nothing more than to fight at your side, cousin. If you will have me, I shall fight for you if you think me ready, or carry your weapons around and clean your armour - whatever you deem fit.’
His pride prevented Patroklus from talking about the past; over time, he had become quite adept at convincing himself that all he wanted to do was fight for the Greeks. The Trojan war presented the perfect opportunity. But an obstinate part of his mind, which he thwarted effectively at most times, held onto the inkling of hope that maybe things would change and Achilles would come to realize that his feelings for his cousin had deepened. In fact, Patroklus believed that, out of guilt more than anything else, Achilles refused to heed an impulse that had been there the night they had shared.
But on the beach of Troy, watching the waves splinter against the ship, Patroklus knew that he had no more hope of swaying Achilles than of Poseidon raising a giant wave fit to swallow the entire Greek camp.
What drivel could Hector have filled Achilles’ head with to convince him to forsake glory and turn his back on his countrymen? How could this enemy have wormed his way into Achilles’ heart and bed - in one night - to make him renege on his word?
He had seen some of Hector’s uncanny influence the previous night, after the argument with Achilles. He had spied Achilles’ tent on the side that was concealed from the campsite. Still in denial, he had peeked through a rip in the tent skins and he had seen Hector clutching Achilles in a death grip. Achilles sat astride Hector’s lap with his legs wrapped around the prince’s waist. His hands were woven in Hector’s sweat-dampened hair and he undulated his hips against the Trojan’s, their bodies flush against each other. They seemed to fit perfectly in build, age and the vertiginous rhythm they danced to. And in spite of the poor light, the cruel deities had granted Patroklus a full view of his cousin’s enraptured face, his half-lidded eyes telltale of insatiable hunger. A look that Patroklus had prayed would some day be directed at him.
Devastated, Patroklus had spent the remainder of the night crying into his fists, all but howling at his helplessness and loath to accept that all these years he had been no more than a fool.
Patroklus felt - more than heard - Achilles approach. The older man leaned against the railing, with his back turned to the sea and a half-view of his cousin’s face. Achilles’ eyes were calm – his eyes that reminded Patroklus of the sea in his homeland and everything else that he held dear.
‘You’re leaving,’ Patroklus said. It wasn’t a question.
Achilles nodded. ‘It looks like the two of us will not be sacking Troy alone, like we planned.’
Patroklus tightened his jaw. Another one of their grand plans crumbled to dust. He tried to read Achilles’ expression. If Patroklus had expected harsh rebuke for his behaviour the past night, Achilles was certainly going about it the wrong way.
‘I want to stay and fight,’ Patroklus said. ‘I am ready.’
Achilles sighed. Without anger, he kicked at the goblet discarded on deck and it clattered away with a hollow echo.
‘I do not doubt that,’ he replied finally. ‘I am only concerned that you might do it for the wrong reasons.’
‘Our countrymen are dying. They need us. What more reason do I need?’
‘They will not be dying here for much longer,’ Achilles replied wryly, and beginning to look slightly irritated. ‘This war will be over soon enough.’
‘How can you be certain of that?’
‘Because I am,’ was all Achilles said, punctuating each word a great deal more forcefully than before.
‘Do you believe Hector can drive the Greeks out of here?’
‘I do. Even a madman like Agamemnon will have to bow to the will of fifty thousand Greeks who desire to leave these shores.’
Patroklus’ hands balled into fists. He wished to pound reason into Achilles but, true to his training, he mastered his will.
‘Go ahead then - leave,’ Patroklus said hotly, ‘But do not expect me to follow.’
Achilles ran his hand through his hair swiftly but when he spoke, his voice was quiet, even tinged with sadness. ‘I can no longer make your choices for you. But you must be sure that this is what you wish to do.’
‘It is,’ Patroklus insisted.
Achilles pulled himself upright. His look Patroklus could not interpret, but his eyes were clear and his voice measured.
‘If you stay, you have to fight without anger, or remorse. And you need to be true to your own heart.’
Defiance, along with nausea, rose in Patroklus’ throat. What was there left for him except fighting for the Greeks? And Achilles, in his misguided high-mindedness, deeply insulted by Agamemnon, had obviously struck a bargain of sorts with Hector with the result that would most certainly favour their enemies.
‘True to my own heart? Like you are true to yours?’
He paused, feeling a surge of brashness run through him. He decided he had nothing to lose by heeding it.
‘What was it, cousin?’ Patroklus asked boldly, ‘What was it that Hector said and did that made you decide that glory is not enough for you anymore?’
‘Leave Hector out of this,’ Achilles warned. ‘This has nothing to do with him.’
‘It has everything to do with him!’ Patroklus cried, unable to stave off any longer the rush of emotion wreaking havoc inside him. ‘One night, Achilles, is that what it takes to twist your whole life around? You listen to an enemy because he pleasured you like no other? You are willing to forsake your life and all that you stand for because of one man who plied you to his every whim? This has everything to do with Hector!’ Patroklus repeated.
‘Enough!’ Achilles roared, his fury bubbling up to shatter the calm surface. ‘This has nothing more to do with Hector than it has to do with our leaving this war. But it has everything to do with your spurned feelings. One night – yes! – that’s all it takes to change a life. You should know! Do you think I don’t know that all these years you’ve been lying to me? Hiding your feelings? I’m not blind, Patroklus. If for a moment you thought that your secret desires were not plain as daylight to me, then you were sorely mistaken. The gods are my witness - it was never my intention to hurt you. But I have and yes, I have repented for it because I know that asking for your forgiveness would not make it better for you. Yes, I have been feeling guilty for the better part of the past three years, but believe me when I say it – I feel guilty no longer. Your pain would have been a thousand-fold greater – and so much more justified - had we been lovers. Because, Patroklus, if we had been lovers, I would be standing here now telling you that it was over. And that, cousin, would be far harder for you to bear.’
Something fluttered and died in Patroklus’ chest then. His mind was empty of thought just as his heart had been hollowed of feeling and in that moment he knew what he had to do.
A vision of battle and clamour formed before his eyes….
Numbly, Patroklus nodded. What piteous words of protest he had been able to think up died in his throat.
Hector before him, all twisted rage and beyond reason, facing him down before engaging into full-scale destruction.
Achilles had calmed just as suddenly as he had erupted. ‘The decision to leave or to stay is yours,’ he said finally.
A vision of blood and slaughter, of blurring sight and cold shrouding him, of an aura of splendour and glory…
‘I wanted to protect you,’ Achilles added ruefully, ‘and yet I could not protect you from myself.’
Returning to himself, Patroklus was overcome by raw despair and uncertainty. Suddenly, he felt cold, alone and abandoned.
‘Do you love me, cousin?’ the words left him not entirely of his own will and Achilles focused on him a look of unconcealed foreboding.
‘You know I do,’ came the reply and Patroklus could not doubt the truth of those words. For a moment, it almost made him cast his decision away.
‘Would you protect me against any enemy?
Achilles blinked. ‘Yes, I would.’
He had no time to react when Patroklus leaned forward and grasped Achilles by the back of his head, coaxing his face against his and pressing a hard kiss to his lips. Then, as if exhausted by his audacity, Patroklus rested his forehead against his cousin’s, gathering Achilles’ compliant body to his chest. He let go a moment later and walked away swiftly, knowing that to dally a moment longer would tear his determination apart.
‘Don’t do anything stupid,’ he heard Achilles call after him.
Epilogue
In the hour before dawn, the Greek camp burst alight with balls of fire flying through the air like punishment from the gods themselves. The early morning sky faded into darkness as the fires spread, lighting the way for the Trojan army.
Darkly, Hector watched as in a matter of minutes the skirmish grew into full-scale slaughter. The screams of the dying, mostly Greek, covered the sky and it took even less time for the invaders to realize that they were doomed. Complete panic ensued. What men were not trying to put up such pitiful defences as they could, were sprinting towards their ships, futilely, for the tide was against them and before long, they would be hunted down and slain just like their comrades.
But then, a murmur spread amongst the Greeks that had clustered around Odysseus of Ithaca, surrounded, their resistance fated to be cut down within minutes.
And the murmur reached Hector’s ears.
Achilles…
At first, Hector did not believe it, then he tried to deny it as, almost in a swoon, he started to hew a clean path through his enemies, his wrath and killing lust increasing with each Greek that he brought down.
Hector saw the Greeks’ grey, frightened faces turn incredulous then hopeful at the sight. Such was the effect that the great Achilles had on his countrymen. He recognized the unmistakable armour, the gold-trimmed helm but most of all, the sprint in the step as the greatest warrior alive raced headlong towards his enemies, clearly searching for someone. Him.
Like a dying man who sees his entire life flutter before his eyes, images of the previous night danced into Hector’s view. Achilles’ passion, his promises, his reassurance and his lingering touch. Hector hated himself for even remembering that.
‘You!’ Hector spat, brandishing his weapons and his rage alone carried him into a killing frenzy unlike any he had ever known.
The man clad in Achilles’ golden armour never stood a chance as Hector swung his sword.
~~
Back in his tent, Achilles had tried to return to sleep, but had found that the clamour of the battle unfolding beyond the high dunes of the beach was far too much to bear. He knew that, by right, he should have been out there with his countrymen, fending off the attack so slyly and brilliantly executed by the Trojans.
But Achilles found that the echo of the screams and the panic did little for him in the way of creating battle lust, a reaction that would have normally been expected. He had simply ceased to care.
His ship should be ready and packed for departure that very morning and, looking at the girl sleeping peacefully in his bed, Achilles knew that he now had a good enough reason to return to Troy in times of peace.
He had saved Briseis the previous night from a fate that, to her, would have been worse than death. Her initial apprehension dispelled, Briseis had felt that the only way to thank the hero for her unexpected rescue was to offer herself to him. She had been a virgin, a gift that Achilles, contrary to popular opinion, was reluctant to take, especially in the light of his promise to Hector. But one thing had led to another, and, intrigued by her spirit and freshness, he had ended up sleeping with her. In spite of his mind being filled with the persistent memory of the haunting night spent with Hector, he had found himself enjoying the girl’s company.
The logical next step had led him to think that in future, he would seek Briseis and even be as bold as ask for her hand in marriage. What more could one want in the way of an alliance between Larissa and Troy? And if one threw the possibility of seeing Hector again in the bargain, Achilles reasoned that all in all, he had come up with a most successful plan.
The mere thought cheered him up and he felt the impulse to leave immediately. He sprang up, donning a cloak and exiting the tent to check how far his men were with loading the ship.
Dead silence greeted him outside and, suddenly alert, he glanced around for his men: the camp was deserted, and looking about he saw that the fires still smouldered. A few feet away from the ship, crates and barrels lay discharged and unattended as if they had been abandoned in a great hurry. Worry crept into Achilles’ chest as he cast a glance towards the armoury: as a rule, the weapons were the last to be loaded onto the ships. There was no sign of any swords or spears in the designated space.
Instantly, Achilles became aware that the roar of the battle had completely died down. His mouth went horribly dry and paralyzing heat spread at the back of his head, searing him through like a blade.
For the first time in his life, the great Achilles knew fear.
~~
No sound pierced the deadly silence as the Myrmidons brought Patroklus’ body back to the encampment. No din of voices, no cries of seagulls – even the sea seemed loath to make any sound - still as a silver mirror.
Achilles wandered aimlessly on the beach, only stopping to watch as his men washed the blood from Patroklus’ body and wrapped it in a ceremonial shroud. He did not utter a word but his face was ashen as his dead cousin’s. Later, one of the men said that something had died in Achilles that morning. No muscle twitched on his face as he moved about with the same cat-like grace, yet the lightness of being that his men had noticed only a day before was gone. Secretly, and not daring to utter their thoughts aloud, many of them likened him to Atlas, with the weight of the world bearing down on his shoulders.
Not one of them ever imagined that Achilles’ soul had had its fill of recrimination and that, overflowing with guilt, he had offered himself as a willing sacrifice to Nemesis. No longer would Ares, god of war, need the husk that was once the greatest warrior ever born. No longer would Nike, goddess of victory, let him rest against her battle-hardened arms.
He would see Hector once more – and he would be sure to make their final meeting unforgettable in the eyes of all who watched, human and divine alike. But this time they would be pitted against each other in a battle to the death. He did not wish to inflict harm on Hector, no more than he had wished for Patroklus’ death. But the young man’s still-warm blood demanded retribution. And while Achilles’ mind would scream from the injustice of it, he knew that he would never again see passion and abandon in Hector’s eyes. The gods would mock such a futile plea and Achilles knew that, when he killed him, Hector’s last thought would not be for him.
His fitting punishment would be to remain alive and endure in a world where the few people he had cared about had met their demise because of him or at his hand. And when the burden became too much to bear, he would welcome Hades.
Hector would be waiting there. So would Patroklus.
But Achilles dared not hope for their forgiveness.
~ The End ~
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