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annie-also-draws · 7 months ago

Note

Holy shit this is impressive thank you for putting this together

although my first request was achilles idk much about patroclus. you said he's one of your favorites so you know other ancient texts that mention him besides homer?

IT TOOK SOME TIME, BUT HERE IS YOUR PATROPEDIA!!!

Hey! Patroclus doesn't have AS MUCH lore as some other mythological characters, but there's still enough for this post to be long, so get ready! Fortunately, it's divided into topics, so it should make it easier to read with pauses.

And some details:

Since you said "ancient texts", I'm assuming non-mythological texts count and I'm going to put them here.

My focus is on Greek texts because I don't know much about non-Greek sources, but there are some non-Greek texts here.I’ill indicate which are the non-Greek ones so that no one confuses them with the Greek texts. As I'm already considering texts from the Archaic, Classical and Roman Greece, I'll consider Byzantine sources as well. So be aware that some of these texts have a considerable amount of time in between.

It's also important to say that I'm only including the ones that >>I<< know Patroclus is in, there may be others! And I'm not a classicist or anything like that, any part here that is my interpretation (it will be very obvious when it is) is...just an interpretation of an ordinary person. It is not a super historical, contextual analysis, etc. For the love of god, don't think you have to agree!

The links go to the exact points I mentioned,so it’s easier for you to check.

Check the "References" part in the end!

My English can be broken, especially in such a long text.

FAMILY

Father: Menoetius

From what I've seen, Menoetius being Patroclus' father is a constant characteristic of his character. Now, just to clarify some ideas:

"Patroclus is the son of a titan"

I've heard this one, but guys…he's not! It's just that there's a titan named Menoetius, but it's NOT the same Menoetius. Patroclus' paternal grandfather is Actor, and this titan's father is Iapetus and not Actor.

[...]And Actor's son Menoetius[...]

The Iliad, XI, 938. Translation by Robert Fagles.

Now Iapetus took to wife the neat-ankled maid Clymene, daughter of Ocean, and went up with her into one bed. And she bore him a stout-hearted son, Atlas: also she bore very glorious Menoetius [...]

Theogony, 507-510. Translation by Hugh G. Evelyn-White.

"Patroclus' father was an Argonaut"

That's right! There is indeed a Menoetius son of Actor from Opus among the Argonauts.

Moreover Actor sent his son Menoetius from Opus that he might accompany the chiefs

Argonautica, 69. Translation by Seaton, R. C.

"Patroclus' father is the brother of Achilles' father, Peleus"

This wasn't invented! There are fragments attributed to Hesiod, and fragment 61 is a commentary by a scholiast of Homer named Eustathius mentioning a Hesiodic tradition in which Menoetius and Peleus are brothers.

Eustathius, Hom. 112. 44 sq: It should be observed that the ancient narrative hands down the account that Patroclus was even a kinsman of Achilles; for Hesiod says that Menoethius the father of Patroclus, was a brother of Peleus, so that in that case they were first cousins.

Catalogue of Women, frag 61. Translation by Evelyn-White, H G

Mother: Sthenele, Periopis, Polymele, Democrateia, Philomela

Patroclus' mother is not a fixed tradition, her identify changes depending on the source.

Achilles was also accompanied by Patroclus, son of Menoetius and Sthenele, daughter of Acastus; or the mother of Patroclus was Periopis, daughter of Pheres, or, as Philocrates says, she was Polymele, daughter of Peleus.

Library, 3.13.8. Translation by James George Frazer.

If we consider Philocrates' version, then Patroclus' mother is Achilles' sister, which makes Achilles Patroclus' uncle. This makes me think that Philocrates probably didn't follow the Hesiodic tradition of Menoetius and Peleus being brothers, or Menoetius would be marrying his niece. But who knows, after all Arete and Alcinous in The Odyssey are married and they're niece and uncle. Or it could be another Peleus, though I have never seen that name on another character before.

Damocrateia was also attributed as his mother by a scholiast of Pindar in the Olympian Odes. And here is the moment when you expect me to post another excerpt in English, but that won't happen because I simply DIDN'T find it in English! But I found it in Greek and, activating Google Translate, the translation comes out completely messed up, but you can see that the information is really there and wasn't invented by Wikipedia! And if you use a translation website, it's less confusing to read but it's definitely not 100% accurate yet.

Anyway, it’s in poem 9 scholia. From what I understand, it’s basically telling about the nymph Aegina, daughter of the river Asopus. She first gave birth to Aeacus (son of Zeus), who is the father of Peleus and Telamon (Telamon is the father of Great Ajax and Teucer). She subsequently went to Thessaly, where she had a relationship with Actor and gave birth to Menoetius. Menoetius settled in Opus and had Patroclus with Sthenele or with Damocrateia. The part mentioning Democrateia is more specifically poem 9.106.b! In 9.104.a, it's said that Democrateia is also Aegina's daughter, so basically in this version Patroclus is a child of half-sibling incest. As Aegina is the mother of Aeacus, who is the father of Peleus, who is the father of Achilles, Achilles and Patroclus are cousins once removed.

There is also Philomela, mentioned by Homer's scholiasts in 343 and 134 (both in Greek). There was no translator that could save me, so I had to ask for help from someone who understands Greek and, apparently, the scholiasts weren’t sure whether or not she could be considered Patroclus' mother. It wasn’t really a statement like in other cases.

Sister: Myrto

There is a daughter of Menoetius and therefore sister of Patroclus named Myrto. In this version given by Plutarch, she had a daughter with Heracles named Eucleia. This makes Patroclus a kind of brother-in-law of Heracles.

Now Eucleia is regarded by most as Artemis, and is so addressed; but some say she was a daughter of Heracles and of that Myrto who was daughter of Menoetius and sister of Patroclus, and that, dying in virginity, she received divine honors among the Boeotians and Locrians. For she has an altar and an image built in every market place, and receives preliminary sacrifices from would-be brides and bridegrooms.

Aristides, 20.6. Translation by Bernadotte Perrin.

I only found this mention of her as Patroclus's sister.

Brother: Abderos

The version of Abderos, one of the characters considered between the lovers of Heracles, being the brother of Patroclus is found in Photius' Bibliotheca. This Bibliotheca is Photius giving reviews of the books he has read, so this version isn't his, but rather the person he's evaluating. In this case, he attributed this myth to Ptolemy Hephaestion's New Histories (because of a passage in the Suda, there is a theory that this Ptolemy is Ptolemy Chennus. In this case, Ptolemy Chennus is from Roman Greece. So although Photius is Byzantine, the version isn’t from Byzantine Greece). Again, Patroclus is a sort of brother-in-law of Heracles.

The centaurs who fled from Heracles through Tyrsenia perished of hunger, ensnared by the soft song of the Sirens. Abderos, who was loved by Heracles, was the brother of Patroclus [...]

Photius' Bibliotheca, 190.39. Translation by Roger Pearse.

I only found this mention of his as Patroclus's brother. And in case you read the part where I say it's a review and wondered what Photius' opinion was on Ptolemy's versions... well, he wrote “a work really useful for those who undertake to attempt erudition in history; it can, in fact, give the method to know in a short time connected elements, whereas a long life would be consumed in the effort of locating them in the books through which they are scattered. It abounds in extraordinary and badly imagined information; and the peak of absurdity is that he attempts, for certain trivial fables, to explain the reasons for their appearance.”

My take

Although the fragment attributed to Hesiod establishes Menoetius and Peleus as brothers, the other sources don’t seem to make this connection between them. Peleus 99% of the time isn’t Menoetius' brother, but Telamon's (and Phocus' half-brother by Aeacus). On the other hand, Actor appears to mostly have children with Aegina, Menoetius being one of them. So I think it's more likely that the most popular version would be that Patroclus entered Aegina's lineage as Achilles' cousin once removed, rather than first cousin. Patroclus' siblings are only mentioned in much later sources, which leads me to believe that they’re a more recent version of the myths and perhaps in older versions he was an only child or his siblings didn’t have important myths. As for Patroclus' mother, it’s impossible to deduce anything besides Philomela seems to have been the only possible mother to be cited with doubt by scholiasts.

As I can't be sure of Patroclus' most popular attributed mother (although I theorize that perhaps it could be Sthenele since she was the only one I saw mentioned in two different sources), I won't do his maternal lineage or it would take too long. But, by his father's side, Actor is apparently the son of Myrmidon and Pisidice and has a brother named Antiphus.

[...] and Pisidice had Antiphus and Actor by Myrmidon.

Library, 1.7.3. Translation by Sir James George Frazer.

Edit 17/05/2024: small edit in the below!

However, there are surprisingly a fair amount of “Actor” in the mythology, so while being descended from Myrmidon fits in with Patroclus becoming a Myrmidon, I'm not sure if we're talking about Patroclus' Actor or someone else. Although Menoetius is king of Opus (or at least a high ranking noble, I don't know for sure. This seems uncertain, the only certainty is that it was high status), his family doesn’t originate from Opus according to Pindar.

[...] until the ruler of Olympus carried off the daughter of Opus from the land of the Epeians, and lay with her peacefully in the glens of Mount Maenalus, and brought her to Locrus, so that age would not overtake him and lay the burden of childlessness on him. His bride was carrying in her womb the seed of the greatest god, and the hero rejoiced to see his adopted son, and gave him the same name as his mother's father, Opus, a man beyond words in beauty and fine deeds. Locrus gave him a city and a people to govern, and strangers came to him from Argos and Thebes, from Arcadia and Pisa. But among the settlers he chiefly honored the son of Actor and Aegina, Menoetius [...]

Olympian Ode 9. Translation by Diane Arnson Svarlien.

PRE-TROY

As a child, Patroclus killed another boy and, as a result, was sent to Phthia, where he met Achilles. Sources we have regarding this are:

"[...] just as we grew up together in your house, after Menoetius brought me there from Opois, and only a boy, but banished for bloody murder the day I killed Amphidarnas' son. I was a fool — I never meant to kill him — quarreling over a dice game. Then the famous horseman Peleus took me into his halls, he reared me with kindness, appointed me your aide. [...]"

The Iliad, XXIII, 102-108. Translation by Robert Fagles.

[...] At Opus, in a quarrel over a game of dice, Patroclus killed the boy Clitonymus, son of Amphidamas, and flying with his father he dwelt at the house of Peleus and became a minion of Achilles.

Library, 3.13.8. Translation by Sir James George Frazer.

I haven't found any other version that explains why he met Achilles other than being exiled to Phitia, so I imagine it's constant in Patroclus myths.

Patroclus is mentioned among Helen's suitors by Pseudo-Apollodorus.

Now the kings of Greece repaired to Sparta to win the hand of Helen. The wooers were these: -- Ulysses, son of Laertes; Diomedes, son of Tydeus; Antilochus, son of Nestor; Agapenor, son of Ancaeus; Sthenelus, son of Capaneus; Amphimachus, son of Cteatus; Thalpius, son of Eurytus; Meges, son of Phyleus; Amphilochus, son of Amphiaraus; Menestheus, son of Peteos; Schedius and Epistrophus, sons of Iphitus; Polyxenus, son of Agasthenes; Peneleos, son of Hippalcimus; Leitus, son of Alector; Ajax, son of Oileus; Ascalaphus and Ialmenus, sons of Ares; Elephenor, son of Chalcodon; Eumelus, son of Admetus; Polypoetes, son of Perithous; Leonteus, son of Coronus; Podalirius and Machaon, sons of Aesculapius; Philoctetes, son of Poeas; Eurypylus, son of Evaemon; Protesilaus, son of Iphiclus; Menelaus, son of Atreus; Ajax and Teucer, sons of Telamon; Patroclus, son of Menoetius.

Library, 3.10.8. Translation by Sir James George Frazer.

And by Pausanias:

At a spot called Arainus is the tomb of Las with a statue upon it. The natives say that Las was their founder and was killed by Achilles, and that Achilles put in to their country to ask the hand of Helen of Tyndareus. In point of fact it was Patroclus who killed Las, for it was he who was Helen's suitor. We need not regard it as a proof that Achilles did not ask for Helen because he is not mentioned in the Catalogue of Women as one of her suitors.

Description of Greece, 3.24.10. Translation by W.H.S. Jones.

Although Hyginus isn’t Greek, Fabulae (attributed to him) was intended to collect Greek myths and present them to a Roman audience — that's why the Latin names. So I’ll be considering it here as a source of Greek myths.

SUITORS OF HELEN: Antilochus, Ascalaphus, Ajax, son of Oileus, Amphimachus, [Ancaeus], Blanirus, Agapenor, Ajax, son of Telamon, Clytius the Cyanean, Menelaus, Patroclus, Diomedes, Peneleus, Phemius, Nireus, Polypoetes, Elephenor, Eumelus, Sthenelus, Tlepolemus, Protesilaus, Podalirius, Eurypylus, Idomeneus, Leonteus, Thalpius, Polyxenus, Prothous, Menestheus, Machaon, Thoas, Ulysses, Phidippus, Meriones, Meges, Philoctetes. Older writers mention others.

Fabulae, 81. Translation by Mary Grant.

Chronologically, Patroclus wouldn’t have been old enough to become Helen's husband (he would be at least 7/8 years old and at most just over 10). I really don't know if it's a case of myths contradicting each other in chronology or if perhaps the intention was to achieve an engagement rather than a direct marriage or even a connection (Odysseus himself was among the suitors, but focused on Tyndareus and Penelope rather than Helen). This version doesn’t seem to be a case of more isolated myth like Menoetius and Peleus being brothers. I also imagine it happened before Patroclus was sent to Phitia.

Although people consider Patroclus training at Pelion, there are no Greek sources that show him there, only Roman ones. I imagine that Patroclus' current association with Chiron is to make sense chronologically that he grew up with Achilles, since Achilles in most sources spent a considerable portion of his childhood with Chiron. In this post I exemplify this better.

As for Patroclus going to Troy, we have:

“[...] And your fathers filled your ears with marching orders. The old horseman Peleus urging his son Achilles, 'Now always be the best, my boy, the bravest, and hold your head up high above the others: And Actor's son Menoetius urging you, 'My child, Achilles is nobler than you with his immortal blood but you are older. He has more power than you, by far, but give him sound advice, guide him, even in battle. Achilles will listen to you-for his own good: So the old man told you. You've forgotten. [...]”

The Iliad, XI, 934-943. Translation by Robert Fagles.

Here it seems that the reason, or at least the main reason, Patroclus was in Troy is because Peleus wanted him to be with Achilles.

[...] And in that way Achilles went to Troy. [...] Achilles was also accompanied by Patroclus, son of Menoetius [...]

Library, 3.13.8. Translation by J. G. Frazer.

Once again it appears that Patroclus went to Troy as Achilles' companion.

He’s usually described as going to Troy accompanying Achilles. The character of Patroclus actually seems strongly linked to going to Troy, since in some versions he’s one of the suitors and therefore took the oath. And even if we consider authors who didn’t mention Oath of Tyndareus, Patroclus follows Achilles. It's as if there was an effort to avoid the possibility of Patroclus not having gone to Troy, which makes sense because his character is essential to the development of the tenth year of war. Bro was reaaaaaally doomed by narrative lol

PERSONALITY, ROLE AND CHARACTER

Note: most of the things I wrote are more on the objective side, but this is the most subjective part of the post. So, of course, it's perfectly possible for you to disagree.

The uncommon “gentle” epithet

Patroclus was portrayed as gentle by Homer. He may not be what we see as "gentle" today because a soldier isn't exactly the picture of gentleness in modern times, but by the standards of the time and even among Homeric characters, Patroclus was considered gentle. It isn't a modern invention, as some people think.

When Menelaus announces the death of Patroclus, this is how he describes him:

[...] So here Menelaus paused with much to command Meriones and the Aeantes: "Ajax and Ajax, captains of Achaea, Meriones too, remember Patroclus now, our stricken comrade! That gentle man, the soul of kindness to all while the man was still alive... Now death and fate have got him in their grip."

The Iliad, XVII, 751-757. Translation by Robert Fagles.

When thinking about the fate of mortals, this is how Zeus describes Patroclus:

Now, when Zeus who arrays the clouds saw Hector from afar, strapping on the gear of Peleus' godlike son, he shook his head and addressed his own deep heart: "Poor soldier. Never a thought of death weighs down your spirit now, yet death is right beside you ... You don the deathless arms of a great fighterand all other fighters tremble before him, true, but you, you killed his comrade, gentle, strong, and against all rights you ripped the immortal armor off his head and shoulders. So great power for the moment I will grant you to compensate for all that is to come: never again will you return from battle, Hector, nor will Andromache take that famous armor. Achilles' deathless armor, from your hands."

The Iliad, XVII, 227-239.

When mourning the death of Patroclus, Briseis said:

[...] So now I mourn your death — I will never stop — you were always kind."

The Iliad, XIX, 355.

One of Priam's sons, Lycaon, when begging to be spared by Achilles appeals to the memory of Patroclus and describes him thus:

[...] Listen, this too-take it to heart, I beg you don't kill me! I'm not from the same womb as Hector, Hector who killed your friend, your strong, gentle friend!"

The Iliad, XXI, 107-109.

Note: In The Iliad, it's said that this Lycaon had been defeated before, but wasn't killed by Achilles because he was sold. In frag 1 of Cypria, it's said that Patroclus was the one who sold Lycaon in Lemnos. If we consider the possibility that it was the same in the Homeric tradition, it makes even more sense that Lycaon tried this strategy.

And Achilles:

"[...] But I and our fast stallions will not race today, so strong his fame, the charioteer they've lost, so kind — always washing them down with fresh water, sleeking their long manes with smooth olive oil. [...]"

The Iliad, XXIII, 320-322.

Besides Achilles, Menelaus, Trojans (Briseis and Lycaon) and a god (Zeus) related Patroclus to kindness.

In The Iliad, the heroes generally have epithets that refer to:

Their appearance (ex: Menelaus with “xanthus/blonde/red-haired” and Ajax with “giant/gigantic”)

Their abilities (ex: Achilles with “swift-footed” as an example of physical ability and Odysseus with “tactician” as an example of intellectual ability)

Their role (ex: Agamemnon with "lord of men/shepherd of people" because he’s the leader of the Achaean army)

Their ancestrality (ex: Diomedes with "Tydeus' son")

They’re all epithets that somehow magnify them in war. They're big, they're fast, they have an important lineage, they play a big role. Patroclus has epithets like these too. He is "dear to Zeus", he is "Menoetius' son", he is "great-hearted". And yet he’s the only one who has the epithet "gentle". Everyone who receives personality-related epithets still receives warrior or strategic/wisdom epithets, but Patroclus also receives “gentle”.

Homer intentionally emphasized this characteristic of Patroclus and never treated it as a weakness, but rather as a quality. Gentle or kind only appears describing Patroclus after his death, as if these two things were linked (Menelaus and Briseis feel affected by Patroclus' death because he was kind to them, Zeus talks about how Hector is destined to die for having killed Patroclus while associating Patroclus with kindness and strength, Lycaon tries to win Achilles' mercy by remembering that Patroclus was kind, Achilles speaks of his horses' grief at losing a kind charioteer). The preserved memory of Patroclus by those who mourn or speak of his death is not just his strength or his courage, but his gentleness. This makes me think that the choice to make Patroclus the only hero to receive this type of epithet is precisely to aggravate the tragedy of his destiny — Achilles was the most affected, but he wasn’t the only one to mourn between the characters and even the listener/reader.

Impact of Patroclus' death and his relationships

Although there is the joke of Menelaus and Ajax recovering Patroclus' body for Achilles' sake (because of Menelaus' lines in XVII, 100-120, mainly "and haul the body back to Achilles — somehow. Things are bad, but that would be the best"), Menelaus actually demonstrated a strong protective reaction toward Patroclus' body before he thought of Achilles.

But Atreus' son the fighting Menelaus marked it all— the Trojans killing Patroclus there in the brutal carnage— and crested now in his gleaming bronze gear Atrides plowed through the front to stand astride the body, braced like a mother cow lowing over a calf, her first-born, first labor-pangs she'd felt. So the red-haired captain bestrode Patroclus now, shielding his corpse with spear and round buckler, burning to kill off any man who met him face-to-face. But Euphorbus who hurled the lethal ashen spear would not neglect his kill, Patroclus' handsome body,

The Iliad, XVII, 1-11.

Menelaus even fears that he would be left behind and die, but he still doesn’t abandon Patroclus and gets help. The Trojans' plan was to recover Patroclus' body and give it to Hector, who wished to depreciate his body by feeding it to dogs. If this happened, Patroclus wouldn’t have a dignified burial, something that is already important in modern culture, but in this specific context it would also prevent Patroclus from having adequate rest after death. Ensuring proper burial was VERY important, which is why it's impactful when one character tries to stop another from having it (like Hector wanted to stop Patroclus’ burial, Clytemnestra wanted to stop Agamemnon and Cassandra’s, and Achilles almost stopped Hector’s. In the Odyssey, there's even a story precisely about Odysseus having to ensure that one of his companions is buried when they’re on Circe's island). That's why the Achaeans were so determined to recover the body.

Menelaus being the one who first protected Patroclus' body and one of those who tried the hardest to do so actually draws my attention to the detail that Menelaus and Patroclus are relatively similar characters in Homeric tradition:

Both are related to a more well-known and powerful figure (Achilles and Agamemnon)

Both were avenged by this figure (Achilles with Hector's death, Agamemnon by helping to recover Helen)

Both are portrayed as gentle and calm people compared to the other characters (I'm already talking about Patroclus here, but Menelaus even wants to spare a Trojan if it weren't for Agamemnon intervening and easily forgives Antilochus' fraud in the competition. In The Odyssey, Menelaus is depicted as an ideal host. It really seems like Menelaus only becomes angry and violent towards Paris, but it makes sense)

Both are the characters that receive the most uses of apostrophes (I’ill elaborate on this later)

Automedon at first doesn’t have time to mourn, after all he’s fighting for his life, but he’s also grieving.

[...] Automedon fought as he rode, though grieving for his friend, swooping in with the team like a vulture after geese. [...]

The Iliad, XVII, 529-530.

In Automedon's case, he has problems because Xanthus and Balius (Achilles' immortal horses) don't want to move because they’re depressed about Patroclus' death. Automedonte even says that the only person who could truly control the horses was Patroclus, but now he’s dead and cannot help. Patroclus' absence is then immediately felt by Automedon, who like him had to deal with Achilles' horses and will have to do it alone.

When Menelaus asks Antilochus to give the message to Achilles, this is the description of Antilochus' reaction:

Antilochus listened closely, hating every word. He stood there speechless a while, struck dumb... tears filling his eyes, his strong voice choked. But he still would not neglect Atrides' order. So handing his gear to a loyal aide Laodocus, who maneuvered his pawing horses close by, he set oft'at a run

The Iliad, XVII, 782-788.

And when Antilochus tells Achilles, he keeps crying.

As such fears went churning through his mind the warlord Nestor's son drew near him now, streaming warm tears, to give the dreaded message: "Ah son of royal Peleus. what you must hear from me! What painful news-would to god it had never happened! Patroclus has fallen. They're fighting over his corpse. He's stripped, naked-Hector with that flashing helmet. Hector has your arms!

The Iliad, XVIII, 16-23.

Antilochus kneeling near, weeping uncontrollably, clutched Achilles' hands as he wept his proud heart out for fear he would slash his throat with an iron blade.

The Iliad, XVIII, 36-38.

Antilochus's strong reaction to Patroclus' death, the way he knows Achilles well enough to fear that he will hurt himself as an initial shock reaction, and the fact that in the Odyssey and later myths Antilochus becomes Achilles' second closest companion after Patroclus' death makes me think that Antilochus was actually one of Patroclus' closest comrades. Antilochus is also one of the youngest in the army (a characteristic emphasized by Menelaus in the Book of Patroclus' Funerary Games), so he was probably closer to the age of Achilles and Patroclus.

Although Achilles' anger was well known, this wasn’t his first reaction to Patroclus' death. In Book XVIII we see how he throws sand at himself, pulls his hair and Automedon even holds his hands because he is afraid he will cut himself. The initial impact of Patroclus' death on Achilles wasn’t to make him want to hurt/kill someone, but rather to want to hurt/kill himself. And even after Thetis guarantees that she will bring an armor for Achilles to go to battle to avenge (because his is with Hector, who took it from Patroclus), in the meantime between that and him actually receiving the armor Achilles is absolutely depressed. He doesn't even eat, meaning he actually chooses to hurt himself. After receiving the armor from Thetis, he enters the most violent stage and at the end of The Iliad he slowly begins to recover.

Even Briseis and other women mourn Patroclus' death: And so Brisets returned, like golden Aphrodite, but when she saw Patroclus lying tom by the bronze she flung herself on his body, gave a piercing cry and with both hands clawing deep at her breasts, her soft throat and lovely face, she sobbed, a woman like a goddess in her grief, "Patroclus— dearest joy of my heart, my harrowed, broken heart! I left you alive that day I left these shelters, now I come back to find you fallen, captain of armies! So grief gives way to grief, my life one endless sorrow! The husband to whom my father and noble mother gave me, I saw him tom by the sharp bronze before our city,— and my three brothers-a single mother bore us: my brothers, how I loved you!- you all went down to death on the same day... But you, Patroclus, you would not let me weep, not when the swift Achilles cut my husband down, not when he plundered the lordly Mynes' city not even weep! No, again and again you vowed you'd make me godlike Achilles' lawful. wedded wife, you would sail me west in your warships, home to Phthia and there with the Myrmidons hold my marriage feast. So now I mourn your death — I will never stop — you were always kind." Her voice rang out in tears and the women wailed in answer, grief for Patroclus calling forth each woman's private sorrows.

The Iliad, XIX, 333-358.

Other members of the army are also mentioned lamenting. But, in addition to the emotional impact on people, there is the impact on destiny. Patroclus' death was a way to accelerate the fall of Troy. Only when Patroclus dies does Hector die, and only in Hector's death does Troy come close to falling.

Patroclus’ apostrophes

The characterization of Patroclus as someone who was mourned by everyone and who has "gentle" as a characteristic epithet after his death are not the only resources used to accentuate the tragedy of his death. Homer's repeated use of apostrophes with Patroclus is also significant, as this is intended to evoke sympathy in the reader/listener.

Apostrophe in Greek literally means ‘turning away’ (i.e. from the person who has continuously been addressed up till the moment of the apostrophe); the most common Latin translation is aversio. The term is mostly used, in ancient as in modern literary criticism, to indicate ‘the address to someone not present in the default dialogic scheme’, that is to say a (ﬁctional or intradiegetical) character, a third person, a god, an inanimate object or a personiﬁed abstraction. It may occur in narrative poetry, lyric poetry and all kinds of prose and oratory. The effect of apostrophe, as analyzed in modern theory, is that the dialogue (which in forensic oratory takes place between the speaker and the judges, in poetry between the narrator and the narratees) is ostensibly sidetracked. However, in reality the narrator continues to address the narratees, and so directs their emotions by emphatically voicing his own feelings.

Credits for the definition to this article written by Jacqueline J . H . Klooster because, honestly, I wouldn't know how to explain it without messing up.

In The Iliad, the two characters in which this resource is most used are Patroclus (8 times, all in Book XVI, moment of his aristeia. Aristeia is basically a type of moment in which the character reaches their peak, in which they prove themselves to be an aristo, that is, the best) and Menelaus (7 times, but spread throughout the Books), curiously the characters that I think are most sensitive and sympathetic among the Achaeans. You're supposed to care about Patroclus, so his death will have more impact. You’re supposed to sympathize with Menelaus' situation. In the case of Patroclus, the apostrophes applied to him begin even before he enters battle and gradually increase until the moment of his death, as if they were alerting the reader/listener and leading him to absorb how ironically tragic the development of his aristeia is.

There is more to analyze about this, but it would make this already immense post even longer. I searched to see if anyone had written anything online about this and I found this great article on this topic written by Emily Allen-Hornblower. I recommend checking it out!

Patroclus is a character who does a lot for others, even narratively speaking. He does activities for Achilles like cooking, he tries to live up to the expectations of being Achilles' wise guide, he tries to reassure Briseis, he takes care of the animals, he’s open to listening to what the Achaeans have to say, he’s the one who inspires courage in the worst moment and his death is one of the main events that caused the fall of Troy.

Update 05/05/2024: paragraph below has been slightly edited

In fact, there's more to talk about his character that I haven't covered here. For example, I didn't develop Patroclus' association with wisdom, something also linked to his age. Nor did I enter into scholars' interpretation of Patroclus as a kind of Achilles' double. That is, interpretations about how the funeral that Achilles gives for Patroclus is related to the death of Achilles himself or interpretations of how, by wearing Achilles' armor, Patroclus embodies him during his aristeia and that is why his more restrained person is suddenly more arrogant and confident (I mean dude was saying REALLY sharp words during Book XVI lol) and he even wanted to mutilate Saperdon. But it's just that writing these interpretations here would make the post infinite. At least the articles I mention in this post also address this Achilles’ double aspect (although it isn’t necessarily the main topic of the articles), but the wisdom part will be lacking.

And as a bonus, I'll talk about how Patroclus is introduced by Philoctetes. In Sophocles' play "Philoctetes", the Achaeans have to return to the island where they abandoned Philoctetes because Helenus prophesied that Philoctetes and his bow (previously belonging to Heracles) would be needed to win the war. Odysseus takes Neoptolemus along and when Philoctetes asks for updates on the war that has been going on for 10 years, he asks about Patroclus referring to him as the one Achilles loved most.

[...] PHILOCTETES: Now, for the gods' sake, what of Patroclus? On that occasion where was he? Tell me. Your father loved him more than anyone. NEOPTOLEMUS: He was also dead. I can tell you why in one brief saying — given the choice, war takes no evil men. It always wants to seize the good ones. [...]

Philoctetes, 420. Translation by Ian Johnston.

A curious line, considering that Philoctetes didn't spend much time with Achilles as he was abandoned before they reached Troy. Either Achilles' favoritism towards Patroclus was extremely obvious or Philoctetes is very observant or both. Interestingly, he gives different characteristics to the other characters. Philoctetes remembers how Nestor is a good advisor, how Tersites was inconvenient, he associates Diomedes and Odysseus with something negative, when talking about Ajax the size of Ajax is there, he says that Achilles was noble...but with Patroclus, the most memorable characteristic for Philoctetes is that he was very loved by someone. The characterization of Patroclus as someone whose importance is linked to being loved isn’t modern, contrary to what some people think (note that when I say "loved" I mean in general. It doesn't matter if we are talking about the context of romance, friendship or family).

PATROCLUS AND CLEOPATRA

Patroclus (Patroklos Πάτροκλος) is the combination of “father” (patḗr πατήρ) + “glory” (kleos κλέος), meaning “glory of his father”.[1] A father or mother giving their child that name isn’t strange, however there is one more detail: the feminine of Patroclus is Cleopatra (Kleopatra Κλεοπάτρη), which is the junction of “glory” (kleos κλέος) + “father” (patḗr πατήρ).[2] Another way to write this name is Κλεοπάτρα.[3] Anyway, Cleopatra is the name of Meleager's wife.

[...] την ώρια Κλεοπάτρα, της σφιχτοστήθως Μάρπησσας την κόρη και του Νίδα. [...]

The Iliad, Raphsody Ι (Book XIX), 556-557. Translation by Alexandros Palles. See here.

This strengthens the parallel between Patroclus and Cleopatra, and between Achilles and Meleager comparing the plot of The Iliad and the story told by Phoenix in Book IX. In both cases:

Heroes came together for a common, divinely motivated cause (Trojan War motivated by several gods and goddesses and Calydonian Boar motivated by Artemis);

The people in general have incredible abilities as a whole, but one stands out (Achilles for several feats and Meleager because he killed the boar)

A deity feels insulted by a king and therefore sends punishment (Apollo for the treatment given to his priest by Agamemnon and Artemis for being forgotten by Oeneus)

The prominent hero interferes to stop the divine punishment from continuing (Achilles by encouraging Calchas to speak the truth and Meleager by killing the boar)

After the solution was given, a conflict began (Agamemnon took Briseis and there was a war for possession of the boar's skin and hide)

The prominent hero retreats from the fight (Achilles after being dishonored by Agamemnon and Meleagrus angered by his mother Althaea)

The hero then spends time with his closest companion (Achilles in his tent with Patroclus and Meleagrus with his wife Cleopatra)

People start to have problems with the hero's refusal to fight (the Trojans advance and so do the Curetes)

People try to make the hero return and fail (Achilles with Odysseus, Phoenix, Ajax and Meleager with Aetolian)

His closest companion then begs the hero to return (Patroclus with Achilles and Cleopatra with Meleager)

As if, as Cleopatra did with Meleager, Patroclus accompanied Achilles in his decision and spent his days caring for him and having fun with him (it is mentioned that Achilles was playing for Patroclus when Odysseus, Phoenix and Ajax arrive. Cleopatra is mentioned that Meleager was lying with his wife), but also like her Patroclus felt worry and despair and equally like Cleopatra Patroclus believed that, although no one had convinced Achilles, he alone could convince him. The difference begins when Meleager hears Cleopatra's plea and returns to battle, although he doesn’t receive any reward because the Aetolians no longer think so highly of him. On the other hand, Achilles doesn't listen to Patroclus.

Patroclus was present during this conversation and even cooked for them, so he certainly heard Phoenix's story. This makes me wonder if this story just served as a parallel or if it was a further construction of Phoenix and Patroclus' characters. Nestor, known to be wise, seemed to believe that Patroclus had a chance of changing Achilles' mind, so I don't see why Phoenix couldn't have thought the same. Perhaps part of the reason Phoenix chose this story wasn’t only to tell Achilles that he might end up regretting his choice, but also to indirectly try to get Patroclus to react like Cleopatra did. Nestor, when trying to get Patroclus to talk to Achilles, reinforces how Peleus trusted Patroclus to guide Achilles. It really seems like the other characters were purposely trying to get Achilles back through Patroclus. The Acheans did get Achilles back through Patroclus, but unfortunately not through his words but through his death.

This is a specific interpretation of the Homeric tradition. It isn’t possible to know whether this play with names and parallels with Patroclus and Cleopatra already existed in oral traditions before Homer.

About Patroclus begging Achilles to return, there is even an post-homeric ancient source in which Achilles yields!

[...] Meanwhile Phoenix and Patroclus were standing around Achilles in the position of suppliants, taking hold of his knees and, without restraint, kissing his hands and face, begging him to give up his wrath and return to his place of honor. Do this, they said, not so much for these representatives but, as is right, for all of the army. Finally Achilles yielded. He would do what they wanted. The sight of the representatives, the prayers of his closest friends, and the realization that the army was not to blame made him change his mind. Then for the first time after his wrath, at the suggestion of Ajax, Achilles went to a meeting of the council. Agamemnon greeted him in a royal manner, and the other leaders were happy to welcome him back. On every side there was joy, unbounded joy. And then Agamemnon, taking Achilles by the hand, led him off, along with the other leaders, to dinner. A little later, during the dinner, when they were enjoying themselves, Agamemnon commanded Patroclus to take Hippodamia to Achilles’ hut, and also the jewelry he had given to her. This was an order Patroclus was glad to obey. During this winter, Greeks and Trojans mingled in the grove of the Thymbraean Apollo.17 They went freely, whether singly or in groups, without any fear of each other.

Dictys Cretensis, Book II. Translation by R.M Frazer.

Dictys Cretensis was believed to be a story from the Latin tradition, but it was discovered to have a Greek original and to be, in fact, a Greek source translated into Latin. The authorship or time of the Greek original isn’t yet certain, but it’s theorized that it’s a late source compared to the others sources. It’s interesting to mention, however, that the format of this text is a first-hand account by Dictys and at one point in Book I he even uses Odysseus as a source (who isn’t known for being super sincere), so I particularly wouldn't rule out the possibility of this narrative being purposefully biased. And I'm not talking about this part that I mentioned here, but Dictys Cretensis in general.

ANIMALS, FUNERAL AND POST-DEATH

Note: this part is considerably composed of theory (not entirely). So remember that theory is theory, it isn’t certain.

Yes, that's a curious title. In my defense, my intention was to do an “Animals” topic and a “Funeral and Post-Death” topic, but then the two topics got mixed up more than planned and I had to combine the topics. So here we are with this peculiar title.

Dogs

Okay, now seriously…Patroclus had nine dogs. I know it's kind of a silly detail, but that's precisely why this part gets me so much. When you read The Iliad, everything seems to be there for a reason and everyone has this aura, you know? And then we have to…apparently Patroclus spent his free time in Troy collecting dogs to look after? It's so mundane that it's unexpected. And then Achilles goes and sacrifices two of them. And I wondered if it was really so random that these dogs were there.

[...] And the dead lord Patroclus had fed nine dogs at table-he slit the throats of two, threw them onto the pyre and then a dozen brave sons of the proud Trojans he hacked to pieces with his bronze…

The Iliad, XVIII, 198-201. Translation by Robert Fagles.

I thought that if the dogs weren't just any detail, it could be another attempt to direct sympathy towards Patroclus. I couldn't be satisfied with this explanation, because Homer had already used the characterization of Patroclus' personality, the repeated use of apostrophes, and the other characters' reactions to do this, it's not like he needed to use dogs. But then I thought…what if someone already said something about this? This story has been here for years, long before I even existed, so I'm DEFINITELY not the only person who finds these dogs strange.

I did some research and in fact someone already mentioned it. The author compares the funeral rites of Patroclus, Hector and Achilles and then defines a possible Homeric formula for funerals based on this, then explains why among the three that of Patroclus isn’t a typical Homeric ritual but an exception. She believes that the sacrifices made by Achilles at Patroclus' funeral (four horses, two dogs, twelve Trojans) aren’t meant to be seen as common in a Homeric context as some scholars say and that also says more than just Achilles being very angry or something like this. The text is very long, going as far as analyzing Hittite rituals and words in the original Greek, so there is no way to summarize the argument. I'm just going to post the concluding opinion section and, if you want to see the rest, go read it.

As for the dog sacrifice, Krick suggests an ingenious interpretation “that the dog is the ritual representative of the mythic dog Saramā, who will then function as a leader for the horse to the land of the dead.” Krick’s reading may help to illuminate the role of the table dogs at Patroclus’ funeral. The dog sacrifice in tandem with the horse sacrifice that occurs during the funeral of Patroclus bring into sharper relief comparisons with the aśvamedha ritual. Yet the dogs in the funeral are sacrificed in a manner more similar to that of the Hittite severing rituals, though it is not explicitly clear that the puppies in the Hittite ritual are decapitated like Patroclus’ table dogs. In both the Hittite and Sanskrit rituals dogs are used as a method of purification. While it is possible that purification may have been an underlying motivation for the dogs sacrificed at Patroclus’ funeral, the potential recipient of the purification is quite ambiguous. I argue then that it is more probable that the table dogs sacrificed during the funeral of Patroclus are symbolic representatives of the dog of the underworld, meant to lead their master, Patroclus, to the land of the dead. The inclusion of dog sacrifice in addition to horse sacrifice in Patroclus’ funeral strengthen the resemblance to the aśvamedha. Anthony reasons that “Pre-Greek and Pre-Indo-Iranian almost certainly were neighboring Indo-European dialects, spoken near enough to each other that words related to warfare and ritual… were shared.” Perhaps the funerary sacrifice of dogs and horses was another early shared innovation.

Pag 33-34 of this article.

Horses

Dogs aren’t the only animals related to Patroclus, but horses too. Ptolomy even goes so far as to attribute this characteristic of Patroclus to him having been loved by Poseidon and having learned to ride directly from him, the god who created horses. Although this version is something that I only found in one source, Patroclus' connection with horses was already present in The Iliad. To begin with, Patroclus is sometimes referred to as “master horseman”:

[...] She was up in flames at once. engulfed in quenchless fire, in a flash the blaze went swirling round the stem and Achilles slapped his thighs and urged Patroclus, "To arms-Patroclus, prince and master horseman! I can see the blaze go roaring up the ships. They must not destroy them. No escape-route then. Quick, strap on my gear-I'll rouse the troops,"

The Iliad, XVI, 149-155.

[...] 'Now don't come back to the hollow ships. you hear?— Patroclus, master horseman— not till you've slashed the shirt around his chest and soaked it red in the blood of man-killing Hector!' So he must have commanded — you maniac, you obeyed."

The Iliad, XVI, 980-983.

During his aristeia, as Patroclus is using Achilles' resources (with the exception of the spear, as only Achilles can lift it), he also uses the immortal horses Xanthus (Roan Beauty) and Balius (Dapple).

Now the war-team. Patroclus ordered Automedon to yoke them quickly— a man he honored next to Achilles breaker of men, always firmest in battle, nerved to wait the call. So at his command Autornedon yoked the horses, the rapid stallions Roan Beauty and Dapple, the team that raced the gales, magnificent team the storm-wind filly Lightfoot foaled for the West Wind, 180 grazing the lush green grass along the Ocean's tides. And into the traces he ran the purebred Bold Dancer— Achilles seized him once when he stormed Eetion's city, a mortal war-horse pacing immortal horses now

The Iliad, XVI, 174-184.

These horses aren’t ordinary horses, but immortal horses — the immortal sons of a harpy and the god Zephyrus. They were a divine gift to Peleus, who subsequently gave them to Achilles, who then loaned them to Patroclus. This makes them great horses, but it's also not like it's easy to command animals with such speed, and yet Patroclus does it. Automedon even declares Patroclus was the only one capable of fully controlling Xanthus and Balius.

Diores' son Automedon shouted back, "Alcimedon! What other Achaean driver could match your skill at curbing this deathless team or spurring on their fury? Only Patroclus. skilled as the gods themselves while the man was still alive— now death and fate have got him in their grip. On with it! Take up the whip and shining reins. I'll dismount the car and fight on foot."

The Iliad, XVII, 544-551.

Another characteristic that differentiates them from common animals is their consciousness, shown in how they cry at Patroclus' death and miss him. Zeus has to comfort them so they can run again.

So they would say, fueling. comrades' courage. And so they fought and the iron din went rising up to the bronze sky through the barren breathless air. But standing clear of the fray Achilles' horses wept from the time they first had sensed their driver's death, brought down in the dust by man-killing Hector. Diores' rugged son Automedon did his best. lashed them over and over with stinging whip— coaxing them gently now, now shouting oath on oath. But both balked at returning now to the ships moored at the Hellespont's far-reaching shore or galloping back to fight beside the Argives. Staunch as a pillar planted tall above a barrow, standing sentry over some lord or lady's grave-site, so they stood, holding the blazoned chariot stock-still, their heads trailing along the ground, warm tears flowing down from their eyes to wet the earth... the horses mourned, longing now for their driver, their luxurious manes soiled, streaming down from the yoke-pads, down along the yoke.

The Iliad, XVII, 490-508.

At Patroclus' funeral, Achilles describes how Patroclus used to take good care of Xanthus and Balius and warns that the horses will not be used in the Funeral Games as they’re so depressed that they refuse to move.

“[...] You know how my team outstrips all others' speed. Immortal horses they are, Poseidon gave them himself to my father Peleus, Peleus passed them on to me. But I and our fast stallions will not race today, so strong his fame, the charioteer they've lost, so kind — always washing them down with fresh water, sleeking their long manes with smooth olive oil. No wonder they stand here, mourning... look, trailing those very manes along the ground. They both refuse to move, saddled down with grief. But all the rest of you, come, all Achaeans in camp who trust to your teams and bolted chariots— take your places now!"

The Iliad, XXIII, 317- 329.

Just as two of Patroclus' nine dogs were sacrificed, Achilles also sacrificed four horses. Returning to the thesis I mentioned previously about sacrificed dogs, Aubrey A. Cumt (the author) also considers the sacrifice of horses unusual for a Homeric funeral. She also doesn't think it's just a narrative device to indicate Achilles' violence or anything like that. However, she says that there are a Hittite source that demonstrate the existence of horse sacrifices in Hittite societies (interestingly, Troy nowadays is theorized to have some Hittite heritage). She also argues that in The Iliad the Trojans are strongly associated with horses and that this animal was a type of wealth, even more so depending on the breed. Although The Iliad is unclear which horses Achilles sacrificed, Aubrey theorizes that they were likely conquered Trojan horses. Then she concludes:

In this way, the horse sacrifice that occurs at the funeral of Patroclus can be understood in a new light. Rather than representing solely an irregular practice, emblematic of Achilles’ violence, the sacrifice can be interpreted as an intentional ritual action, both metonymically representative of the destruction of Troy, but also as possibly triggering far earlier Indo-European cultural and linguistic associations with power and kingship for Achilles, the principal hero of the Iliad.

Pag 26 of this article.

Human sacrifice

And now we stop the animal part of the topic and just focus on death. I’ill proceed by summarizing Aubrey's thesis, but this time her theory regarding the twelve sacrificed Trojans. Human sacrifices existed in Ancient Greece, but they weren’t common, despiste how abundant they were in Greek mythology. And yet, even when human sacrifices occur in Greek mythology, there is a narrative reason. It’s generally associated with divine/prophetic inspiration (Andromeda, Iphigenia, Hesione, Megareus...) and even considering Polyxena (her sacrifice isn’t divinely motivated), it’s easy to know why specifically Polyxena. In the case of the Trojans whom Achilles adds to Patroclus' pyre, the sacrifice not only doesn’t follow the Homeric formula for funerals but is also unusual as a whole.

Just as people have theorized about the dogs and horses, there is the theory that this could simply be a narrative device to show how disturbed Achilles was beyond usual at the time. He had already taken longer than usual to bury Patroclus and broke social rules by doing what he did with Hector's corpse (in fact, in this part of the funeral he even wants to feed Hector to the dogs, as Hector wanted to do with Patroclus. But this doesn’t happen because Hector's body is divinely protected). So the theory that it was another clue as to how on edge Achilles was exists.

For Aubrey, the verbs used in the Greek text added to the different way in which Achilles makes these sacrifices compared to the others (he slaughters Trojans with bronze) gives connotations that are more militaristic than ritualistic (typical of a sacrifice scene). She also argues that they were most likely young Trojan soldiers, considering the interpretation of the Greek text. Aubrey emphasizes the violence of this attitude as well, demonstrated even in the text when it’s says “and he contrived evil works in his mind (κακὰ δὲ φρεσὶ μήδετο ἔργα)". She then concludes that this particular sacrifice is intended to reinforce power.

Given the inclusion of horse sacrifice in Patroclus’ funeral, the human sacrifice of the Trojan youths may then be interpreted as an extension and elevation of the associations to kingship and power. Certainly, in light of Puhvel’s Victimal Hierarchy, Patroclus’ funerary sacrifices as a whole can be construed as a gradation of sacrifices, increasing in significance from dogs to horses and finally to humans.

Pag 42 of this article.

Ghost

Another difference in Patroclus's funeral ritual is the way his bones aren’t cremated, but rather reserved with fat. But this is already explained by Homer: the ghost of Patroclus appeared to Achilles and asked him to mix their ashes, thus guaranteeing that they would continue together in death as they were united in life.

And you too, your fate awaits you too, godlike as you are, Achilles— to die in battle beneath the proud rich Trojans' walls! But one thing more. A last request — grant it. please. Never bury my bones apart from yours, Achilles, let them lie together... just as we grew up together in your house, after Menoetius brought me there from Opois, and only a boy, but banished for bloody murder the day I killed Amphidarnas' son. I was a fool— I never meant to kill him — quarreling over a dice game. Then the famous horseman Peleus took me into his halls, he reared me with kindness, appointed me your aide. So now let a single urn, the gold two-handled urn your noble mother gave you, hold our bones — together!"

The Iliad, XXVIII, 97-110.

We know that this wish came true.

“[...] But after the flame of Hephaistos had consumed you utterly, then at dawn we gathered your white bones, Achilleus, together with unmixed wine and unguents. Your mother gave you a golden jar with handles. She said that it was a present from Dionysos, and was the work of renowned Hephaistos. In this your white bones are laid away, O shining Achilleus, mixed with the bones of the dead Patroklos, son of Menoitios, and apart from those of Antilochos, whom you prized above all the rest of your companions after the death of Patroklos. [...]”

The Odyssey, XXIV, 71-79. Translation by Richmond Lattimore.

The scene of Patroclus' ghost serves as an explanation for them having his ashes mixed together, but it also opened up more debate. However, I don't even dare try to summarize another theory because there is still much more to be written in this post, so instead I’ll present this article by Menelaos Christopoulos if you’re interested.

Postmortem

The death of Achilles filled the army with dismay, and they buried him with Patroclus in the White Isle, mixing the bones of the two together. [...]

Library, E.5.5. Translation by J. G. Frazer.

[...] White Island, where, he used to declare, he saw Achilles, as well as Ajax the son of Oileus and Ajax the son of Telamon. With them, he said, were Patroclus and Antilochus; Helen was wedded to Achilles [...]

Description of Greece, 3.19.13. Translation by W.H.S. Jones.

[...] whereas Achilles, son of Thetis, they honored and sent to his place in the Isles of the Blest, because having learnt from his mother that he would die as surely as he slew Hector, but if he slew him not, would return home and end his days an aged man, he bravely chose to go and rescue his lover Patroclus, avenged him, and sought death not merely in his behalf but in haste to be joined with him whom death had taken. For this the gods so highly admired him that they gave him distinguished honor, since he set so great a value on his lover.

Symposium, 179e-180a. Translation by Harold N. Fowler.

SKILLS AND FEATS

I'll leave battle skills for later, so let's start with the other skills!

Patroclus has knowledge of healing, as Achilles taught him what he learned from Chiron:

"[…] And spread the soothing, healing salves across it, the powerful drugs they say you learned from Achilles and Chiron the most humane of Centaurs taught your friend. […]"

The Iliad, XI, 992-994.

He’s an excellent horseman, even capable of controlling Xanthus and Balius:

The Iliad, XVII, 544-551.

And he knows how to cook:

He paused. Patroclus obeyed his great friend, who put down a heavy chopping block in the firelight and across it laid a sheep's chine, a fat goat's and the long back cut of a full-grown pig, marbled with lard. Automedon held the meats while lordly Achilles carved them into quarters. cut them well into pieces. pierced them with spits and Patroclus raked the hearth, a man like a god making the fire blaze. Once it had burned down and the flames died away, he scattered the coals and stretching the spitted meats across the embers, raised them onto supports and sprinkled clean pure salt. As soon as the roasts were done and spread on platters, Patroclus brought the bread, set it out on the board in ample wicker baskets. Achilles served the meat.

The Iliad, IX, 246-260.

In Book XVI, Patroclus's named deaths are:

(I'm using Robert Fagles' translation as references for the localizations in parentheses)

Pyraechmes (337)

Areilycus (362)

Pronous (474)

Thestor (477)

Erylaus (490)

Amphotereus (495)

Erymas (495)

Epaltes (495)

Tlepolemus (496)

Echius (496)

Pyris (496)

Ipheus (497)

Euippus (497)

Polymelus (497)

Thrasymelus (550)

Saperdon (578-579)

Sthenelaus (684)

Adrestus (812)

Autonous (812)

Echeclus (812)

Perimus (813)

Epistor (813)

Melanippus (813)

Elasus (814)

Mulius (814)

Pylartes (814)

Cebriones (860)

But Patroclus actually killed more people than that in his aristeia, after all we still have these lines:

[...] and Patroclus charged the enemy, fired for the kill. Three times he charged with the headlong speed of Ares, screaming his savage cry, three times he killed nine men.

The Iliad, XVI, 911-913.

He attacked three times and each time killed nine men, resulting in twenty-seven unnamed deaths. This means that in Book XVI, Patroclus killed a total of 54 men in a single battle. This is an impressive feat indeed, but I also have to be fair and not omit that Patroclus had Zeus’s divine aid (Diomedes, Achilles, Odysseus, Paris and other characters also had divine aid so nothing rare or that takes away the merit completely, but important to mention). Euphorbus and Hector also killed Patroclus with divine aid (Apollo, hi!)

In a fragment attributed to Hesiod, we have a part related to Saperdon. Although it doesn't finish what is being said, it’s obviously about Patroclus killing Saperdon:

Oxyrhynchus Papyri 1358 fr. 1 (3rd cent. A.D.):

“[...] Very greatly did he excel in war together with man-slaying Hector and brake down the wall, bringing woes upon the Danaans. But so soon as Patroclus had inspired the Argives with hard courage..."

Catalogues of Women, frag 19A. Translation by Evelyn-White, H G.

Pindar, in one of his odes, describes that Achilles and Patroclus were the bravest in the conflict against Telephus, son of Heracles:

[...] But among the settlers he (Locrus) chiefly honored the son of Actor and Aegina, Menoetius, whose son went with the Atreidae to the plain of Teuthras, and stood alone beside Achilles, when Telephus turned to flight the mighty Danaans, and attacked their ships beside the sea, to reveal to a man of understanding. From that time forward, the son of Thetis exhorted him in deadly war never to post himself far from his own man-subduing spear.

Olympian Ode 9. Translation by Diane Arnson Svarlien.

There are his actions in Dictys Cretensis too. As I already showed in the Cleopatra part, there is no Achilles absenting himself from war and, therefore, there is no Patroclus taking his place. But honestly, if you're really interested in this version, I recommend reading it. It's short, so I don't think it's really worth dissecting that much.

As for Hyginus, he seems to be just repeating Homer. The descriptions of Patroclus' attitudes follow The Iliad and he even says Patroclus killed 54 people, the same number of men he kills in Book XVI.

Pausanias attributes Las's death to Patroclus, disputing the narrative that it was Achilles:

Description of Greece, 3.24.10. Translation by W.H.S. Jones.

Edit (26/05/2024): adding this information that I didn't know.

In Theseus, Plutarch tells an unusual version in which the death of Paris is attributed to Patroclus and Achilles, crediting it to Ister.

But a very peculiar and wholly divergent story about Aethra is given by Ister in the thirteenth book of his "Attic History." Some write, he says, that Alexander (Paris) was overcome in battle by Achilles and Patroclus in Thessaly, along the banks of the Spercheius, but that Hector took and plundered the city of Troezen, and carried away Aethra, who had been left there. This, however, is very doubtful.

Theseus, 34.2.

SEXUAL AND/OR ROMANTIC RELATIONSHIPS

Achilles

No reverence hadst thou for the unsullied holiness of thy limbs, oh thou most ungrateful for my many kisses!

Aeschylus, frag 64. Translation by Herbert Weir Smyth.

And the Greek text:

σέβας δέ μηρῶν ἀγνόν ουκ ἐπηδέσω, ὢ δυσχάριστε τῷν πυκνῶν φιλημάτων μηρῶν τε τῶν σῶν εὐσέβησ᾽ ὁμιλίαν κλαίων

Apparently, for Aeschylus they had a same-gender relationship.

Plato's well-known excerpt about the relationship between Patroclus and Achilles is a kind of response to Aeschylus' interpretation, as Plato disagreed on who was "eromenos" and who was "erates" (Symposium, 179-180). Plutarch also mentions this Aeschylus' fragment in Amatorius in a non-platonic context:

Add to this of Solon that other of Aeschylus: "Ungrateful, for the kisses of my lips, Not to revere the glory of my lips."

Amatorius, 5. Translation by "several hands". See in Greek here.

This excerpt from Aeschylus being interpreted as sexual and/or romantic also seems to have remained in the Roman Era, since the text "Amores", attributed to Lucian of Samosata (despite the era, he isn't a Roman, but a Syrian), refers the Aeschylus excerpt in a sexual context in 54.

[...] Do not be surprised: Patroclus in fact, was not loved by Achilles just because he was seated before him, waiting for Achilles to finish his song…but it was lust that mediated their friendship. For Achilles, moaning upon the death of Patroklos, allows his unrestrained passion to burst out with the power of truth when he says: "The holy commerce of your thighs my tears do mourn". I also believe that those whom the Greeks call ‘comastes' are none other than professional lovers. Some might call this a shameful thing to say, but at least it is the truth, by the Aphrodite of Cnidus!

Amores, 54. Translation by Andrew Kallimachos. In Greek here. Note: This excerpt was used only to show the use of Aeschylus. The context of the text as a whole is best seen by reading.

Athenaeus of Naucratis also appears to reference this play by Aeschylus in a romantic sense.

And, in fact, there was such emulation about composing poems of this sort, and so far was any one from thinking lightly of the amatory poets, that Aeschylus, who was a very great poet, and Sophocles, too, introduced the subject of the loves of men on the stage in their tragedies: the one describing the love of Achilles for Patroclus [...]

The Deipnosophists, 13.75. Translation by Henry G. Bohn.

There is an interpretation that Pindar could think of them as being in a romantic relationship because he compares Hagesidamus and Ilas with Patroclus and Achilles and later compares Hagesidamus with Ganymede. Personally, I find this too interpretative to be anything other than ambiguous, but I'm mentioning it here anyway.

[...] let Hagesidamus, victorious as a boxer at Olympia, offer thanks to Ilas, just as Patroclus did to Achilles. With the help of a god, one man can sharpen another who is born for excellence, and encourage him to tremendous achievement [...] And I praised the lovely son of Archestratus [Hagesidamus], whom I saw at that time beside the Olympic altar, winning victory with the valor of his hands—beautiful in form, and blended with that youthful bloom which once kept Ganymede from shameless death, with the help of Cyprian Aphrodite.

Olympian Ode 10, 10.1 and 10.75. Translation by Diane Arnson Svarlien.

There are other texts in which Patroclus x Achilles are interpreted as romantic and/or sexual, regardless of whether the author is framing this as positive or negative. However, I'm trying to focus on plays/poems/libraries/odes/etc and I only cited Lucian, Plutarch, Athenaeus and Plato because they were quoting Aeschylus first.

This relationship isn't considered a fixed tradition — for example, Homer doesn't explicitly a romantic/sexual relationship between them. But yeah, it exists. There is the argument that Aeschylus did it differently from Homer, but the way Aeschylus portrayed Agamemnon's family is also different from the Homeric tradition (Clytemnestra's role is different and the children are not the same) and people take The Oresteia as something valid, so I particularly don't see why the Achilles trilogy wouldn't be. Even ancient Greeks seemed to at least take it into account, considering other authors' mentions of Aeschylus.

Iphis

[...] And over across from him Patroclus slept with the sashed and lovely Iphis by his side, whom Prince Achilles gave him the day he took the heights of Scyros, Enyeus' rocky stronghold.

The Iliad, IX, 813-816. Translation by Robert Fagles.

Iphis was a slave brought by Achilles from Skyros to Patroclus. She doesn't have much narrative importance in The Iliad, since she's only mentioned in this excerpt, but her character is remembered in other sources. For example, in Description of Greece 10.25. In the Roman Era, she was also still remembered, notable in how the sophist Philostratus mentions her in Heroica 716.

Poseidon

Once again reviewing New History (Ptolemy Hephaestion), Photius mentions that Patroclus was Poseidon's lover and learned to ride a horse with him.

[...] Homer calls Patroclus the first horseman because he learned from Poseidon, who loved him, the art of riding horses.

Photius' Bibliotheca, 190.6. Translation by Roger Pearse.

This isn't a constant/fixed tradition. But yeah, it exists. I actually like this idea because it strengthens Patroclus' connection with animals (in this case, horse), but at the same time I couldn't find any source other than Photius' review. I wonder if it existed beyond Ptolomy and if anyone even took it into account.

PHYSICAL APPEARENCE

Homer doesn't describe Patroclus' physical appearance, but there is a bit about it from other sources.

Achilles tending Patroclus in a kylix, by Sosias, 500 BC. See here.

In it, Patroclus's distinguishing characteristics are short curly hair, a beard and a non-straight nose (compare him with Achilles's).

In the frescoes of Pompeii, Patroclus is usually portrayed as a tanned young man with short brown hair, dark eyes and no beard.

Fresco in Pompeii, Briseis being taken by order of Agamemnon. See here and here.

Fresco in Pompeii, respectively Briseis, Achilles and Patroclus. See here and here.

There is a Roman (copy of an original Greek, though) statue of a bearded man carrying the body of a young man from 200–150 BC, which has been thought to be Menelaus and Patroclus. However, the Wikipedia article says that the topic is up for debate, as there is a possibility it could be Ajax and Achilles or even Odysseus and Achilles, so I won't consider it sure. Here is the article, anyway. But the young man has short curly hair and no beard.

According to Pausanias, Polygnotus painted Patroclus without a beard in the Lesche at Delphi.

[...] and beyond Achilles is Patroclus standing. With the exception of Agamemnon these figures have no beard.

Description of Greece, 10.30.3. Translation by W.H.S. Jones.

For some reason, Hyginus made a list of the most beautiful (?) and put Patroclus there. Good for Patroclus, I guess

THOSE WHO WERE MOST HANDSOME: Iasion, son of Ilithius, whom Ceres is said to have loved [credible, since vouched for by old histories]. Cinyras, son of Paphos, king of the Assyrians. Anchises, son of Assaracus, whom Venus loved. Alexander Paris, son of Priam and Hecuba, whom Helen followed. Nireus, son of Charops. Cephalus, son of Pandion, whom Aurora loved. Tithonus, husband of Aurora. Parthenopaeus, son of Meleager and Atalanta. Achilles, son of Peleus and Thetis. Patroclus, son of Menoetius. Idomeneus, who loved Helen. Theseus, son of Aegeus and Aethra, whom Ariadne loved.

Fabulae, 270. Translation by Mary Grant.

In Dares, The Prygian, there is a description of Patroclus. However, this text is still quite uncertain if it's Greek or Roman. But I'm going to put it here just to clear my conscience.

Patroclus was handsome and powerfully built. His yes were gray. He was modest, dependable, wise, a man richly endowed.

Dares, The Prygian, 31. Translation by R. M. Frazer.

NON-MYTHOLOGICAL ASPECTS (INTERPRETATIONS, MONUMENTS, ETC)

Apparently, Patroclus was honored and had monuments, since in Geography Strabo says:

The length of this coast, I mean on a straight voyage from Rhoeteium to Sigeium, and the monument of Achilles, is sixty stadia; and the whole of it lies below Ilium, not only the present Ilium, from which, at the Harbor of the Achaeans, it is about twelve stadia distant, but also the earlier Ilium, which lies thirty stadia farther inland in the direction of Mt. Ida. Now there are a temple and a monument of Achilles near Sigeium, as also monuments of Patroclus and Antilochus; and the Ilians offer sacrifices to all four heroes, both to these and to Aias. But they do not honor Heracles, giving as their reason his sacking of the city. But one might say that, although Heracles did sack it, yet he sacked it in such a way as still to leave it a city, even though damaged, for those who were later to sack it utterly; and for this reason the poet states it thus:“He sacked the city of Ilios and widowed her streets;

Geography, 13.1. Translation by H. L. Jones.

According to Pausanias, one of the votive offerings at Delphi was an image of Achilles and Patroclus, sent by the Thessalians of Pharsalia.

The Thessalians too of Pharsalus dedicated an Achilles on horseback, with Patroclus running beside his horse [...]

Description of Greece, 10.13.5. Translation by W.H.S. Jones.

I only found these two mentions of Patroclus in a more religious context and there is always Achilles at the crime scene. This makes me think that if there were other religious practices related to Patroclus, they were probably the kind that honored a conjuct rather than a single person. It wouldn't be strange, since there were other cases like these, for example the Dioscuri, or Helen and Menelaus in Sparta (first case because they're brothers whose brotherhood is relevant in the myth, the second because they are a couple. In other words, there is a platonic and a romantic example! So I think even platonic Patroclus and Achilles wouldn't be that strange to appear as a pair of friends in a religious context). In any case, it isn't possible to be sure.

Update (25/04/2024): flaviafulvia in the comments added Arrian's Voyage Round the Euxine Sea, supposedly written in Roman Greek times by the Greek historian Arrian of Nicomedia (86 AD-160 AD) to the Roman emperor Hadrian. In this text there is a mention of a dual cult of Achilles and Patroclus on the Island of Achilles (also called by other names such as Leuke and White Island). Pindar mentions this Island em Nemean Ode 3: "and Achilles holds the shining island in the Euxine sea."

Regarding interpretations of Achilles and Patroclus' relationship:

Note: I'm using interpretations that don't come from poems, plays, etc. So you're not, for example, seeing Aeschylus and others here. They're interpretations of rhetoricians, philosophers, etc.

Aeschines in Against Timarchus considered it romantic and/or sexual, although it's important to mention that this text is a process. Timarcus had accused Aeschines of a crime, and Aeschines retaliated by prosecuting him. In this process, he used the Athenian laws that prohibited a man from having paid homosexual sexual relations against Timarcus. Achilles and Patroclus are only part of the argument here. Furthermore, the lines of The Iliad that Aeschines presented were apparently corrupt. See 1.142.

In Xenophon's Symposium, he wrote Socrates explicitly stating Patroclus and Achilles' relationship was a platonic bond. Whether that was Socrates' opinion or Xenophon's is another story. See 8.31.

Plato in his Symposium considered their relationship as romantic, although under a Classical Athenian perception — i.e., with restrictive concepts of erastes and eromenos. See 179e-180a.

The author of Amores (it isn't certain if it was Lucian. If it was Lucian, this text is non-Greek, as Lucian was Syrian) considered them a romantic and/or sexual relationship. See 54.

Plutarch in Amatorius portrays them as in a romantic relationship, although it's in the context of refuting the famous theory that a male relationship is better than a relationship between a man and a woman. See 5.

Martial portrayed them in a sexual relationship and didn't imply anything romantic. This text is non-Greek, as Martial was probably Roman. I didn't find this excerpt in English except on the Internet Archive because on other sites they removed it (literally. It said they had removed it, probably due to content considered obscene. Suffice to say that Martial's epigrams are sources of Latin obscenities.), but Perseus still has it in Latin here. See Robert Fletcher translation, Book 11 epig 44 (pag 111).

Athenaeus of Naucratis used Patroclus and Achilles as an example of romantic love between men The Deipnosophists, more specifically he used Aeschylus' version. See 13.75.

The bucolic poem, written by Theocritus (note: authorship somewhat unsure), Idyll XXIX uses Patroclus and Achilles as a comparison of romantic love. See Idyll XXIX, 25.

Edit (05/06/2024): Maximus Tyrius, a Greek rhetorician and philosopher from 2nd century AD, descibres Patroclus and Achilles like this (detail: before Patroclus and Achilles, he was analyzing Agamemnon and Chryseis, Achilles and Briseis, Paris and Helen, Andromache and Hector. None of these relationships are portrayed without at least having a sexual interest involved):

In Patroclus manly love is displayed, which is acquired by labour, proceeds with time, and ends not but with death. Here too both are young, and beautiful, and chaste. The one instructs, the other is instructed. The one is heavily afflicted, the other imparts consolation. The one sings, the other listens. This also is an amatory affection, to be desirous of having the liberty to fight, and yet to weep, as if this permission would not be granted by his lover. Achilles, however, complies with his request, adorns him with his own arms, is terrified at his long stay, desires to die when he finds that he is dead, and then lays aside his wrath. His nocturnal visions, his dreams, his tears, and his last gift, the cutting off his locks at his funeral, are all of them the effects of love. These are the amatory examples of Homer.

The dissertations of Maximus Tyrius, see here. Translation by Thomas Taylor.

Conclusion: there isn’t much information about the Archaic Greece, but in the Classical Greece the debate about the nature of their relationship gained more prominence. Such debate continued in subsequent times. In mythological works, the only source that has confirmed this relationship is Aeschylus.

REFERENCES

Here I'll be organizing the references used. I include authors, dates, authors' ethnicities and types of source because I think it makes the context easier to visualize — a person from the Classical period didn't think like someone from the Archaic and a philosopher didn't write with the same intention as an encyclopedia. And of course, just because I specified excerpts doesn't mean you can understand them all by just reading them without context!

Mentions/scenes

The Iliad, Homer - the entire poem since it's the greatest source we have on Patroclus

The Odyssey, Homer - Book III, 102-117; Book XI, 465-470; Book XXIV, 15-18 and 71-79

Fragments attributed to Hesiod - Catalogue of Women frag 19A and frag 61

Cypria, attributed to Stasinus - frag 1

Fragments attributed to Aeschylus - Myrmidones frags (59-66) | Nereids frags (72-75) (because they accompany Achilles' mourning over the death of Patroclus)

Olympian Odes, Pindar - ode 9 | ode 10, 10.1 (see the scholiasts' comments on these same odes)

Philoctetes, Sophocles - 403

Heroica/On Heroes, Philostratus - 675

Idyll XXIX, Theocritus - 25

Symposium, Plato - 179e-180a and 208d

Symposium, Xenophon - 8.31

Geography, Strabo - 9.4.2 | 9.5.9 | 13.1.7 | 13.1.32

Fabulae, attributed to Hyginus - 81 | 97 | 106 | 112 | 114 | 257 | 270 | 273

Library/Bibliotheca, attributed to Apollodorus or Pseudo-Apollodorus - 3.10.8 | 3.13.8 (there is a mention of a Patroclus I don't include because it's Patroclus son of Heracles, not the Patroclus son of Menoetius)

Deipnosophistae, Athenaeus of Naucratis - 1.31 | 13.75 (here there is also a Patroclus who is not who I'm talking about, this other is Ptolemy's general. Also, other parts mention Patroclus, but they're about other characters like Nestor and Menelaus, so I didn't include them. )

Epigrams, Martial - 11.43

Theseus, Plutarch - 34.2

Aristides, Plutarch - 20

Arrian's Voyage Round the Euxine Sea, Arrian of Nicomedia - 16-18 sections on Wikipedia

Description of Greece, Pausanias - 3.19.13 | 3.24.10 | 4.28.7 | 5.8.3 | 5.19.8 | 10.4.2 | 10.13.5 | 10.26.6 (there is another Patroclus mentioned by Pausanias, but don't confuse him with the mythological Patroclus. The other one is Egyptian, not Greek!)

Amores, attributed to Lucian of Samosata or Pseudo-Lucian - 54

Bibliotheca, Photius - 190.9 | 190.6

Dictys Cretensis, ? - If you're really interested, just read the whole thing

Source dates

For reference:

8th century BC = between 800 BC-701 BC 7th century BC = between 700 BC-601 BC 3rd century BC = between 300 BC-201 BC 5th century BC = between 500 BC-401 BC 1st century BC = between 90 BC-0 BC 1st century AD = between 0 AD-90 AD 2nt century AD = between 101 AD-200 AD 9th century AD = between 801 AD-900

The Iliad and The Odyssey, Homer - 8th century BC, the year is much debated (Greek)

Theogony, Hesiod - 8th century BC, maybe 730–700 BC (Greek)

Fragments attributed to Hesiod - multiple dates because there are multiple sources

Cypria, attributed to Stasinus - 7th century BC (Greek)

Fragments attributed to Aeschylus - multiple dates because there are multiple sources

Olympian Odes, Pindar - 5th century BC (Greek)

Philoctetes, Sophocles - 409 BC (Greek)

Heroica/On Heroes, Philostratus - I haven't found the date of the text itself, but Philostrathus is theorized to be from 170 AD – 240 AD (Greek)

Idyll XXIX, Theocritus - 3rd century BC (Greek)

Symposium, Plato - 385 BC – 370 BC (Greek)

Symposium, Xenophon - 360 BC (Greek)

Geography, Strabo - late 1st century BC or early 1st century AD, the year is much debated (Greek)

Fabulae, attributed to Hyginus - I haven't found the date of the text itself, but Martial is theorized to be from 64 BC – 17 AD (Roman)

Library/Bibliotheca, attributed to Apollodorus or Pseudo-Apollodorus - 1st or 2nd century AD (Greek)

Deipnosophistae, Athenaeus of Naucratis - early 3rd century AD (Greek)

Argonautica, Apollonius Rhodius - 3rd century BC, maybe 283 BC–246 BC or 246 BC–221 BC (Greek)

Epigrams, Martial - I haven't found the date of the text itself, but Martial is theorized to be from 38/41 AD – 102/104 AD (probably Roman)

Theseus and Aristides, Plutarch - I haven't found the date of the text itself, but Plutarch is theorized to be from 46 AD – 119 AD (Greek)

Arrian's Voyage Round the Euxine Sea, Arrian of Nicomedia - 2nd century AD (Greek)

Description of Greece, Pausanias - 2nd century AD (Greek)

Amores, attributed to Lucian of Samosata or Pseudo-Lucian - uncertain, but certainly AD (if it's by Lucian, Syrian)

Bibliotheca, Photius - 9th century AD (Greek)

Dictys Cretensis, ? - ? AD (Greek)

Type of Source

The Iliad and The Odyssey, Homer - epic poem

Theogony, Hesiod - poem

Fragments attributed to Hesiod - scholiasts comments

Cypria, attributed to Stasinus - epic poem (lost)

Fragments attributed to Aeschylus - scholiasts comments

Olympian Odes, Pindar - collection of odes

Philoctetes, Sophocles - play

Heroica/On Heroes, Philostratus - dialogue

Idyll XXIX, Theocritus - bucolic poem

Symposium, Plato - dialogue

Symposium, Xenophon - dialogue

Geography, Strabo - geographical encyclopedia

Fabulae, attributed to Hyginus - greek myths encyclopedia (adapted for a Roman public)

Library/Bibliotheca, attributed to Apollodorus or Pseudo-Apollodorus - mythological encyclopedia

Deipnosophistae, Athenaeus of Naucratis - dialogue

Argonautica, Apollonius Rhodius - epic poem

Epigrams, Martial - collection of epigrams

Aristides, Plutarch - biography

Arrian's Voyage Round the Euxine Sea, Arrian of Nicomedia - travel guidebook

Description of Greece, Pausanias - travel literature

Amores, attributed to Lucian of Samosata or Pseudo-Lucian - dialogue

Bibliotheca, Photius - text reviews

Dictys Cretensis, ? - first-hand account

Others

Apostrophe in Homer, Apollonius and Callimachus by Jacqueline J . H . Klooster, available in Academia.edu site (I used the apostrophe concept from here)

Revisiting the Apostrophes to Patroclus in Iliad 16 by Emily Allen-Hornblower, available in The Center of Hellenic Studies of Harvard site (I recommend reading it if you are interested in the use of apostrophe in Patroclus' scenes)

Irregularities in the Funeral of Patroclus by Aubrey A. Cum, available in University of Georgia site.

Patroclus and Elpenor. Dead and Unburied, in The Upper and the Under World in Homeric and Archaic Epic by Menelaos Christopoulos, available in Academia.edu site.

#it’s midnight and I’m reading 13k of words about Patroclus instead of studying for a test tmr #dear tumblr god why do this to me #OP thank you I love you and appreciate you #btw do you know anything about sassy Patroclus bc I heard someone mentioned it in a fic #maybe in the epics book #patroclus #achilles #greek mythology

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darkmatilda · 16 days ago

Text

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"Why do I get the feeling that neither of you is even half as stressed as I am? Actually, scratch that—neither of you is even one-tenth as stressed as me?”

The question left your lips accompanied by a kind of sigh, an attempt to expel the air poisoned with anxiety and replace it with something fresh, clean.

"Because we know you’re going to do brilliantly, sweetheart," Penelope replied without hesitation, sparing you only a fleeting glance as she momentarily tore her eyes away from her computer screen. One of many screens.

Her office was filled with an uncountable number of them, all glowing brightly and lighting up the small, dimly lit space, which was also packed with her colorful accessories—pom-pom-topped pencils and flowerless plants in tiny pots, most adorned with smiling faces or hearts.

"Or rather," Reid interjected, spinning in a circle on his swivel chair, "because we both doubt you’ll even be remotely useful out there." A white box of Chinese takeout rested on his lap.

You shot him a grimace.

"Next time you try to undermine my self-confidence, make sure I’m not holding anything sharp," you warned, pointing one of your chopsticks at him. Yes, less than an hour before your first solo assignment, you were all happily indulging in junk food from the closest restaurant to the office, ignoring the looming possibility of digestive regrets. "Or you’ll lose an eye."

"Aren’t you tired of trying to kill me yet? First, you gave me a concussion…"

"You didn’t get a concussion, Reid. Stop exaggerating…"

"And now, you’re openly admitting that you plan to cause me permanent damage by depriving me of my sense of sight—which, as it is," he said, tapping the frame of his glasses, "is already in less-than-stellar condition."

"You two are just adorable when you argue with each other like an old, bitter married couple," Penelope commented with a small smile on her pink-lipsticked lips.

You first looked at each other, then at her, eyebrows raised, and in a synchronized moment, you both let out a huff. Unfazed, she continued.

"But now we really need to get to work. The exhibit starts in an hour, and you should get there with him. Have you ever used that microphone? It’s the latest model we’re testing, gosh, I’m so excited…"

"You’re adorable when you act like a typical nerd," you shot back, mimicking her little smile and tone of voice.

"A nerd I proudly am! Just like this guy here," she nodded toward Reid, who pouted slightly, looking offended. "You’re surrounded by nerds, sweetheart. Soon enough, you’ll become one too."

"Dear God, forgive me my sins and watch over me…" you whispered, staring at the ceiling.

The mysterious he that Garcia mentioned was named Christopher Allen, and he was surprisingly young for a neurotechnology engineer. He worked on issues surrounding the human brain and developed devices designed to have a broad range of effects on it. But why were you supposed to go with him to some exhibit? Equipped with a spy microphone? And why was it stressing you out so much that for the past ten minutes, you had only been picking at your Chinese takeout instead of eating it?

Well, it's hard to decide where to start explaining from.

You were summoned before Hotch yesterday, who informed you that an opportunity had arisen for you to prove yourself in the field. Alone, undercover, for the first time in your—let’s be honest—tragically short career at the FBI. On top of that, this was meant to test all the new equipment your team had received, the kind that Penelope had been so enthusiastic about. You couldn’t shake the feeling that this was the main reason you’d been assigned this task. Someone had to check the effectiveness of the gear, and at the same time, you, the rookie, needed to gain more experience. Allen’s case was like killing two birds with one stone.

This scientist had worked with the FBI multiple times, and that’s why when danger started looming over him, he was quickly assigned protection. The threat came from threatening letters and even a direct attack at his own home, which fortunately didn’t end in tragedy. Allen was descending into paranoia and was afraid to even attend public events, even ones with full protection, like the tech exhibition—taking place in one of the modest local museums—designed to showcase the latest advancements in neurotechnology and more.

He was probably afraid that during the event, someone would simply rush at him with fists and try to murder him in front of dozens of random technology and brain enthusiasts. Or something like that. Your task was to pretend to be his assistant, never leaving his side and carefully observing the surroundings. And that was it. Nothing too demanding was expected of you, unless things started to go south. However, that seemed highly unlikely, as everyone made it clear to you.

Still, you couldn’t shake the fear—whether justified or not—that something would go wrong. And it would be your fault.

“Reid, clip the microphone on her,” Penelope interrupted your train of thought with the order. “You’ve never used one of these before, have you, sweetheart?”

You nodded in confirmation, watching as Reid set aside his box of Chinese takeout to take the tiny device from her. He stopped a step in front of you, perched on the edge of one of the desks, his gaze shifting uncertainly between the small black microphone in his hand and you.

“Where… where can I…?” he asked, trailing off as he made a vague gesture with his hand, surprisingly loaded with awkwardness.

“Oh,” you let out a confused sigh, beginning to consider where it might be best to place it. The sleeve? Shouldn’t it be closer to your face to capture even your quietest whispers?

“Okay, I’ve got an idea,” you said, starting to unbutton your white shirt, revealing a significant portion of your neckline. “Here?” you asked.

“Yeah… I think so,” he replied hesitantly but didn’t move.

It wasn’t until a moment later that he swallowed and, with a slow, deliberate motion, reached for a section of your shirt near your cleavage. His actions were careful—almost excessively so—like his top priority was ensuring he didn’t accidentally brush against your skin.

The microphone’s clip was quite small, though, and attaching it to your clothing required him to take another step closer and lower his head near your chest.

Even as your breathing slowed, you couldn’t help but smile at the sight of Penelope shaking her head in amused disbelief.

You preferred to look straight ahead rather than at his fingers, working with such careful focus, though you couldn’t help but let your gaze flicker to them repeatedly. Just for fractions of a second—it was difficult to pull your eyes away once they landed there.

Only when he finished, his hands dropping quickly to his sides as he stepped back, did you realize you’d been holding your breath for quite some time. You became acutely aware of how stifling Penelope’s little office was—how did she even manage in the summer?

"That's not all," the woman on the screen broke the silence, one you hadn't even realized had fallen. "There's also a transmitter you'll need to keep on you somewhere. Securely, so it doesn't fall out. Are you planning to go dressed like that?"

You glanced down at your outfit. A simple black skirt and white shirt—the first thing that came to mind then you learned you'd be posing as an assistant.

"Inappropriate?" you asked, searching for an answer first on Garcia's face, then on Reid's. The latter gave the barest shrug, barely even looking at you.

"You look amazing. Absolutely stunning, darling. I wish I could have an assistant like you," Penelope reassured you. "But in this economy, I can only dream about it. Anyway, my point is, you don't have any pockets. Where are you planning to keep the transmitter and your gun?"

"I was thinking of just tucking it into my skirt. At the back."

"I don’t think that’s the best idea," Reid interjected doubtfully. He hadn’t reclaimed his spot on the swivel chair and stood instead, arms crossed over his chest. The embarrassment you’d managed to put him in (quite adorable, really) was slowly dissipating, leaving only a faint blush on his cheeks. The corner of your mouth twitched when you noticed it. "I mean, it could fall out, or start sticking out, which could lead to questions like why an assistant is walking around with a gun..."

"Okay, I get it," you sighed. You could’ve thought this through a bit better. "Maybe I’ll have time to swing by home and grab, I don’t know, a blazer or something..."

"You won’t," Penelope declared after glancing at the time. "But you can always borrow my jacket."

You looked at the garment draped over the back of her chair—a bright pink leather jacket. You didn’t even bother responding; you simply stared at it, letting the expression on your face do the talking.

"Alright, I admit it, I didn’t think this proposal through. So, it looks like we’ll have to..." She trailed off, her gaze landing on Reid’s figure. Surprised by the attention, he pointed at himself.

You also directed your attention at him. He was wearing a simple brown blazer, which would go well with your unremarkable outfit.

"Take it off," you instructed.

He was silent for a moment, though there was no visible protest on his face—just doubt.

"It’s gonna be too big," he remarked, his hands gently grasping the edges of the jacket as if unsure whether to take it off.

"Apparently, oversized is coming back into fashion."

"Okay, fine," he sighed, removing the jacket. Underneath, he wore a shirt and a black vest, from which a matching tie peeked out. Initially, he seemed hesitant about the idea, but handed it to you with some urgency. "Here you go."

You sent him a brief, grateful smile.

"You’re saving my mission, Reid. I’ll mention you in the report. And I’ll frame your name with a little heart, drawn with one of Penelope’s glitter pens," you declared.

He returned the gesture, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly as he gave a small nod. You noticed his gaze was almost fixed on your face, as if some invisible force were forbidding him to look away, down or sideways.

You didn't think too much about what it meant, you didn't really have time. You put on the blazer, which was indeed a little too long, and hid the transmitter in the inside pocket. You placed the weapon at your hip, concealing it with your clothes. As you were about to leave, you said talk to you later because the two of them were going to communicate with you through the earpiece the entire time. They wished you good luck, and you were just about to leave the desk when Reid, suddenly as if unable to stop himself, said your name one last time.

You looked at him questioningly. Instead of responding, he made an uncertain gesture near his chest. Confused, you looked down.

For the entire time, half of the buttons on your shirt were still undone.

You had never met him in person, but you recognized his face from snippets of interviews that occasionally appeared online, or perhaps he had even been on the news a few times. He was in his thirties, give or take five years, hard to tell. His entire persona seemed to be built around the carefree nature of a young eccentric with a sharp mind and an unrestrained tongue, constantly refining his thoughts and conclusions, often controversial, causing an uproar among the public. Without a doubt, he was one of those people often called a genius. Which, not always, was a compliment.

Allen seemed deeply displeased by your presence. He looked… tired. His red hair contrasted with his very pale complexion, as if made of glass, and dark circles rimmed his eyes. He wasn’t shockingly tall, about your height, but with broad shoulders.

"The FBI was supposed to provide me with protection because some psycho is literally trying to kill me, and they send you?" he asked, bitterly, exchanging a brief handshake with you before getting into the car.

You both sat in the back, the driver at the wheel. You were supposed to arrive at the exhibition together. His reaction caught you off guard, his open anger sparking the same feeling in you.

"What's your problem?" you asked. His insulting tone irritated you the most, especially since he hadn’t even had the chance to get to know you.

For a moment, the man sat staring out the window. His body was tense, almost stiff, as if stressed. His elegant attire, with a shirt half-tucked into his pants and too many buttons undone, suggested that he usually dressed more casually.

He let out a heavy sigh, as if furious, then hastily wiped his face with his hand.

"Just..." he began coolly and cautiously, as if holding back some cruel words. "I get the feeling that everyone is downplaying the seriousness of this situation."

"We're all approaching this with the necessary commitment," you replied, though it wasn't entirely true. Allen had every right to fear for his life, but each of you honestly doubted anything would happen to him during this exhibition. If the threat had been real... Hotch probably wouldn't have sent you. "Believe me, we understand the gravity of the situation..."

"Really? Even the letters I've been getting? The content of them?"

You knew about the threats sent by an unknown sender, but you hadn't delved into what exactly they contained. Seeing you hesitate to answer, Allen scoffed.

"You're fucking great at your job, no doubt. So let me fill you in. They come every day. Every fucking day. And I read every single one of them. You know, I've even started seeing a pattern. First, they beg me. Then they threaten to fucking kill me. Smash my face into the ground, beat me to death with a metal rod, rip out my ribs, douse me in gasoline, and set me on fire..." He paused, dramatically scratching his chin. "Oh, almost forgot. They're going to peel the skin off my back. Then there's a day off. No letter comes. The next day, they apologize. I don’t know if this psycho has some extreme split personality or... or... I have no fucking idea. The cops said, get this, it's normal. 'Cause I’m a public figure."

"They brushed it off?" you asked, slightly shaken.

No matter how famous he was, threats were still threats.

He shrugged. He was trying to speak with a voice full of dismissive irony, but it wasn’t working. He stumbled, taking breaks to swallow. Though he had treated you like a complete jerk earlier, you were starting to understand.

“First off, until someone broke into my house and tried to drag me out of bed and take me…God knows where. Probably if I hadn’t had a dog…” he trailed off, glancing back out the window. You’d arrived at the museum, where the exhibition was to be held, but Allen hesitated to get out of the car. “This guy is nuts, whoever he is. I don’t know what to expect from him. He wants to kill me, kidnap me, torture me? Or maybe he’ll just settle for shooting me from a distance like I’m some goddamn Kennedy?”

“That doesn’t really sound like him,” you said in a calming tone. “He tried to kidnap you from your house, why would he suddenly attack you in a public place…”

“My fiancée is pregnant,” he suddenly blurted out.

You blinked, unsure how to respond to the sudden confession.

“Congratulations?”

“For her safety, I sent her very, very far away, somewhere she shouldn’t be in any danger,” he continued, completely ignoring your words. “And though her and the baby’s well-being is my top priority… I also need to take care of myself. I need to make it to their birth…and longer, of course. But that’s why I’m afraid to even go out to the damn store for milk, and that’s why I was so pissed off when I found out they assigned me a woman who, no offense, looks like she wouldn’t know how to hold a gun.”

You instinctively scoffed at his last comment, though it was hard to stay particularly mad at him, knowing everything he was going through. An awkward silence fell between you, heavy and laden, during which the two of you simply stared at each other. It hit you that you were responsible not only for his safety but also for ensuring that someone’s fiancé and future father would make it home.

“We should get going,” you said, nodding toward the museum. Still, you couldn’t help but feel a certain tension at the thought of leaving the car. You shook your head slightly, trying to dispel it. “And just so we’re clear, I do know how to handle a gun—more than you’d think. But for your sake, you better hope we don’t have to put that to the test.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed the corner of his mouth twitch.

"Well then, onward, assistant. Tell me, how much do you know about neurotechnology?"

Well, by the end of this day, you were definitely going to know a lot more. Together with Allen, you crossed the threshold of the museum. Its decor clashed with the theme of the exhibition, but apparently, they hadn’t managed to secure a better location.

The interior layout was harmonious—rounded arches were supported by symmetrically arranged marble columns, and the dominant shades were gold and royal red.

Your destination was the exhibition hall, circular in shape, where mahogany tables served as display stations for various prototypes in the fields of medicine, neurobiology, and informatics. In other parts of the building, there were tall, arched windows, but this particular room had none. No natural light entered; all illumination was generated by lamps that, to their credit, mimicked the natural diffusion of sunlight quite effectively.

Among the displays were an interactive brain map and various projects still in development but aimed at assisting people with disabilities.

You observed all of this with interest while simultaneously listening to your companion’s impromptu lecture on the human brain (apparently, talking helped him calm down). At the same time, you were closely monitoring the crowd around you.

True multitasking.

The exhibition was open to everyone; no one was checking who entered the venue. Although you counted three security guards in the room—dressed in simple black suits and mostly tasked with ensuring that no one tried to steal anything—there was a subtle air of unease hanging in the atmosphere. If Allen’s suspicions were correct, the person intent on ending his life could be one of these faces. To your surprise, however, he suddenly seemed far less concerned about it than you were.

“You don’t have to follow me around like a shadow,” he said, leaning toward you to make himself heard over the murmur of surrounding conversations. A familiar face with a loud, bright red tie waved at him and began making their way over. “Just don’t take your eyes off me, no matter what. And keep an eye out for anyone suspicious—whatever that means to you. Hey, man!”

He greeted his acquaintance with a friendly handshake. Following his instructions, you took a small step back, deciding to take a short stroll among the exhibits. But after barely two steps, your finger went to the discreet earpiece hidden under your hair.

“Are you there, my lovely nerds?” you asked with a playful smile, knowing they couldn’t see it but imagining their reactions.

“At your service!” Garcia responded enthusiastically, and you could almost picture her saluting on the other end.

“And what about Mr. Smartass? Did he get bored and wander off to study the reproductive habits of ants?”

“I heard that!” he replied, summoned by his new nickname. “Such gratitude for letting you borrow my jacket.”

“Speaking of the jacket,” you continued, “I found a candy in the pocket. How thoughtful of you to leave me a little sweet treat.” You weren’t joking; there really was a candy inside. You inspected the wrapper and frowned. “Marzipan? Ugh. Do you have the taste buds of my grandma?”

"To what I know, I haven't had a taste bud transplant. Especially not from anyone's grandmother," he replied nonchalantly. "And as for those ants..."

"Sorry to interrupt, my darlings, but I have a few questions about the sound quality of these new microphones..."

True to her word, Garcia began asking you how well you could hear them and instructed you to lower your voice to a whisper and then raise it sharply. Some sort of test or whatever. You did it all patiently while staring at the red-haired mop at the station across from you. Allen seemed pretty relaxed now, probably realizing nothing was going to happen to him.

"Okay, now do the sound like a chicken. I mean the noise."

"What?"

"You know, cluck."

"Pen, is this really necessary?"

"Yes, sweetie. I need to check something else. Last thing, I swear. Scout’s honor."

You sighed, looking around at the people nearby. Few were paying attention to you, you were just one face in the crowd. God, for something like this, you could ask for a raise.

"Exactly, honey. Just louder," Garcia asked.

You rolled your eyes and tried again to make the chicken sound. An older couple glanced at you, their eyes wide with horror.

"Alright, enough," you muttered, embarrassed, into the earpiece, quickly moving to a different spot.

And then you heard the pair on the other side literally choking with laughter.

"I fucking hate you guys," you said. "I hate you. Especially you, Penelope. Give me Reid on the mic, from now on I'm only talking to him."

Another burst of laughter from the woman. You clenched your jaw. And as if that weren’t enough…

"Did you want to hear me, little chick?" Reid asked politely.

“I should’ve gouged your eye out with a chopstick when I had the chance,” you hissed into the phone, a little too loudly, drawing a few curious glances. You were supposed to be watching for suspicious people, but it turned out you were acting the most suspicious of all…

“Did you catch what she said?” Reid addressed Penelope. “I only heard clucking.”

“Ha-ha,” you rolled your eyes.

For fifteen minutes, you had to endure such jokes. You seriously began to worry that they’d never get tired of it, but finally, after a quarter of an hour of psychological torture, they fell silent. You kept a sharp eye on your surroundings.

“By the way,” you began, still a bit offended by the chicken joke. “You guys should regret not being here to see these inventions. Perfect for you, nerds.”

“Well, actually, we can see them,” Reid’s voice came through the earpiece, sounding very clear, clearly taking the whole mic for himself. “Garcia grabbed footage from the cameras inside the room.”

“So you can see me? This whole time?”

“Yep. And we saw that terrified couple who ran as far away from you as they could as soon as you started clucking like a chicken. Poor souls.”

You ignored the comment and began scanning the room for the cameras. When you found them, you scratched your forehead with your middle finger.

“Can you see this too?”

“I can see how much fun you’re having,” he scoffed. “Are you going to include that in your report?”

“Exactly. Right under your name, framed with a glittery little heart. Any other requests?” Not waiting for his response, you added, “By the way, how do I look in your jacket? Does it fit me well?”

"I think so. I mean, the blazer is incredibly well-tailored. And of good quality. It’s impossible for it to look bad on anyone." He paused for a moment, and his voice grew more serious. "How’s it going? Have you noticed anything suspicious? Still feeling stressed?"

"Not anymore," you admitted, speaking the truth. Even though the exhibition had just started and was supposed to last about another hour, you felt like you had passed some milestone where nothing could go wrong anymore. "But of course, I’m still keeping an eye out. I had a little chat with Allen…"

"I heard," Reid acknowledged. "Very interesting lecture on the human brain, I must admit."

You let out a small laugh.

"I talked to Allen earlier. Still in the car. After what he told me, I don’t think he's a paranoiac. The guy is just really worried about his safety. And not just his.”

A moment of silence fell on both sides.

"Speaking of Allen, he's heading your way," he informed you, likely watching the feed from the cameras. "I guess I'll hear from you later then. I mean, I’ll be hearing you the whole time, just not the other way around. Unless you want me to constantly broadcast about ant reproduction?"

"Sorry, Reid, but I’ll pass. Maybe some other time," you chuckled, noticing the engineer approaching. As he walked, he bumped into a man in the crowd and exchanged a quick apology. You used that moment to add something else, a bit impulsively. "And what about this? Do you see this?"

You pressed the inside of your hand to your lips before unfolding it, sending a kiss toward one of the cameras. Reid was silent as Allen drew closer.

"I see it," he finally admitted, quieter. You regretted not being able to see his expression, it was unusually hard for you to picture it at that particular moment. Was he smiling? "And I like it a lot more than what you showed me earlier."

You turned your back to the camera so he wouldn’t see you smile. It only hit you afterward that he probably saw it anyway, just from a different angle.

"I see you're enjoying the exhibition," Allen said, standing in front of you with his hands in his pockets. He had stopped pretending to be the classy guy and fully embraced his more laid-back side. "So, uh, sorry, but I think I'd rather head out now."

Worried, you discreetly glanced around.

"Did something happen? Did someone stare at you weirdly, do something...?"

He shook his head, a negative gesture.

"Nothing like that. I just saw what I needed to see. Check it off the list, I’m ready to leave..."

After his words, an absolute darkness fell.

Absolute darkness, in the truest sense of the word. The exhibition hall had no windows. When the lights went out, it felt as if someone had tied a cloth tightly over your eyes. Yet, like a fool, you kept looking around, as if moving your head could somehow tear through the blackness enveloping you, freeing you from the growing panic that was slowly flooding your senses.

“Garcia, what’s up with the cameras?” Reid’s voice sounded in your ear. He was confused, not yet frightened. He didn’t know what was happening yet. None of you did.

The people around you, of course, were also surprised by the sudden blackout. A few muffled gasps echoed, one or two squeals, a smattering of curses. But there were no screams, no one tearing at their throats or blindly bolting forward, trampling others in the process. That came later.

Exactly four seconds after the first gunshot rang out.

Before, the world seemed to freeze in place; everyone’s breaths were trapped in their lungs, unwilling to escape, even out of curiosity. Your body lunged forward as if trying to flee, but it quickly dawned on you that there was nowhere to run. Where had the shot come from? Who had fired it? Was someone hurt?

Something—or rather, someone’s hand—clamped painfully around your wrist. Instinctively, you tried to pull free, letting out a sound somewhere between a growl and a garbled cry.

“It’s me,” Allen choked out, his voice trembling. You couldn’t see his silhouette, but you knew the blood had drained from his face. “What the fuck... what the fuck is happen—”

The second shot rang out, closer and sharper than the first. Chaos erupted in the room. Screams, so hysterical they drowned out the voices coming through your earpiece, filled the air. Something struck you hard, sending you stumbling as pain radiated through your shoulder. It was an empty kind of pain—something you felt and yet didn’t. You realized it must have been one of the panicked people charging blindly through the dark.

“Here,” you commanded, your mind snapping briefly into clarity. In your mind’s eye, you pictured the layout of the room before the lights went out. The corner of the hall, the wooden table behind you, where one of the prototypes had been displayed.

You slipped under the table, dragging Allen with you. He groaned as his head hit the underside of the furniture.

You were so utterly disoriented that it felt as though your own name was echoing on a loop inside your head. It took you a moment to realize it wasn’t just your mind playing tricks—it was someone’s voice, growing more familiar with each passing second.

The third gunshot.

Allen choked on his breath, his hand still gripping your wrist so tightly you feared it might snap—yet you didn’t register it as pain, merely as a sensation. The two of you crouched beneath the table, facing each other, teetering on the edge of succumbing to the abyss of panic.

Reid spoke your name again, faintly, as though he were far too close to the microphone. As though leaning in would somehow make you hear him better—make you respond.

“I’m here,” you managed to stammer, the first thing that came to your mind.

"Thank God, I thought..." he sighed, suddenly stopping, as if realizing it wasn't yet time for relief. "Are you... are you hurt?"

"My arm."

You didn't know why those words escaped your lips. Maybe because, although your mind was too occupied with trying to figure out the situation to focus on something like pain, your body couldn’t ignore the fact that it felt it. Against your will, you let out a hiss and finally pulled your hand out of Allen's grip.

"You've been shot? We... we can't see anything, do you have anything to stop the bleeding, maybe use my jacket..."

"I don't know what's happening, we've completely lost access to the camera feed, someone must have turned them all off, just like the power... Reid, immediately notify Hotch, he needs to know something's wrong..."

On the other side, chaos erupted, comparable to the one surrounding you. Penelope was aggressively pressing the keyboard keys, Reid was rushing between a phone conversation with Hotch and throwing random phrases at you like stay where you are or how's your arm?

But was staying put the right decision? Wasn't it just waiting for the person responsible for starting this... massacre to come for you? On the other hand, how were you supposed to escape? In complete darkness? You had a weapon... but what good was it if you couldn't see anything? A sound of resigned sobbing escaped you.

And then, suddenly, right before your eyes, Allen’s red hair materialized, his fingers pressed into his skull as if he wanted to tear it apart himself. You both looked into each other's eyes. Visibility returned.

“We have light,” you said, though it didn’t loosen the grip on your chest.

“What?” Penelope sputtered, confused. “We still can’t see anything, the cameras are still…”

Allen let out a choked cry. You followed his gaze. Just before your hiding spot, a pair of leather shoes stopped.

“Get out,” commanded a male voice. You lifted your head. Above you stood a man with dark facial hair and a submachine gun, looking like an extension of his broad shoulder. You immediately noticed, besides the weapon, he was also carrying a black sports bag slung over his shoulder. Both of you were too disoriented and terrified to follow the order. “I said, fuckin’ get out and against the wall, I won’t repeat myself.”

Like animals herded into a pen, you followed his instructions to the designated spot. The entire crowd inside gathered against one of the blood-red walls of the room, some pressing their backs against it as if that embrace would ensure their safety...

“What’s going on there now?” Reid asked. “We still don’t have a feed... I can hear you breathing,” he blurted out unexpectedly.

You realized that your breath had indeed become heavy and loud. It dawned on you that you hadn’t gone through any extensive training on how to handle a situation like this; you were useless...

“Just...damn it, I know it’s easier for me to say, but try not to panic, okay? Whatever’s going on... panic will only make it worse. You need to focus, please. Can you do that? Breathe? Slowly, like I’m doing now?”

Your hands clenched around the fabric of his jacket, feeling it under your fingers. Closing your eyes, you could almost imagine him standing right in front of you, in this very building, speaking those words. It helped calm you down, at least enough for your mind to stay somewhat communicative...

“Good. Very...very good. Now, can you describe what’s happening over there?”

You knew that every piece of information you passed on would be worth its weight in gold. You tightened your grip on the fabric of Reid's jacket and began scanning your surroundings.

“One shooter. He’s herding us... all of us, against one of the walls and... stuffing prototypes into the bag, every one he can get his hands on,” you reported, describing everything you’d seen. “It looks like a robbery.”

“Just one?” Reid asked. “What were those shots? Someone... got hurt?”

You were about to deny it when your attention was drawn to a bloodstain spreading across the marble floor at the opposite corner of the room. Allen nudged you, pointing to something else—a body lying motionless.

“Guards. He... he killed all the guards,” you recognized them by their uniforms, the words barely escaping your throat. So, he hadn’t hesitated to kill, not one of those inexperienced types with any moral inhibitions. Trying to make sense of everything happening around you, you pressed your hand to your forehead. “But... but how could he see them in this darkness...”

“Night vision,” Allen interrupted suddenly, his previously hunched figure straightening as he realized it.

You found the man busy with the theft and controlling the area. He was quite solidly built, you could compare him to Derek. And, as the engineer had observed, around his neck hung a device for seeing in the dark.

“The police have arrived outside the museum, but they won’t go inside as long as you’re trapped with him. They don’t want anyone to get hurt,” Penelope informed you, then let out a soft, wheezing breath, as if she was trying to calm herself down. “Sweetheart, the whole team is on their way too. From now on, you’re our informant…”

“Is Christopher Allen among you?” A commanding voice suddenly cut through the sheet of panic blanketing the room, drawing everyone’s attention. It belonged to a truly imposing man with a shaved head and a forehead lined with wrinkles that seemed to stem more from exhaustion than age. But by far, the most significant detail about him was the submachine gun he held in his hands.

Two. There were two shooters.

Your focus shifted to the man standing right in front of you, as if delivering some kind of speech. At first, you didn’t even register what he’d asked. He repeated the question quickly and impatiently, and you froze. Not that you’d been particularly active before, but in that moment, all your bodily functions seemed to shut down completely. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at Allen—not even for a fleeting glance.

“Christopher Allen. Biotech engineer. He should be here,” the man continued, scanning the faces in front of him almost desperately, searching for the one he needed. He sounded almost... distraught? That broken expression, teetering on the edge of tears and madness, starkly contrasted with his militaristic physique.

Suddenly, his accomplice appeared, tugging at his arm.

“Jesus, give it a rest. We need to get out of here. The car’s waiting for us, remember?”

He shoved the smaller man with a force befitting his build, sending him staggering backward.

“I’m not leaving until I talk to him!” he declared with furious determination. “Christopher Allen…”

“You’ve gotta be shitting me…”

“Allen…”

His eyes scanned the surroundings until they landed on the two of you. You felt someone lightly wrap their fingers around your forearm, gripping it almost instinctively. It wasn’t a strong or painful hold, but rather one born of genuine fear, seeking protection. Protection that, from the start, had been your responsibility to provide. Yet now, standing face to face with two armed assailants, with lifeless bodies lying in pools of blood in the same room…you felt the crushing weight of an obligation you were physically incapable of fulfilling, creating a storm of chaos within your mind.

Allen must have been fooling himself into thinking he could blend into the crowd and remain unnoticed. Even as everyone’s gaze began to focus on him, urgently and with some unspoken hope, he stubbornly stood still. Or was he simply paralyzed by fear?

For the first time since he was called out, you looked at him. His eyes conveyed one thing: a simple message. It was him. The man who had been sending him threats, the one who had broken into his house. You furrowed your brows, this whole situation was becoming incomprehensible. He cared so much about kidnapping the engineer that he had organized the heist at the exhibition where he was supposed to be?

“Come here. I need to talk to you, you… you need to do something for me.”

Once again, in your ears, you heard the description of the tortures that were mentioned in the letter.

"You have to do this," you said very softly, almost a whisper. "We can't let him get angry. Do you hear me?"

It seemed like your words weren’t reaching him at all. You nervously glanced at the gunmen, hoping that the command you had given hadn’t raised any suspicion or made them think you were trying to outsmart them, deceive them in some way. Slowly, but with deep remorse, you loosened Allen’s grip on your forearm. His chest wasn’t rising, as if he weren’t breathing. But then his gaze shifted, not to you, but to the people around you, to the ones standing in fear, waiting for his reaction. Something in his face shifted, then he took a step forward.

“Slowly,” you instructed.

It seemed like the best solution. Unsub knew that the person he was looking for was among you, he had identified him without any difficulty. Allen couldn’t hide or escape, all that was left for him was to comply with the orders, for his own sake and for everyone else's. It was also important that he stalled for time. You hoped that as soon as your team arrived, they’d be able to come up with something. Maybe they were already there, working to make contact with the shooters and free you all, alive and unharmed.

At the same time, someone called your name.

"Report in."

It was Hotch. At the sound of his stoic voice, a fleeting wave of relief washed over you. You even parted your lips to answer when you realized the second gunman was staring at you. The room fell into absolute silence as Allen slowly approached them. You shouldn’t reveal that you were with the FBI or any other agency—that was a basic rule…

"Listen to me carefully now," the unsub spat, placing one of his massive hands on Allen's shoulder, causing him to almost buckle under the forceful touch. Someone behind you let out a muffled cry. "You need to remove it from me, do you understand?"

"Shit," his partner muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. He was holding a bag with the stolen equipment, constantly glancing toward the exit. You wondered if he had anything to do with the threats sent to Allen. "Shit, we need to get the hell out of here before the cops completely block our escape. We don't have time for your fucking delusions!"

“Remove…?” the baffled engineer repeated, completely thrown off.

“The chip. The one inside me. Right here, on the back of my neck.” The man jabbed a finger at the spot. “Someone has to cut it out of me. You work with brains—you must know how to do it. He’s controlling me, watching my thoughts… I saw an interview with you once. I know you’re the only one who can do this…”

The man’s words devolved into a stream of incoherent rambling. Allen had no idea how to respond, and silence stretched on the other end of the phone. Meanwhile, the second gunman tried once again to persuade his partner to escape, but this only triggered an explosive burst of rage that made everyone around them shrink in fear.

“Shut up, or I’ll blow your head off too!” the man shouted. “I’ve waited too long for this. I don’t give a damn about all that crap you stole. I don’t care if they catch me. He’s going to cut out that chip!”

“What chip?” Allen finally managed to stammer. “I don’t understand…”

“The chip the government implanted in me to control me! That’s why no hospital will remove it—they’re all under government control! Only you can do it!”

“The unsub is delusional, that much is clear,” Reid’s voice suddenly crackled in your earpiece, catching you by surprise. He must have made it from Penelope’s office to the museum—where he joined Hotch and the rest of the team—at an impressive speed. “The reality he’s constructed is starting to blur with actual reality, which makes him extremely dangerous. Just from the tone of his speech, you can tell he’s emotionally unbalanced and on the brink of a breakdown. Unfortunately, this means his actions could be erratic and violent, with a strong tendency toward escalation.”

"What can I do?" you whispered as quietly as possible, taking advantage of the commotion in the center of the room.

"Are you there? Can you speak safely?" he asked, exhaling a breath of trapped air. "I mean... What you can do, first and foremost, is stay cautious. Don’t say or do anything that could provoke him further," he instructed, his tone turning focused and determined to provide you with as much guidance as possible. You nodded almost imperceptibly as you listened, as if he could see you. At some point, your fingers began nervously clutching the fabric of his blazer again, a small, unconscious tic.

"Don’t confront his delusions—or rather, don’t outright deny them. Try not to introduce any new elements either, to avoid deepening his paranoia, alright? That could put you in even greater danger..."

"Above all, try to redirect his anger away from Allen and the other hostages," Hotch cut in. "We’re working on a way to get inside. You just need to buy us some time."

Buy some time, it was easy for him to say, you thought with sudden frustration. What exactly could you do? It was incredibly hard to make any decisions when you were fully aware that their consequences could result in the death of an innocent person—or people.

Allen was still in front of the unsub, gripped tightly by the gun-wielding man, slightly shaking his head from side to side, clearly overwhelmed by the situation.

"But... but how am I supposed to get the chip out, do you really believe the government..."

"He doesn’t have the right tools," you interrupted, taking a step forward to draw the shooters’ attention to you. You raised your hands in a gesture of surrender as soon as you found yourself in the second man’s line of sight. You were scared of the direction Allen was heading in—after all, Reid had told you not to deny his delusions. Though you weren’t sure it was the right approach, you tried to make eye contact with the unsub. You had a feeling that he might only fully understand what you were trying to convey if you did.

Everyone was looking at you now. Nervously, you swallowed before speaking again.

"If you want him to remove the chip from your body... you’ll need at least a scalpel. Well, and if it was implanted by the government... that might not be enough?"

To your surprise, the second attacker spoke up.

"She's right, Erick, we don't have anything like that. Leave him, we need to get out of here... though fuck, it probably doesn't matter anymore, I wonder if the police have already caught our driver..."

You hoped that the team had heard this and started looking for suspicious vehicles in the area. Erick, or rather the unsub, began to stare intensely at you, analyzing what you'd said.

"Keep it up," Reid said. "It looks like you’ve planted some doubt in his mind about his own plan. You can keep going in that direction, just please, please, be careful..."

"Reid," Hotch admonished him.

You took a deep breath, your mind was working so fast that it was starting to go blank. You had to say something more before it consumed you entirely.

"But... but I'm sure that if you had met under different circumstances, outside the museum, he would have been able to extract the chip..."

"No! I've waited too long, I can't stand having this crap under my skin for another minute! He'll take it out now, or he won't leave here!"

Allen's raised hands trembled at those words.

"How can we communicate with the police? Is there a phone here?" he asked his companion.

"Are you fucking out of your mind..."

"They'll bring us the equipment. A scalpel. They won't have a choice, or I'll shoot them all, one by one."

"We should focus on how to get out of here..."

"I DON'T CARE ABOUT THAT!" the unsub roared at him. Fueled by this outburst, he shoved Allen away so forcefully that the man fell to the floor. The startled man took a step back, unable to hide his fear. It was clear who had the final say in this duo. Erick was not only physically larger, most likely more ruthless, but above all, incredibly unpredictable. Without looking at you, he issued an order.

"Everyone sit against the wall, you too." Allen awkwardly got to his feet and almost ran to the indicated spot.

You didn't want to sit, to put yourself in an even more vulnerable position. But when a man with a submachine gun and a completely deranged gleam in his eyes is standing in front of you, you don't have much of a choice. Slowly, you sat down on the floor, surrounded by all these terrified people.

You studied the faces of everyone around you—scientists and random people who had ended up here simply because they were intrigued by the exhibit's theme. And that innocent curiosity had led them into such a hopeless situation, where each breath, drawn into trembling lungs, could prove to be the final one. What terrified you was the fact that the only thing distinguishing you from them was the tiny microphone pinned to your clothes and the earpiece in your ear.

The woman sitting next to you, so close that your elbows were touching, looked as though she was about to faint. Without hesitation, you offered her your hand, which she took with no resistance. In situations like that, the escape from fear was desperately sought wherever it could be found—even among strangers.

“What’s happening in there now?” Hotch asked.

You explained the situation to him as clearly and logically as possible, correcting anything they might have missed due to their lack of actual insight into what was happening inside the museum. The woman beside you looked at you strangely, smudged mascara around her eyes.

“Please don’t worry,” you whispered, making sure none of the attackers could hear you. Though maybe you shouldn’t have, you felt you needed to reveal yourself to her, to help her survive the nightmare she had found herself in. “I’m... a federal agent. I have contact with the team outside, they’re working on how to get us out of here.”

You didn’t know if those words had particularly soothed her fear—just as you spoke them, Allen practically pressed himself against you, trying to whisper something into your ear.

“Give me your gun,” he practically ordered.

You looked at him with your eyebrows raised in shock. No words were needed. Your face clearly expressed one big what?

He looked like one of those people going on and on about a newly invented device they had been working on for years, staying up every night. In his eyes was a comparable crazy but incredibly self-assured gleam.

“I know you have it, but you won’t use it. Because you're scared. And I don’t blame you!” he quickly added, moving slightly away from you. Still, your faces were tilted toward each other in a conspiratorial whisper.

“But listen to me. He cares about me, right? Or rather, he cares that I get the nonexistent chip from him. He won’t hurt me when I get closer, he’s too desperate, in his eyes, I’m his only chance…”

“You must have lost your mind,” you said through clenched teeth. Was he really willing to take such a risk and play the hero when he and his fiancée were expecting a child? “And what about the other guy, huh? Do you think he’ll just stand there calmly when...?”

“Then I’ll shoot him first. I used to go to the shooting range, I was pretty good at it. The other one will be too scared to hurt me, and then I...”

“Absolutely not,” Reid interjected.

You snorted.

“As if I would even consider it…” you muttered. Looking at Allen, you tapped your forehead. “No way. You’re not risking your life on such a stupid plan where everything could go wrong…”

“Do you think I’m asking for your opinion?” he hissed, clutching his head in desperation. “The answer is no. I’m just saying, give me your gun. Where is it?”

As he said this, he grabbed the fabric of your blazer, searching under it for what he so desperately wanted. You tried to catch his hand, but he trapped it in his grip, digging through the layers of your clothes, under your skirt. You jerked your whole body in an attempt to break free.

“Leave me alone, they’ll notice us soon…”

“What’s he doing?” Reid asked sharply. Although he couldn’t see what was happening, his voice was not only confused, but also clearly worried, maybe even angry.

“Just give it to me, what the hell does it hurt…”

His hand, despite your resistance, finally reached the grip of your gun, slightly sliding it out from beneath your skirt. You shot a quick glance toward the attackers, still engrossed in their conversation—or rather, argument. Terrified by the thought that they might notice what Allen was pulling from under your clothing, you instinctively swung at his face, causing his head to snap back with a muffled cry of pain.

“What language do I need to speak for you to understand? What you’re planning is idiotic,” you said, your words flowing together with a surprisingly calm yet furious ease. You struggled to keep your voice low, feeling as though shouting might make him grasp it faster. But that wasn’t an option. “You’d risk not only your life but everyone else’s,” you said, gesturing toward what you now had no choice but to call the hostages. “And no one wants to die because of some brainless idiot with a hero complex.”

After you hit him, Allen backed away to a distance that no longer invaded your personal space. With your breath quickened, you adjusted the position of the gun, suddenly panicked that it might fall out during his attempt to grab it against your will. Despite yourself, a strange feeling overcame you. Out of everyone—of all the people trapped in the museum—you were the only one with even minimal knowledge of what to do in this situation, the only one with outside communication to the police, and, most importantly... a weapon. And yet, with that arsenal at your disposal, you were doing embarrassingly little to improve the situation.

Your jaw tightened at the thought, your fists clutching the fabric of your blazer so hard that your knuckles turned white. It was astonishing how much that small action helped you regain your composure. Not just the feel of the fabric but also... the scent. You could almost imagine you weren’t entirely alone in this. And though you wouldn’t trade places with Reid or anyone else from the team for anything, you couldn’t shake the feeling they would handle this far better than you were.

And speaking of Reid...

"Are you okay?" he asked again, his tone much softer than before.

"I'm fine," you tried to give your voice a casual, almost dismissive tone, though you doubted you fully succeeded in masking the tension. You let out a helpless scoff in an attempt to lighten it. "I mean, fine as much as one can be fine in this situation..."

You trailed off, and he hesitated before replying.

"Hang in there, okay?" he said, so quietly you thought you might have misheard. It made you wonder if it was because he didn’t want anyone else to overhear what he was saying into the mic. If that were the case, was it because he didn’t want anyone accusing him of chatting with you when he should be doing something more important? Or maybe, he just didn’t want this simple yet anxious message to reach unwelcome ears and lose its sense of privacy. You heard him swallow. "We’ll get you all out of there soon. Garcia got the phone number of one of the attackers, the delusional one—his name’s Erick Larson, by the way. If he has it on him..."

As if on cue, the sound of an incoming call rang out. They stopped talking, and the surprised man reached into his pocket.

"What are you going to do? Negotiate?" you asked.

"Hotch is going to talk to him. The main goal is to get the hostages released."

The word hostage sounded so strange to you; you couldn’t connect it to your situation. A hostage didn’t have a gun tucked under their clothing or communicate with an FBI team through an earpiece. Those people, holding each other's hands in fear and huddled on the floor, were the hostages. Not you.

"Can you stay on the line?" the words slipped out before you could stop them. "Just, I don’t know... tell me how it really is with those ants or something." You squeezed your eyes shut as a wave of embarrassment crashed over you. You were acting like a scared child who needed a bedtime story to forget the monster under the bed. "Forget it, that’s stupid. You’ve probably got your hands full. Focus on helping us, on the negotiations."

"I'm still on the line," he reassured you, even before the echo of your last words faded. "And I’ll stay on it the whole time. And since talking to you might help you not lose your mind in there... well, I guess that counts as helping all of you. The information you’ve given us, everything you’ve told us... you’re playing a crucial role in all of this."

"I don’t think so. I could be doing so much more."

"Like what, something that idiot was planning?" he asked, stressing the word idiot. "Please, don’t even think about it. You’re doing exactly what’s needed. You’re not sticking your neck out, you’re staying in contact with us. You’re calming the others down, like that woman. That... that’s heroism, not blindly rushing at two armed men."

Moved by his words, you weakly smiled. You’d forgotten again that he couldn’t see you, or maybe it was just automatic.

"Stop, I’m going to blush. But... but thank you, Reid."

"You don’t need to thank me. Oh, he picked up..."

And indeed, Erik pressed the phone to his ear, probably realizing that it was the police trying to make contact. You fixed your gaze on him.

A completely new stage of the robbery was beginning, one on which everything depended—negotiations.

Spencer had never had a particular obsession with control.

In the vast majority of crisis situations, all he needed was a deep understanding of the causes and course of events. A thorough analysis of what had happened so far, drawing conclusions based on that, and then coming up with possible solutions, each with its pros and cons, which he also had to consider.

It involved emotionally distancing himself from the situation and relying on advice from his trusty friend—logic. And when he was guided by that cold logic, he didn’t feel the need to actively participate in what was happening around him or take any direct control. But in that particular moment—ever since he had heard the first shot coming from inside the museum, shortly after losing access to the cameras—he was almost losing his mind over how little he could do. Powerlessness was the first blow, the fact that her life, and others', depended on a man with probable schizophrenia, driven by dangerous delusions, the second, much stronger one.

As with every hostage situation, a makeshift operations camp was set up outside the building, where all necessary units gathered. Garcia stayed at her post, but he saw no other option but to go there personally. The rest of the team quickly gathered, and Hotch arrived so fast it seemed like he lived just around the corner. After all, there was a member of his team inside, the one he had sent there, never expecting such a turn of events. The two perpetrators, who were working together, seemed to have two completely different goals. One, apparently, was persuaded to go along with a simple robbery and escape. The second, Erick, however, had a different, more complicated desire from the start. He wanted Allen, who was supposed to extract a non-existent chip from his body, allegedly implanted by the government.

Allen. He spoke that name with an incomprehensible bitterness and disdain. He was disgusted by his thoughtlessness, pure stupidity. Though he was familiar with his achievements in the field of neurotechnology, he couldn't call him a scientist, really not anything other than an idiot. And it was all because he had nearly put her and everyone else in danger, because he pressured her so much that she had to defend herself by striking him in the face. He remembered how once they had slept in the same bed, so small that they almost fell off it and were forced to lie literally on top of each other. By accident, he had jabbed her with his elbow in the ribs, and before he could even whisper an apology, she hit him with such force that he lost his breath. He hoped Allen had taken an even harder blow.

He forced himself back to reality, as everyone gathered around Hotch, who was leaning over the phone. The unsub had answered, and the discussion began.

"We'll deliver what you need. All the equipment. But first, you must release the innocent people inside and promise you won't hurt anyone else. Not Allen, or anyone."

They argued, a lot. Of course, they wanted him to let everyone go, which was, realistically, impossible. Eventually, the number sixteen was agreed upon, a little more than half of the people present.

Through the microphone clipped to her clothes, they could hear him pointing at the people who were to be released. The second perpetrator seemed to have completely given in to his paranoid companion, and stopped trying to convince him to escape. He must have realized it was already too late for that.

“You’re the one who’s leaving,” he said, his words very clear, suggesting he was standing very close to her, pointing at her.

Spencer straightened up, a sudden rush of premature relief washing over him. Premature—that was the key word.

“No,” she protested sharply. “No, let her go instead of me. She’s older and not feeling well. I should stay…”

He pressed the microphone to his mouth, trying to talk her out of it.

“Do what they say, resisting might make him angry…”

“No, Reid, she’s right,” Hotch interrupted him. Spencer looked at his boss in surprise, shaking his head in confusion. Instead of explaining his decision to him, Hotch turned to her.

“You have to do everything you can to stay inside. You’re our only source of information, our access to what’s happening in there.”

“Hotch…”

Someone, JJ, placed a hand on his shoulder, stopping him from protesting further. It dawned on him that they were right, but... it was hard for him to accept. It was true that, as an FBI agent, part of her duty sometimes meant risking her life for the greater good. Still, this decision made his hands ball into fists, and he had to take a deep breath to steady himself. Suddenly, it struck him that if an unfamiliar agent, not a member of the BAU, not his friend, and someone who hadn’t shared a bed with him when his fear of the dark grew stronger, were in the same situation... he would have agreed with Hotch without hesitation.

“I told you to leave, so you leave. There’s gotta be sixteen people, or they won’t bring it to me, goddammit.”

“So let someone else go…” She cut off abruptly, a rustling sound echoing through the air, as if— as if he tugged at her clothes. Spencer almost spoke again but stopped herself. The same thought had crossed Hotch’s face, he saw it.

“Seriously, this will be better. I... I can help with removing the chip...”

“Allen has to do it.”

“Yes, but…” her voice grew more desperate, trying to come up with something more, an excuse to fulfill her duty.

“Oh, what don’t you understand, you stupid bitch…”

Spencer anticipated the sudden outburst of aggression, he had felt it building for a while. Though the unsub was unpredictable, his anger rose and fell within mere seconds, Spencer knew it was all heading in that direction. So, he squeezed his eyes shut just before the horrible, dull thud rang out, followed by a muffled cry of pain. Then the sound was drowned out by a rush, something like a thud, and he could only guess that she had fallen to the floor.

He didn't open his eyes, but something pricked at his chest. He knew that if he looked at Hotch, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from giving him a big, i told you so. It wasn’t even about being right—he didn’t care about that, not at that moment. What mattered to him was that nothing happened to her, and that was exactly what had just happened.

No one from the team said a word, though Derek turned his gaze away from the speaker, his expression one of discomfort, like someone averting their eyes from an unpleasant scene. Hotch stared at some fixed point ahead, his face unreadable, before leaning into the microphone just as—

“What the hell is this?!” the unsub suddenly screamed. “A gun? Why the hell does she have a gun on her?!”

Reid’s eyes shot open as he nearly dropped to his knees by the microphone, as if somehow that could help. The weapon must have slipped out when she fell, sliding free from where it had been concealed beneath her clothes…

He noticed Elle nervously biting her thumb, her face pale as a sheet. He read the same grim, terrified realization on her face that had already taken root in everyone’s minds. She was burned. Her cover as the assistant was completely blown.

“He can’t find out she’s FBI,” Gideon declared, leaning heavily against the edge of the table. “He’s a paranoid maniac who thinks the government is after him. If he realizes a federal agent has been in there the entire time…”

“Wait!” the second attacker spoke up. He had long since given up and was now quietly following his partner’s orders. “I heard the hostages talking... something about there being someone from the FBI among them, someone who’s in contact with the cops. I thought they were just talking crap, but...”

“How does he know that?” JJ asked, her lips slightly parted in shock.

“She told one of the women,” Spencer blurted out, though it felt like the words came from someone else. Some part of him—still detached from the full realization of what her exposure meant—clung to the fragments of logic not yet consumed by his nerves. “To calm her down... but that woman must have passed it on to someone else.”

“FBI?” the unsub repeated, almost in a daze. “Fucking FBI?”

The sound of something slamming echoed sharply—an explosion of frustration and shock. Every pained whimper, every labored breath she took, reached Spencer with cruel clarity, amplified by that damned new microphone clipped to her chest, capturing every sound in merciless detail.

He wanted to cover his ears, to block it out, but he couldn’t. His lower lip trembled, caught between screaming or vomiting the moment he opened his mouth.

Covering his ears would have been a selfish gesture, one that would only bring relief to him. She didn’t have that option; all that was left for her was to endure, as he assumed, the next kicks...

He lowered his head, not looking at the others, not wanting to see their equally helpless expressions. And although he hated himself for even thinking about it, he took two steps to move away. To escape from this place, from these sounds. Because he simply couldn’t bear them.

However, he didn’t get far; he staggered as if drunk and had to grab the table tightly to keep from falling. JJ, in some protective impulse that she probably wasn’t even aware of, reached out her hand, wanting to touch his shoulder, but he pushed her away.

“I’m calling him,” Hotch announced, immediately moving into action. “Maybe that’ll stop him…”

“Check if she has a microphone on her. If she’s with the FBI, she could have been spying on us the whole time,” suggested the second attacker, in a strangely satisfied tone. He was probably some sadistic bastard who enjoyed this turn of events.

This caused Erik to stop his attack. He completely ignored the incoming call. She took a breath, inhaling deeply, though it clearly caused her pain.

“She has…”

The unsub’s voice became very clear, he must have located the microphone and then disconnected it from her clothing, carefully watching him.

“We need to go in, we have to do something,” Elle said desperately, but it didn’t stir anyone else.

Yes, they needed to do something, but... what? Going in meant putting the hostages at risk, and their survival was the priority.

"I knew the government was spying on me," Erick muttered to himself, the microphone had probably slipped from his hand and fallen to the ground. "Not just with the chip, but they also sent that fucking..." He kicked her. "...agent."

"Give it to me," Spencer requested, exhaling with a resigned hiss. He was, of course, referring to the microphone. She still had the earpiece in; she could hear him. He didn’t yet know what he intended to say. Maybe he’d ask her to stay strong? Assure her that it would all be over soon? Would that even count as a lie if he had no real certainty they could take any action to save her? Or was this one of those morally gray situations where a lie was better than the truth?

Without protest, someone handed the microphone to him, practically shoving it into his hands.

But then they lost the connection.

The unsub must have destroyed it, stomping the microphone underfoot.

And before it happened—before the static filled the line—a gunshot rang out.

Spence found himself sitting on a chair. Not that he’d blacked out in the literal sense, but one moment he was standing upright, and the next he was slumped onto the seat—probably the only chair in their makeshift camp across from the museum. It was one of those folding chairs made of black metal and unbelievably uncomfortable. For some reason, their look always reminded him of golf courses in the blazing sun. Sometimes they’d be there… wait, why the hell was he thinking about chairs?

Disoriented, he lifted his gaze. Derek was pacing back and forth, his hands on his head, while Elle and JJ were nowhere in sight. Hotch stood in front of him, turned slightly to the side, eyes fixed on the ground, a phone pressed to his ear. His rolled-up sleeves exposed tense veins on his forearms, his hands clenched into fists.

“You killed a hostage,” Hotch said the moment the attacker picked up. Hearing the words spoken aloud, the gunshot echoed again in Spencer’s mind. He flinched, though he hadn’t the first time it happened for real.

It really happened. This wasn’t some hysterical thought creeping into your mind when someone you care about is late to a meeting and doesn’t pick up their phone, the kind of thought where your brain starts whispering that something terrible must have happened. It wasn’t a dream either, nor a nightmare blending with reality. And it wasn’t some devastating novel, a climactic moment designed to shatter the reader’s heart into pieces.

This

really

happened.

"I’ll remind you of the terms of our agreement," Hotch continued. His tone was usually sharp, leaving no room for argument. But now, having just lost a member of his team and addressing the person responsible for it, his words didn’t just cut—they sliced. Spencer fixed his gaze on him, unable to comprehend how Hotch could remain so composed in the moment. He himself…

“You don’t harm anyone else, and in return, we provide you with the necessary tools. Shooting that innocent person…”

How did it come to this—that the person who, just that morning, ordered Chinese food with him to calm her nerves; who had teasingly told him to clip the microphone onto her, leaving him flustered; whose sweet scent of hair lingered so strongly in his senses that he had to hold his breath just to focus; who, one moment, could make him laugh until tears blurred his vision, and the next, worry so deeply about her that he felt feverish with concern; who listened, truly listened, even when he had grown tired of his own voice; who helped him discover pieces of himself he hadn’t known were there; who revealed, day after day, some new and enchanting fragment of her soul; and whose laughter made him want to capture its melody, bottle it, and keep it for eternity—was now reduced to the cold, detached phrase an innocent person shot dead?

He realized his mind had become entirely consumed with replaying those moments. Thanks to his eidetic memory, each recollection was painfully vivid, yet at the same time—perhaps due to the awareness of what came next—filled with a paralyzing void. Detached from reality, he wasn’t even listening to the ongoing negotiations, only snapping back when the shadow of someone’s figure fell over him.

“Spencer,” Gideon called his name, alternating between looking at him with concern and averting his gaze, as if unable to bear the shattered expression on his face. “Did you hear what Hotch said?”

He couldn’t bring himself to shake his head, though he doubted it was necessary. Rarely did something fail to interest him, especially something Hotch had said, but whatever it was, it had landed firmly in that narrow category. After all, what could Hotch possibly have said? That he’d reached an agreement with the murderer, who would now release eighteen hostages instead of sixteen? Or perhaps, in an act of twisted mercy, he’d declared that once they brought the requested items, the killer would allow one person to go inside and retrieve her body?

He had seen many bodies with gunshot wounds to the head in his life. A vision of her with similar injuries haunted him, so vivid and detailed that he closed his eyes in an attempt to escape it. But the moment he did, the image only grew stronger, searing itself into his mind with unbearable clarity.

"He wants you to go inside pretending to be a surgeon. That’s what the unsub is asking for in exchange for the hostages. Your task would be to fake removing a chip from his body, pulling off one of your magic tricks," Gideon explained matter-of-factly, though his expression betrayed a certain doubt about the plan. He suddenly fell silent, hesitation creeping into his voice. "If you can’t do it… this isn’t an order, kid. No one will blame you if you say no."

“We didn’t know it would be such a terrible mistake,” Gideon said quietly.

“Well, that’s the thing about mistakes,” he scoffed bitterly. “You don’t usually realize you’re making them. But you should be able to predict them, especially when someone’s…” His voice broke, and he looked away, his anger momentarily crumbling into something rawer.

Even though he had lashed out at Gideon, the older man didn’t react with anger. Instead, he stared at Spencer with a calm, almost sorrowful expression. When Spencer stood, he felt the weight of Gideon’s hand resting on his numb shoulder.

“I’ll do it,” he declared after a moment.

There was no fear in his voice, no visible sign of stress. Under different circumstances, he’d likely have been unraveling, nerves fraying at the thought of entering the building with the task of saving her. But now…now all he wanted was to stand face-to-face with the man inside. More specifically, next to his neck. With a scalpel in hand.

There was no time to waste. He practiced his sleight of hand trick—making the chip suddenly appear in his palm—a few times. It had been a while since he’d done it, but even so, it came off flawlessly every time. He clenched the small device tightly in his hand and, before he knew it, found himself standing at the foot of the museum steps.

The doors opened, and the first hostages began to emerge. Their reactions followed the same pattern. First came the shock—the struggle to process that they were truly stepping outside again, alive. Then, as they began to accept it, their terrified, hesitant steps turned into a relieved jog, and their eyes brimmed with tears of gratitude.

Spencer stopped, his gaze fixed on the faces of random strangers as they rushed past. Somewhere, deep down, he held onto a foolish, fleeting hope that she might appear in those doors as well. She didn’t, of course.

But if she had… he thought, his chest tightening at the mere idea. If she had, he wasn’t sure he’d ever stop being thankful. Not necessarily to God, but to everything—every twist of fate—that had brought her back.

He had seen the interior of the building on the camera footage and had managed to memorize it. He knew exactly where to head to meet the unsub. The unsub was standing right in the center of the room. Spencer knew there had to be a second shooter somewhere, but he was afraid to look around. If his gaze happened to land on her, not only would his chip trick fail, but he was also certain he’d never be able to shake the image from his mind. It would embed itself in every cell of his brain, one after the other.

He focused all his attention on him, on Erik. He turned to him trustingly, showing the spot on his neck where he believed the chip was located. Everything about his posture radiated the peak of madness. His voice and expression oscillated between hope, desperation, paranoia, and much more that could be listed.

Spencer tried to concentrate on the chip in his hand, not on the scalpel in his other hand. He knew it would be incredibly foolish, but as he was so close to this man's throat, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. He realized that the only thing holding him back was the awareness that the second shooter was likely keeping him in their sights. It was almost certain; he didn’t need to look around to know that. But as soon as the blade touched the man’s skin at the back of his neck, his gaze, against his will, began searching. He looked at the wall where the remaining hostages were gathered, the ones who hadn’t made it into the lucky sixteen. He didn’t find the shooter.

But he found her. If he weren’t wearing his glasses, he might have assumed he’d mistaken her for some other woman. He could only blame his brain and possible hallucinations... but before he could entertain those thoughts, one simple sentence took over his mind.

She was there. Blood dripping from her nose, clothes torn, curled up on the ground among the rest of the hostages, but she was there. She was there, alive.

When you stood up for that woman, a brief struggle broke out between you and the unsub. He ordered you to go outside, but the voice in your ear told you to stay inside at all costs. Unsure of what to do, you started mumbling excuses and explanations, leading to an argument... during which he swung his weapon at you, aiming for your face.

As you fell, your weapon—clumsily shoved into your clothing after an argument with Allen—slipped out. And then things escalated rapidly.

Upon learning you were with the FBI, the unsub went into his usual paranoid frenzy. He dropped the microphone he had taken from you, and the heavy kicks of his leather boots landed on your body, on your ribs, on your back. You could barely keep up with protecting yourself, as the blows kept coming faster and faster.

And in that moment, something happened that probably saved your life. But at the same time, it cost another man and his family everything.

Allen sprang at the second attacker, who was almost hypnotized by the injuries being inflicted on you. He seized the moment of distraction, yanking the weapon from his hand and turning it against its owner. You remembered the fleeting look of triumph on his face as he aimed it at Erik. And then, the look of confusion when he was overtaken and the bullets tore through his body.

Somewhere in that moment, your microphone must have been destroyed, leaving you without contact with the team. And without it... you were just like any other hostage. Beaten, forced to stem the blood running from your nose with your blazer. You remembered glancing at it, running your finger over the fabric soaked in crimson, and thinking you'd have to wash it before returning it to Reid. Then, the hopeless realization hit you that maybe you wouldn’t get the chance to do that, and helpless tears filled your eyes for the first time.

It was strange that the unsub decided to spare you. Was it the incoming phone call that distracted him? Or perhaps the death of Allen? Was he the reason for this whole attack? You weren’t sure, maybe both at once. But you managed to return to your spot against the wall, where the other hostages had moved as far away as they could from the two lifeless bodies lying in a pool of blood.

Behind your back, the unsub was arguing with the police, probably Hotch. You weren’t paying attention to their negotiations, instead kneeling beside Allen. Completely staining your clothes, you reached for his hand. His eyes were wide open, his chest... maybe rising slightly, or maybe it was just your perception. In any case, you didn’t grab him to check his pulse, to see if there was anything that could be done to save him. You knew there wasn’t. You took his hand in a gesture of gratitude for everything, filled with sincere and deep compassion, despite everything that had happened between you. Maybe he turned out to be a jerk in that one, crisis situation where it’s normal for people to lose their minds. But what mattered was what kind of man he was in everyday, calm conditions. What kind of friend, fiancé, father he was.

You froze in place, staring at his face, his messy red hair. You snapped back to reality only when you realized the unsub was releasing the hostages. You weren’t part of that group. He didn’t look at you, or Allen, or his dead accomplice, as if you didn’t exist. The people were let out of the building, and then…

You nearly jumped to your feet at the sight of Reid, but the sharp pain in your ribs stopped you. Instead, you stared at him, confused as to why he’d gotten himself into such a messed-up situation alone. No one was with him, and you couldn’t even tell if he was carrying a weapon. Why was he taking such a risk? Couldn’t they have sent someone else?

Although your gaze bored into him, asking without words, he stubbornly avoided looking at you. It took a while, but then it hit you—he’d probably been told to hide the fact that you knew each other. He was pretending to be a surgeon, you realized.

You watched in shock as the unsub dropped his weapon and turned his back to Reid, begging him quietly to remove the chip from his body.

Before Reid touched the scalpel to his neck, he looked straight at you. You couldn’t read the expression on his face, but you knew there was a lot going on. It was a long moment of eye contact, which he broke to get to work. Focused, brow furrowed.

You shook your head in disbelief when he really pulled the tiny device from his body. Wait, so what? It had really been there all along? The unsub wasn’t a paranoid delusional?

At the sight of the chip, Erik staggered with a mix of hysterical joy and relief, and after a moment, he literally collapsed to his knees, burying his face in his hands. His body was shaken by sobs as he muttered his thanks. He was... absolutely harmless. The hostages took advantage of his vulnerability, using the opportunity to silently leave the museum. You found yourself among them, even helping those who, due to shock, struggled to move. How? With your injuries? You had no idea.

You pointed one woman toward the ambulance waiting outside the building, ready to take any injured hostages. Around you, sounds echoed, people were running in all directions. A sense of disconnection and disbelief washed over you, as if you couldn’t quite grasp that it was all over.

You turned around, sensing someone's presence behind you.

The first thing you noticed was that Spencer was still wearing his blue rubber gloves. Strange, but the first thing that came to your mind was to focus on that detail. You even opened your mouth to speak, but stopped when he gently cupped your face in both of his hands. As if you were a fragile relic, he tilted his head slightly from side to side, almost as though he was trying to deny the fact that you were standing before him.

"As if you saw a ghost," you whispered, a faint smile appearing on your face.

Taking advantage of the fact that he was leaning toward you, you pressed your forehead against his. With your eyes still open, you saw his eyelids tremble. When he closed them, you caught sight of that single tear beginning to form beneath them.

"Reid," you said, as he and the rest of the team were heading towards the exit. All heads turned in your direction, but you only cared about that one. "Can we talk?"

He opened his mouth, seemingly surprised by the request, but then swallowed and nodded.

"Sure. If... just, sure."

You couldn't help but let out a small laugh. Since your rib injuries were numerous, you had to be taken to the hospital for an X-ray. Your face wasn’t looking too good either. Only a few hours had passed since everything happened, and all your wounds were fresh and painful. After taking a decent amount of painkillers, you felt a bit like you were floating. You were sitting on the hospital bed, your legs resting on the floor as if on a bench. You made space beside you, and although he hesitated for a moment, he sat right next to you, so close your shoulders almost touched.

What you wanted to say, everything you felt, was hard to put into words. So you spent a few minutes in silence, during which you concluded that the simpler, the better.

"Thank you, Reid."

His dark eyes narrowed slightly, and he shook his head dismissively.

"Thank you? For what? I should be thanking you."

You knew this would happen. That he would downplay what he did, and it would be incredibly hard for you to express all the gratitude you felt towards him.

"For what? For everything," you stated briefly. He was preparing a response, but you beat him to it. You even raised a finger decisively, signaling for a moment of silence. You had a lot to say. "Not just for pretending to be a surgeon and getting into that museum. And don't shrug it off like it was a small thing! You saved those people."

"Maybe a little, but…"

"But that's not all. You were… you were with me the whole time. You kept talking to me the entire time…"

"Just like everyone else…"

"Everyone else gave me orders. Told me what to do to survive and what not to do. And of course, I'm incredibly grateful to them—if it weren't for them, I would have probably pissed off that unsub after less than fifteen minutes and we'd all be dead by now."

Reid flinched when you said that. Maybe you should hold off on such words, while the whole situation was still so fresh.

"You... you kept asking how I was feeling, talking to me, just... your voice, the fact that I had you on the other end, it helped me not panic. When, at the very beginning, you asked me to breathe with you..."

You shook your head, holding back the involuntary recollection of that moment, that memory when you were still trapped in that building with two armed men. Helpless and lost, clutching his jacket with all your strength.

You realized with growing difficulty that you were holding back tears.

Reid had been listening to you quietly the whole time, but suddenly, he lowered his gaze. His hand found yours, hesitated for a moment, then gently grasped it. You immediately squeezed it tightly. Something came to your mind.

"And what did you want to thank me for?" you asked, referring to when he interrupted you the first time.

"It's not... I don't have as much to say as you do," he confessed, circling the topic more than addressing it directly. He still hadn't let go of your hand, and as he thought, his thumb seemed to absentmindedly stroke its surface.

"Wow," you murmured. "I never expected Spencer Reid to say something like that in my presence, but here we are. So?"

He smiled for a moment at your comment. However, that expression quickly gave way to a more serious one, carrying with it the unburied remnants of the horror you had both endured just a few hours ago.

"Just for you being alive," he said. Your brows furrowed slightly when you heard that. It wasn't what you expected. "For a while... when you were still inside, and your mic was destroyed..." With a sigh, he tilted his head back, holding back from returning to that moment. It couldn't have been easy for him, referring to exactly the moment that caused him pain. "We heard a gunshot. Everyone thought it was you. That's why... that's why I just wanted to thank you for that."

Given that you had absolutely no control over it, those were the strangest thanks anyone had ever given you. But still, they squeezed your heart like no others ever had.

You leaned in to place a kiss on his cheek.

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