Perspective Swap

Achilles (4)

The silence stretched between us as we walked the winding halls, finally ending at a small, sparsely furnished room. A lone chest and a couple of stools greeted us. I gestured to one, its leather stretched taut over a simple wooden frame. A musician's chair, something I'd only seen when bards graced my father's fireside with their presence, and always a rare occurrence.

Patroclus eyed it with a wary curiosity. "I don't play," he mumbled, his voice barely a whisper. A frown creased my brow. "Never?" Oddly, the thought of him never touching a lyre filled me with a curious disappointment.

"My father didn't approve of music," he explained, a hint of defiance in his voice.

"So?" I countered. "He isn't here." My voice was a little sharper than intended, impatience simmering beneath the surface.

Patroclus hesitated, then gingerly took the lyre I offered. It was cool and smooth beneath his touch. He ran his fingers hesitantly over the strings, eliciting a faint, wavering sound. It was the same lyre I'd held the day he arrived, a constant reminder of that first encounter.

I delved back into the chest, retrieving my own instrument. The carved golden wood gleamed in the muted light, a testament to my mother's memory and the care I took with it. This, however, wasn't the one I wanted him to hold. A subtle yearning tugged at me.

I settled onto the other stool, pulling the lyre onto my lap. A single plucked string filled the air, the note warm and resonant, a stark contrast to the tentative melody Patroclus had coaxed from his instrument.

Patroclus cleared his throat, his voice barely a whisper. "It's beautiful," he said, his words laced with a hint of longing.

"My father gave it to me," I said, wondering why Patroclus was acting so odd.

He didn't comment, but the tightness around his jaw told me he understood. "You can hold it, if you like," I offered, a strange urge to share this part of myself with him taking root.

He shook his head, his gaze fixed firmly on the floor. "No," he murmured, and I saw a flicker of pain cross his features. Perhaps it mirrored the one twisting in my gut.

The door creaked open, revealing a man of indeterminate age with the calloused hands of a seasoned musician. He carried his own lyre, carved from dark, polished walnut. His gaze flickered between us, landing on Patroclus with a jolt.

"Who is this?" he barked, his voice harsh and grating, no different than it always was.

This is Patroclus," I announced, my voice firm. "He doesn't play, but he will learn."

The man's face contorted in disapproval. "Not on that instrument," he snapped, reaching out to snatch the lyre from Patroclus.

Something primal surged through me. Before I could even think, my hand shot out, gripping the man's wrist with a strength that surprised even me. "Yes, on that instrument if he likes," I growled, my voice laced with a dangerous edge.

The man sputtered, surprised by my defiance. He glared at me for a moment, then subsided, sinking back into his chair with a huff. "Begin," he mumbled sullenly.

I nodded curtly, releasing his wrist. The tension in the room hung thick in the air. But as I settled back, my fingers hovering over the strings, another emotion bubbled up – anticipation. Patroclus had refused to play, and for a moment, a wave of disappointment washed over me. But then I began.

Without meaning to, I found myself leaning forward, Patroclus doing the same. Our faces were mere inches apart, and I felt a blush creeping up my neck.

When I was finished, I got up, putting the lyre away in the trunk, bud farewell to my teacher, and looked directly to Patroclus.

"We will go see my father now."