Patrochilles

VIII

He finds me, ten minutes later, propped up against the bed frame, trying, godsdamn me, to get ready.

"Patroclus?"

For the first time that night, he seems to understand I'm not well.

He carefully edges further inside the tent and looks me up and down.

"Patroclus, are you well?"

The light flickers in his eyes, and I hate to see it go, so much so that I try to speak.

It is dark enough now he can only see my silhouette. I can still pull this off.

"I—"

I begin to sweat. This was a terrible idea.

"I—I—I'm almost." I take a deep breath and clutch the wooden post. "ready."

"Truly, I'll be right—"

But the words are too much for me, and to my horror, my knees buckle, taking my ruined body with them.

"Patroclus!"

I sag against the bedpost, refusing to slide all the way down it.

My hands grab for something to help, but my fingers latch onto wood, then wool, breaking open again and bleeding everywhere.

Achilles is immediately there. His hand is in my sweaty curls, cupping my limp head, my limp neck, asking me to look at him.

"Please, Patroclus. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry"

He begins to weep and then gasps, seeing the blood. He takes my hands in his calloused ones.

"Patroclus, what is this? Why didn't you tell me?"

He drops my hands and grasps my face. The tears disappear. He is warrior Achilles now.

"Look at me. Look at me, Patroclus"

I do.

Somehow, I do.

He stares into my eyes, the green dark and angry. I stare back, so so sorry. So sorry.

His wrath is too much.

My legs give out entirely. I do not even feel Achilles catch me and clutch me to his chest, do not feel him rip open the tent and race to the doctor with me in his arms, do not feel him stroke my face, my arms as he sets me onto the bed, do not feel him kiss my broken fingers one by one and then stop when it makes them bleed more, but I hear him call my dying name as if it were his own, over and over and over again.