Chapter Text
The threads of fate cannot be unwoven once they’re a part of the tapestry. But occasionally, threads split, and from there, a new story begins.
Achilles wondered if this was how his life was supposed to turn out. One moment he swore he’d fall to the prophecy his mother had tried so hard to shield him from, staring down the tip of Paris’ arrow—the next, someone had full-bodied him out of the way in the midst of the battlefield, the arrow stuck in the mud next to where his foot had been. He never caught a glimpse of who his… saviour was.
Now, he found himself on an Ithacan ship, leaning over a railing as they drifted through the sea towards the homeland of the crew, with Patroclus just a few feet away, conversing with the other medic aboard the main ship—one being a kind young man by the name of Polties.
Despite Phthia being far closer, the decision to sail towards Ithaca first was made only because the crew had been away from their homeland for far longer than Achilles and Patroclus had been. Not to mention Achilles wasn’t very keen on returning home to the cheering of his people and the overwhelming pampering that was sure to come with it. After the war, an additional four or five days of silence were appreciated. The king himself even promised a feast—something simple, a reward that felt far more attainable and easy to handle.
Speaking of the king… Odysseus himself had just left the helm, the thick canvas sails hoisted high to catch the winds, taking over the job of rowing the oars to allow the men to rest their arms. It would take about six days to reach Ithaca.
Odysseus was… short. Seeing the brunette practically engulfed by his own soldiers when they swarmed around the deck was almost comedic. But what he lacked in size, he made up for in looks. One could say whatever they wanted about the Ithacan king, but no one could say he was unattractive.
Achilles was tall, fair-skinned, and had golden locks, often compared to the hair of Lord Apollo. He had a broad chest and a defined musculature—the kind that made it to marble statues.
Patroclus, on the other hand, was softer. Still strong in his own way, dark-skinned, and with darker hair, with a wider frame that perfectly contrasted Achilles’ own without making himself look like an easy target. After all, he was one of the few who could keep up with the Son of Peleus.
…and Odysseus… he was his own brand of beauty. Tanned skin that fell between Achilles' and Patroclus’ own on the spectrum of hues, curly brown hair and a figure that landed on the opposite side of theirs. He was broad, yes, and had a wide chest and his own muscles born of hard work and training, but no matter how hard he worked, they seemed to remain the same visually. The tapered waist and his legs made up for that tenfold—but anyone could see that. Honestly, if it weren't for the scruffy eyebrows and visible scars, he likely would've been able to blend in with women far better than Achilles had
Any musings were shaken from the sailors when Eurylocus clasped a hand down onto the captain's shoulder. Achilles always felt a bit off about the second-in-command’s treatment of the king—a bit too touchy, a bit too pushy—but perhaps he was allowed a pass for also being his brother-in-law… it still scratched Achilles and Patroclus the wrong way.
”Captain.”
The sound of his title drew Odysseus’ attention away from the sea and back to his crew.
"Eurylochus. What seems to be the matter?”
"We’re running low on food. We hardly have enough for a week, even if we stretch it out. I doubt we even have enough today.”
"…And the nets?”
“They were all damaged by enemy combatants. Likely done to sabotage any fleets that attempted to flee, if I had to guess.”
”Hm… With no nets, fishing by spear or harpoon would take far too long to get enough meat to last the sd rest of the trip…” Odysseus murmured to himself, hand cupping his mouth and eyes darting across the ship deck as if calculating risks and options, when a loud (and rather demented sounding) SQUAWK shook him from his thoughts.
A bird.
…
A bird!
”Ah!” Odysseus snapped his fingers. “Head in the direction the birds are flying. They need to land eventually—and where there is land, there is bound to be either animals to hunt or fruit to gather.”
Eurylochus gave a nod, turned, and began herding the men back to the oars and others to send a signal that they were taking a detour from their original route to the other boats.
Achilles' lips pursed slightly whilst monitoring the interaction. He had to admit it was a pretty solid plan given the circumstances—he could see why the Ithacan was named the strategist and brains behind the war. But he didn’t know much about Odysseus—not outside the obvious.
He knew Laertiades was from a small island, had a wife and son, and was a favoured devotee of Lady Athena, but other than that, there wasn’t much he knew… Other than the fact that the man was occasionally snarky. Achilles wasn’t surprised; most royalty (not including him and his beloved, obviously) tend to be prissy or snobby. It was just a matter of time… The king had already proven himself a nuisance by dragging them to a war, a war he was destined to die in, but…
He hadn’t.
Right before Paris released the string, a smaller body had slammed its entire weight into his side, forcing him back a step or so. The arrow had grazed the back of his sandal, snapping the leather strap clean off, indicating the divine intent behind that shot. Yet it had missed, all because of some impetuous warrior… Achilles’ gaze dropped to the hand on his shoulder—one he instantly identified as Patroclus’.
"You alright? You’ve been staring at the horizon for quite some time now.” Patroclus speaks in a low, soothing tone, already recognising the expression on his lover's face—the furrowed brows, the slightly pursed lips with downturned corners, and the slightest wrinkle of the nose… He was overthinking again.
“…” Achilles says nothing for a moment before sighing, the tension in his face and his shoulders evaporating like water off a hot rock.
“‘M fine. I’m just… Thinking.”
"About…?"
”Everything, I guess. It all feels so… surreal.”
"Mh…”
Patroclus could understand the sentiment. He had heard the warnings of his own fate, the prophecy that would come of his stubbornness and selfless behaviours. And honestly? He’s pretty sure that if it weren’t for the Ithacan king, he would’ve succumbed and sealed his own fate.
He hadn’t told Achilles yet—and he wasn’t sure if he ever would—that he had planned on taking his lover’s armour and donning it in battle. He would’ve succeeded too, if the king hadn’t had such a sharp eye; his own keen eyesight easily catching the height difference and the way the figure walked had made him catch on instantly that the man in the armour was not Achilles. Sure, it wouldn’t have been hard to tell it wasn’t Achilles in the gear up, at least not up close… but the man had spotted him from a distance.
Odysseus had talked him down. Warned him, bartered with him, and pleaded for him not to be so brash—he’d be a walking target with the armour, and should he get overwhelmed by the Trojans attempting to take down the Greeks' powerhouse—and should he fall, Achilles would be inconsolable and wrathful in a way the world had never seen. But without Achilles having any reason to fight, he would still need to be motivated. Something had to give. Odysseus told Patroclus to stay out of sight. Not to abandon the war, but to be momentarily out of commission, Patroclus, already convinced to abandon his own foolish plan by the king's silver tongue, had accepted without hesitation. After all, they would not stay apart forever. And with a few whispers, rumours, and lies, Achilles, now filled with wrath from the belief his lover had fallen, had stormed the battlegrounds and the city, taking down Hector.
And the rest was history. Hector had fallen, and Paris was vengeful. Achilles had just barely been missed by an inch. That had been enough for him to retreat to base—death had never been so close, and it churned something primal in his gut, something that told him to do something he had never done before: flee. So he did; he fled all the way back to camp and back to his own tent, where he found his dearest Patroclus waiting for him. With no one in specific to pin the blame on for the lies, Achilles was left to wonder.
The musings of the men were once again interrupted by the same word, but it was called from a different face.
”Captain!”
“Polties!”
It wasn’t uncommon knowledge by now that Polties and Odysseus were close. The war medic and the strategist had clearly known each other for quite some time, perhaps longer than Odysseus knew Eurylochus.
“Look! There in the distance… an island!” The man announced cheerfully, pointing off at the horizon where a faint greenish blob wobbled in the heat of mirages.
"And it looks like there’s some faint light coming off it too! Maybe… maybe it could be people! A small settlement! I’m sure we have plenty of loot and treasures from the war that we could trade for some good food!”
Eurylochus had approached the two after overhearing the commission, once again standing at Odysseus' side.
"That’s weird… if that’s firelight… then where’s the smoke?” Odysseus asked, his thick brows furrowed in consideration—the island itself was real, and so was the light, no doubt, unless it was somehow one massive hallucination… but that was unlikely.
"We should gather a small group of men. If he raids the place, they won’t have time to prepare to fight us off. The quicker we get supplies, the sooner we can go home.”
Polites looked appalled at Eurylochus’ expression, olive-tanned skin slightly pale at the idea of savagely sacking a place they had no qualms with.
"No. Polties… Achilles.”
Achilles stood up ramrod straight as his name was called, his brow furrowing in confusion.
"You two. With me.”
The medic looked like he had won the jackpot, hands shaking in eagerness to greet the world the same what he greeted every morning, and Achilles… Achilles looked like he had bitten into a citron.
“Eurylochus, you stay back; you’ll be in charge while I’m gone. Patroclus, you’re our best medic. It’s more practical for you to stay where the majority is in case something goes awry.”
Patroclus gave a salute—it was a smart move. Taking both healers would be a fool's errand. Eurylochus, on the other hand, looked incredibly disgruntled at the mere thought of being left behind.
"That is an incredulous plan. What are you thinking? You could get hurt, or worse! Just because you have the Ptoliporthos with you doesn’t mean you’re safe from harm.”
”Just give us until sunrise of the next day. If we don’t return, you have my permission to pillage the island. Until then, you will stay on this ship.” Odysseus’ words were final, and his second knew that, even if he clearly didn’t like it.
"Fine.”
The demi-god felt… almost offended. Did Eurylochus truly think he couldn’t protect their king—or, Gods forbid, the king couldn’t protect himself? Not to mention that Epithet… City-Sacker. It almost felt like an insult. He could feel his hands curling into his biceps as Odysseus’ trusted commander walked off, likely to sulk. It was too late now. The ship was setting sail, and the teams have been made. Now it was full speed ahead to that strange island in the distance.