Perspective Swap

Achilles (3)

Frustration gnawed at me for weeks. Ever since Patroclus' silent rebellion at the dinner table, he'd vanished. Training sessions felt hollow without his simmering presence, the air thick with his absence. I'd scoured the grounds, questioned every boy who dared to look at me, but Patroclus remained a ghost, a shadow flitting just beyond my reach.

One blustery afternoon, as the wind howled like a banshee outside, I found myself wandering aimlessly down deserted corridors. My steps, usually purposeful, echoed hollowly in the stillness. Rounding a corner, I bumped into a scrawny serving girl, a basket of misplaced laundry tumbling from her grasp. As I helped her gather the scattered garments, a whisper of an unfamiliar scent, a faint trace of olive oil and old leather, tickled my nose.

"Have you seen Patroclus?" I asked, the question tumbling out before I could stop it. The girl's eyes widened in surprise. "Seen who, my lord?" she stammered, her voice barely a squeak. I pressed on, the urgency in my voice betraying the weeks of fruitless searching. "The boy who arrived a few moons ago. Dark hair, fierce eyes."

The girl hesitated, then glanced nervously around the corridor. "He... he might be in the storerooms," she mumbled, gesturing vaguely towards a maze of narrow doorways at the end of the hall. "Sometimes he hides there."

Dismissing the girl with a curt nod, I strode towards the storerooms, a dark foreboding twisting in my gut. The air grew colder, heavier with dust and the lingering scent of fermenting grapes. Stepping inside, I squinted through the dim light, the only illumination filtering through cracks in the wooden door. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the dripping of a leaky barrel somewhere in the distance.

My heart hammered in my chest as I shuffled deeper into the room, brushing against towering stacks of linen and crates overflowing with half-eaten fruit. Then, a flicker of movement in the corner caught my eye. A figure, hunched and shrouded in shadow, emerged from a gap between two enormous jars of olive oil.

"Patroclus," I announced, my voice echoing harshly in the confined space.

His head jerked up, startled. He was a sight, knees pulled against his chest, his hair tousled and his clothes dusty. Shame flickered across his face, quickly replaced by a defiant scowl.

"I heard you were here," I stated, the air around us crackling with unspoken tension. The truth was, I wasn't sure why I was so relieved to find him. But here he was, a living, breathing challenge in the dim storeroom.

Weeks of unspoken frustration spilled over. "You have not been going to morning drills," I said, my voice clipped. His cheeks flushed a deep crimson, a mixture of guilt and anger simmering in his dark eyes.

"The master noticed," I pressed on, "and spoke to my father." A heavy silence descended between us. He knew as well as I did what punishment likely awaited him. Punishment that was public and humiliating.

"And he sent you?" he finally rasped, his voice rough with disuse.

"No," I lied, the word sharp and bitter on my tongue, "I came on my own." Embarrassment burned in my throat, but the sight of him huddled in the shadows, his defiance crumbling, sparked something within me. "I overheard them speaking," I continued, my voice carefully neutral, "I came to see if you were ill."

Patroclus didn't answer, but a flicker of surprise flickered across his face. I studied him, this strange creature who had somehow managed to disrupt the carefully constructed rhythm of my life.

"My father is considering punishment," I said, letting the implications hang heavy in the air.

"You are not ill," I stated, my voice bouncing off the dusty walls of the storeroom.

"No," he muttered, his bravado a thin veil over his fear.

"Then that won't serve as your excuse." I knelt before him, our gazes meeting in the flickering torchlight.

The fear in his eyes morphed into something akin to panic. "What?" he squeaked, the sound raw and unfamiliar.

"Your excuse," I repeated, my voice deliberately patient. "So you won't be punished. What will you say?"

He stared at me, his mouth working silently. Finally, a defeated "I don't know," escaped his lips.

"You must say something," I insisted, frustration battling with a strange protectiveness.

My insistence sparked a flicker in his eyes, a spark that quickly flared into anger. "You are the prince," he snapped, his voice tight with defiance.

The accusation surprised me. I tilted my head slightly, a gesture that mirrored a curious bird I'd once seen perched on a window ledge. "So?"

"So speak to your father," he spat, his anger a welcome change from the fear that had gripped him moments before. "And say I was with you. He will excuse it."

The audacity of his suggestion took me aback. Here he was, a castaway who had barely been here a few months, dictating solutions. It was the kind of naive honesty other boys quickly learned to shed. Honesty that, in this case, was entirely impractical.

"I do not like to lie," I said, my voice dropping to a murmur.

This was precisely the kind of innocence that made boys easy targets, a vulnerability we'd learned to hide beneath a veneer of cynicism. But I trusted Patroclus, even if I did not yet know why.

Suddenly, an idea struck me. A solution that wouldn't involve a lie, but that carried a hidden benefit. A benefit that might fluster Patroclus, which, all things considered, was an amusing side effect. What If I... I leaned forward, my lips almost touching his, when he moved out of the way.

"Then take me with you to your lessons," he said, his voice regaining its bravado after a moment of being flustered. "So it won't be a lie."

No lie, indeed. An even better outcome, though, was the prospect of forcing him to socialize with the likes of me. A mischievous glint lit up my eyes.

Something flickered in his gaze, a mix of suspicion and maybe even a hint of dread. "Come," I finally managed, the smile playing on my lips.

"Where?" he asked, his voice wary. Perhaps now he worried about punishment for his earlier suggestion of deceit.

"To my lyre lesson," I declared, the words tumbling out before I could fully consider the implications. "So, as you say, it won't be a lie. Afterward, we'll speak with my father."

He gaped at me, his mouth agape. "Now?" he sputtered, incredulity coloring his voice.

"Yes, why not?" I shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant despite the heat that crept up my neck, a tell-tale sign of my own apprehension. The prospect of having Patroclus witness my fumbling attempts at music was strangely nerve-wracking, but the thought of the stunned silence the other students would greet him with was undeniably appealing.

This was going to be interesting.