Chapter Text
This was a punishment.
Achilles wasn’t usually required to sit at these dull, never-ending gatherings where his father received visitors and foreign dignitaries – men who bowed stiffly before the throne while heralds exchanged trinkets and muttered through ancient, sleep-inducing phrases on behalf of kings too lazy to visit Phthia themselves. Usually, he was spared the tedium. But no such luck today. Father had made it clear.
Today, Father had called him “young man” in a deep, disappointed tone.
Today, Father had said he should be more mindful.
Today, he was being punished.
Which was so unfair!
Achilles pursed his lips, his gaze narrowing at the golden rings on his fingers, as if they were somehow to blame. With a sudden clench, he seized his little silver toy wagon and hurled it across the hall. It struck a column with a satisfying clang that echoed through the vaulted space, drawing startled glances from the assembled dignitaries. Servants scrambled to retrieve the broken pieces, their quiet efficiency only fueling Achilles’ ire.
Father didn’t even glance his way. He remained still upon his throne, focused on the ceremonial exchange of gifts. Achilles stared down at his knees, sulking.
Now he had one less wagon. Maybe he shouldn't have thrown it quite so hard.
But Father had been cruel to him all day. And none of this was fair:
The serpents guarding the third treasury had been massive, taller than men, thick as tree trunks. Just a drop of their venom could send a minotaur screaming to the Underworld. And Achilles had slain five with his training sword before Glaukos Glaukides — his father’s second cousin and a walking pile of quivering nerves — had burst in, shouting like a frightened lamb. Then the alarm was raised, and soon a dozen warriors had rushed in — spears clattering, faces drawn — all ready to share in Achilles’ fun. Only, Achilles had been the only one laughing.
While Achilles had enjoyed himself immensely, Glaukos Glaukides had shouted something absurd like, “Run to safety, little prince — we’ll hold them off!”
Eventually, the serpents were herded back into their cages. It had taken forever. And after it was done, Glaukos had the audacity to lecture him, saying he shouldn’t have released the beasts in the first place. Naturally, Achilles had reminded him that he was the prince, the son of King Peleus of Phthia, and didn’t take orders from overgrown cousins with goat breath. He had even declared that Father would surely exile Glaukos and his band of joyless warriors for spoiling his fun.
Only… Father hadn’t.
Father had sided with Glaukos Glaukides.
Father had even frowned.
At him.
At Achilles.
Father frowned often, but never at him. Never at his son.
Achilles’ gaze shifted from his rings to Glaukos Glaukides, who was now solemnly offering a golden statue of a minotaur to a bald man with tattoos scrawled across his bare chest. The man was the fifth son of some king from some faraway land. Achilles didn’t care. He wished the man would fart. Or fall over. Or do anything amusing.
But no such luck. The bald man merely opened his stupid mouth and echoed back the same tiresome words that would surely endure until Achilles too had lost all his hair and turned as old as Father.
And because Father would remain seated the entire audience, so would Achilles — who usually never sat still for this long. And as if the boredom weren’t cruel enough, Father had insisted he wear the itchiest tunic in the entire palace. It reeked of herbs and flowers, soaked in some ceremonial concoction that was supposed to please the divine.
Achilles had met gods before. Aside from his mother, they rarely cared what he wore.
And Mother? She never liked the clothes Father chose for him, so there was no pleasing her. It wasn’t just because she despised Father but also because the clothes were made by mortals, and Achilles was the only mortal she cared about. Once, when he was little, Achilles had crafted a necklace for her, strung together with empty seashells. When he had presented it to her, her eyes widened in surprise, then filled with tears. She gasped, her hands trembling as she held the makeshift gift.
"My wonderful boy," she whispered, kissing his forehead. "Oh, what a precious boy you are. So inventive. So ingenious. A true marvel."
It was a good memory, and Achilles glared up at his father’s stern profile.
The bald man across from them was still droning on, a long string of tiresome thanks spilling from his lips. Achilles let out a loud, exasperated sigh and climbed onto his knees on his small throne, situated just beside his father's towering one. He leant on Father’s strong shoulder and whispered into his ear,
“I don’t like you.”
Father’s expression remained stern, but when Achilles finally withdrew and sunk back into his throne to sulk, the corner of Father’s lips twitched – as though Achilles was somehow amusing. With his feelings wounded, Achilles curled up into a tight ball. It was only right that the whole world knew how cruelly he was treated in his father’s court.
When the bald man finally gave his final bows and was seen out by one of the heralds, Father’s large hand carded gently through Achilles’ golden strands.
“My son has such a burning spirit,” Father murmured, his voice low but threaded with pride. “You remind me of your mother.”
Achilles peeked from behind his knees, scowling, and the corners of Father’s dark eyes crinkled with warmth. Where Mother called Father a rotten herring and found him flawed in every possible way, Father adored Mother.
“The ever-divine Thetis gave me a fine son,” he often said. “May the seas and all the Nereid rejoice in her name!”
And when the wine had flowed a bit too freely, he sometimes declared, “You always protect the ones you fuck.”
Achilles had never fucked anyone, but he understood the general idea — lying on top of someone, grunting, maybe sweating a bit. Father said he would get to do it one day, once he was older. Promised, even, that he would buy Achilles a slave just for the purpose. Maybe they could even share such a slave, Father had laughed.
Achilles didn’t really see the appeal.
He much preferred his wool mattress.
“I need a new toy wagon,” he announced, his voice sharp with accusation. Really, it wasn’t his fault the old one had shattered. He wouldn’t have thrown it if Father hadn’t forced him to sit here like a statue, bored out of his soul.
Father hummed to himself. “Yes, I saw. The column got in the way, did it not?”
“Someone should’ve caught it before it landed,” Achilles said, casting a pointed glance toward the servants. They had been swift in collecting the pieces — silent, bowed, efficient — but none of them had even tried to prevent the tragedy. Not one.
Another sigh from Father, low and fraying at the edges. His fingers idly stroked the back of Achilles’ neck. “Or,” he said, “you could have chosen not to throw it, my little sea eagle.”
Achilles scowled. “I had to throw something. You were being mean to me.”
Father gave a low hum, the kind he used when weighing a lesson. “Your spirit is fierce, my son, and I do love it. But left unchecked, it could burn not only you but others, too. Someone must teach you how to wield it. As your father, that duty falls to me.”
He squeezed Achilles’ shoulder before withdrawing his hand.
Achilles frowned and immediately grabbed it, guiding it back to his head like a misplaced hat. He liked it when Father petted him. And now it made the court feel less cold, the punishment less sharp. Maybe Father was feeling indulgent after being so mean all day, or at least he didn’t pull away, just resumed the slow, steady stroking.
Achilles relaxed slightly, even as Glaukos Glaukides cleared his throat and announced the next visitor:
“Patroclus, son of King Menoetius of Opus.”
Achilles yawned as wide as he could, stretching his jaw until it popped. But the herald’s next words cut through his boredom like a blade through honey.
“Prince in exile.”
In exile! Achilles sat up straight, his whole body suddenly alert. He craned his neck, though his view of the double doors was perfectly clear. A prince in exile — now that sounded like something interesting. What had the man done? Killed someone? Betrayed a kingdom? Stolen treasure from the gods? A prince could only be exiled by their king, by their own father. Achilles couldn’t imagine what that would feel like and looked at his father, who was still stroking his hair. Father had frowned at him today for letting the serpents out, but exile? That was worse than being punished. That was to be discarded. To be ignored.
Eager, Achilles expected a tall, fierce warrior to step through the doors, maybe with a broken sword and ash smudged across his face. Someone scarred and furious. A proper exile.
Instead, there came the soft, uneven sound of sandals — pit-pat, pit-pat, pit-pat — and a boy around his own age patted across the mosaic floor.
He wasn’t fierce at all.
If anything, he was small. Slighter than Achilles, and shorter too. A little thing. His tunic was clean but unadorned, not princely at all. His arms hung limp at his sides, fingers barely curled, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to move them. He didn’t look up. His gaze stayed fixed to the floor like he was afraid it might fall out from under him if he didn’t keep a close eye on it.
He walked like someone who had been given strict instructions on exactly how many steps to take, how fast to move, and what not to do if he wanted to keep his head.
Behind him came a herald, bearing a lacquered tray heavy with five golden goblets, a necklace strung with polished stones, and a scepter crowned in garnet. A servant followed, arms full of offerings: two delicate bird-shaped statues and a lyre gilded at the tips, its strings humming faintly from the motion.
The boy stopped a few paces before the throne and gave a stiff bow as though he wasn’t used to doing such things. Maybe he was more used to being a prince than an exile.
Achilles held his breath, excited. Waiting for the boy to lift his head. To look at him. To see him.
He wanted to be seen by this strange little exile. He was prepared to smile, to stick out his tongue, to make a face.
But the boy kept his eyes downcast, and Achilles itched for another toy wagon — for anything he could hurl against a column just to make the boy look up.
“Your Highness,” the herald intoned, “King Menoetius has accepted your terms. He offers his son’s weight in gold in exchange for the boy’s keeping.”
Father said nothing at first. He was studying the five goblets with a detached sort of interest, the firelight catching on his rings as he tapped them rhythmically against the arm of his throne. His other hand continued to absently comb through Achilles’ hair.
“Is this all?” he asked at last, voice cool as marble.
At the foot of the dais, the boy’s narrow shoulders tensed, the movement almost imperceptible. Achilles’ legs, which had been swinging idly from his small throne, stilled.
The herald dipped into another bow, this one even lower, more careful. “My lord,” he said, “Prince Patroclus weighs less than a modest sack of grain. The tribute has been measured. It is accurate.”
Father gave a flick of his hand, sharp, dismissive.
“However it may be. I accept the offerings.”
The herald and the servant bowed, then rushed to place the items among the rest of the gifts Father had received that day. With the herald and the servant gone, the little prince was suddenly standing all alone before the throne. He remained where he was, still as a statue, his small figure casting a long, flickering shadow across the mosaics. He was the only thing in the hall that did not glitter or gleam.
But for some reason, Achilles couldn’t look away.
“Son of Menoetius,” Father said, voice heavy with some distant weight. His hand slipped from Achilles’ hair, fingers drifting instead to the edge of his jaw, where he rubbed absently at a pale ridge of old scar tissue, thumb moving slow, thoughtful. “Your father stood there once, not much older than you. Both his parents drowned in the same storm. Different boats, same sea. He arrived to my father’s court with a sword too big for his hip and a name that made no man turn his head.”
Father’s gaze lingered on the boy, but his words seemed aimed at the past more than the present. “Menoetius shadowed me like a dog for a time. Tried to match my stride. Always two steps behind.” He bared his teeth in a small smile, not quite fond, not quite sad. “He never caught up, and our difference in age prevented us from becoming close. He stabbed me once, albeit it is possible it was an accident, as he claimed. Nonetheless, I stabbed him back, quite on purpose.”
The little prince fidgeted a little as though unsure of how to respond.
Father leaned back.
“You have been exiled from your home for a reason,” he said, and Achilles perked up, hoping to learn more, eager for a story.
But disappointingly, nothing more was offered. “You have paid for what was done, and your actions in the past will not be held against you in my court. Your father and I were raised as brothers, and therefore you are to be considered my ward, Patroclus, son of Menoetius.”
The boy’s chin inched upward. Not much. Just enough to show the line of his throat, the pale flash of skin beneath the collar of his tunic.
“I thank you, my lord.”
His voice was as small as the rest of him. Like he hadn’t spoken aloud in days.
Father gave a single nod, and a herald moved forward without a word. The boy turned with him, obedient. Achilles watched as the little exile was led past columns and torches, past the glint of gifts that no longer belonged to him. Patroclus never looked up. Never glanced his way. Not even once.
Even as Glaukos Glaukides began to drone on again — that same dull litany of ceremonial nonsense — a strange hush clung to the space the boy had left behind. Achilles felt it under his skin, a strange itch.
He scowled at the boy’s retreating back. What kind of prince didn't look at him once? It felt like a challenge, or worse, like he had been forgotten before ever being known. It wasn’t just rude. It was unnatural. Unthinkable.
Achilles sat stiff and simmering on his little throne, his legs no longer swinging. The silence the boy had left behind buzzed in his ears like a mosquito he couldn’t swat.
He should run after him. Tug his tunic, look at me. Anything.
But instead he was trapped, punishment-bound beside his father for the duration of the entire evening. His arms folded tight across his chest, as his glare shifted to Glaukos Glaukides, whose dull voice scraped on like a whetstone against his teeth. If the man hadn’t shouted, the guards wouldn’t have come. If the guards hadn’t come, he wouldn't have been caught. Glaukos Glaukides had caused this punishment, and it was his fault that Achilles had to now sit here.
He scowled at Glaukos until his eyes stung, then turned the full force of his hatred on the man beside him.
His father sat calm, composed, big hands heavy on the arms of his throne.
Surely, Achilles thought, there could not be a crueler father in the whole world.