#anyway I want to rename this fic because I am having the dumbest problem

[baejax-the-great]

WIP Wednesday-WitD

Patroclus cups his hands and draws the water to his face.

“Sir? Hey, sir!”

He tries to ignore Zagreus. He does. His hands tremble suspended between river and mouth and he is already losing water trickling through his fingers. The sizzle of burning feet on grass grows closer at a breakneck speed as Zagreus sprints toward Patroclus.

“You’re still here,” Zagreus exclaims with a huge grin on his face. “And I saw you in the arena last time. Did you find what you were looking for, then?”

Patroclus does not know how to answer this. His cupped hands hold now barely a mouthful of water, the rest of it slowly dribbled onto the grass.

He doesn’t want Zagreus to witness this. The other shades milling about—they don’t matter. But this moment, Patroclus unbecoming himself—he doesn’t want the boy to see this. He lets the rest of the water fall out of his hands.

“Were you going to drink, sir?” Zagreus asks with a small amount of trepidation in his voice. “You do know that… it’s the Lethe.”

Patroclus sits back on his heels. “Yes,” he says. “I know.”

The boy stands there awkwardly, about as still as Patroclus has ever seen him, the ground charring beneath his feet. The ribbons of grass flare orange then red then black with an undulating glow. It’s captivating. They crumble to pieces, black and gray dust, and new grass grows in its place startlingly quickly to burn all over again.  

“If you found a way to kill Achilles,” Patroclus asks, “And went beyond him to discover whatever was past Elysium and learned that there was still no way for you to get out, that you would never escape, would you want to know? Or would it be easier to forget and keep struggling for your freedom? Or even to forget that you ever wanted to escape in the first place?”

Zagreus’s expression crumples. “I…”

Patroclus waits. Is he asking the boy for permission? For understanding? Has he grown to value the judgment of Zagreus, or at least fear his disapproval? After this, Patroclus won’t be able to help him anymore, and he hadn’t helped him much to start with.

The boy’s attention turns sharply toward the arena with a frown. He waves and calls, “Hail, sir.”

Achilles is standing in the center of the gate, still armored, still holding his spear. Shades are scattering away from him as he strides onto the grass. More importantly, however, far past Achilles and far upstream, the movement of a tall, dark shadow catches Patroclus’s eye. It is too far away to make out clearly, but there is only one who roams these rivers.

Shit. He’s out of time, the one resource he usually has far too much of. Achilles shouts for him to stop at the same time Zagreus calls his sword to his hand.

“He’s talking to me, stranger, not you,” Patroclus tells him, fairly certain he’s correct about that. Zagreus is merely a duty to Achilles, whereas Patroclus is… something else. As soon as the words are out of his mouth, it occurs to Patroclus that he can do one good deed before he consigns himself to history. “Make me,” he calls to Achilles with as much challenge in his voice as he can muster, edging his way closer to the river.

Zagreus looks at him in shock, and Patroclus says quickly and quietly, “This is your chance. He’s coming for me. When he’s far enough away from the gate, run and don’t look back. I think he’ll let you go this one time.”

“Will you be—”

“I’m dead, Zagreus. Now go.”

Achilles does turn his attention to Zagreus briefly, and Patroclus quickly scoops up the river and swallows as much as he can. It is cold, almost numbing as it goes down his throat. How quickly does it work? Which memories went first? Will he even know? It doesn’t matter.

As he reaches his hands back into the river, he can hear the thundering of Achilles’ feet. He lifts his head just in time to see Zagreus bolting into the arena. Before he can fully swallow his second mouthful, Achilles tackles him.