Chapter Text
prologue
The fourth year of the war moved with the same slow lethargy as the years before it. The comfort of the cold winter and the brightness of spring had once more given way to the unbearable summers on the shores of Troy.
The air within the war tent was thick with the scent of sweat, earth, and the lingering tang of old blood. The humidity hung over them like a suffocating shroud, the nearness of the sea turning the summer heat into something intolerable. Patroclus shifted uncomfortably where he sat, the dampness clinging to his skin like a second tunic. Most of the others present seemed to share his frustration, their faces drawn and irritable.
The only ones amongst them who seemed even relatively comfortable were Odysseus and Ajax.
Of course, it is the islanders who are at ease in this cursed weather.
The discussion had long since turned to what their next course of action should be, and it was becoming clear that they would reach no easy consensus. Agamemnon, as always, held the floor with that overbearing weight of authority that set Patroclus’ teeth on edge. The man ruled with a fist that could not be loosened, demanding loyalty not through admiration, but obligation, which made it all the more frustrating, for Achilles and him were not beholden to him or his through any such obligation. He had no love for Agamemnon, nor would he ever, and he found himself idly wondering how much longer Beloved Achilles would tolerate his presence before their simmering discord boiled over.
Fair Menelaus, ever at his brother’s side, was the better of the two, though Patroclus thought he yielded too often. A good man, yes, but one too used to standing in his elder brother’s shadow. And yet, even as he spoke of their plight, Patroclus doubted his mind was wholly on their supplies. He had long suspected that Menelaus’ thoughts strayed elsewhere – to Wily Odysseus.
It was not Divine Helen whom the King of Sparta truly yearned for.
That had been clear for some time now. There was something in the way his gaze lingered on the Ithacan king, something longing and wanting, though whether Odysseus was aware of it, Patroclus could not say. If he was, he hid it well beneath his typical wry smiles and ever-calculating eyes.
They were brothers, Agamemnon and Menelaus, but were it not for their physical resemblance, Patroclus would have questioned their shared blood more often than he already did. Agamemnon wielded authority like a bludgeon, all force and fury, while Menelaus was tempered, softer in his position. There was a goodness in him that his elder brother had long since buried beneath whatever it was that he had going on above. And that, more than anything, made Patroclus pity him for his affections.
For those with eyes to see – and when he had once mentioned it to Darling Achilles, he had laughed and declared that most men here were truly blind – it was most evident that Odysseus held Tydides in great affections. Patroclus had long since noticed the way the latter’s hand brushed against Odysseus’ arm in passing, the way their eyes met across the council, full of something deeper than mere comradeship or mutual patronage under a goddess, like they had claimed it to be.
He had fought beside them both, had seen them return from raids, bloodied and alight with some unspoken fire that did not fade when the battle ended but instead burned brighter when they reunited. If there were any two in this tent who held true affection for one another – apart from Patroclus and Achilles of course – it was them.
Poor, poor Menelaus. The man was evidently not favoured by Symmakhia Aphrodite.
Setting aside that tangled mess, not everything in this war council was unpleasant. The presence of Cousin Ajax was a comfort, as always. There was something reassuring in his quiet strength, his steadfastness, his utter lack of deception, unlike certain others. And Swift Antilochus, of an age with Achilles and him, brought an ease to these councils that even the weight of war could not smother. Patroclus found himself appreciating their presence more than most.
He leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose as the conversation turned once more to the matter of their depleting supplies. It was not a matter of if they would raid yet another city, but rather of which city it was that they would target. And, perhaps more importantly, who amongst them would take up the task.
A cold arm curled around his shoulders, and though he willed himself not to smile, he failed in the venture. Dear Achilles pulled him in close ever so naturally, how was he to resist. Patroclus let his head rest against him – only to immediately regret it.
Achilles’ tunic was just as damp as his own.
Sigh.
Agamemnon’s voice rumbled through the tent.
“Our stores run thin, my brothers. The granaries of Lemnos send fewer ships by the passing of each moon, our wine casks run dry, and our herds have dwindled to bones and hide. Even the sea itself yields less willingly to our nets. We have spent four years in the shadow of Priam’s city, and now our own shadows grow lean.”
Telamonian Ajax stood and joined in, “And still Troy stands! Still their walls defy us! Have we come so far, only to be undone by hunger? If we cannot break their gates by spear and sword, then let us starve them as they starve us! Let us seize their fields, burn their storehouses, and cut them from their own lifeblood!”
Then, an unwelcome voice cut through the heat-thickened air. “Of course, before that, we should show our appreciation to the King of Lemnos for his actions.”
In the name of Zeus Aegiōchos, who let that fool speak?
Patroclus did not need to look up to see the Light of his Life roll his eyes. He exhaled through his nose, resisting the urge to wipe the sweat from his brow. This weather would be the death of him before the Trojans could even attempt the same once again on the battlefield.
Everyone turned to Locrian Ajax incredously, “Did you assume that the King Euneus granted us provisions on but the goodness of his heart?”
There was a beat of silence before Menelaus, ever the diplomat, hastened to smooth over the incredulity in the air.
“Not that the goodness of his heart is questioned, of course!” He smiled, nodding toward Odysseus with a look that was far too lingering for mere politics.
Patroclus resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Sometimes he wondered if Atreides truly wished for the return of his wife – or if he would not mind the King of Ithaca adorned with jewels, dressed in a woman’s tunic instead. It would certainly save them all this trouble.
Then again, that might spark another war entirely – one between Argos and Sparta. So perhaps it was just as well.
Odysseus only sighed, shaking his head at Lesser Ajax with the patience of a man explaining the obvious to a particularly slow-witted child.
“He is my kin,” Odysseus said, his voice dry with amusement. “I would find your ignorance insulting, yet I know there is very little in that mind of yours to begin with, so I shall let go of this folly.”
Patroclus bit back a smirk.
“The King Euneus of Lemnos,” Odysseus continued, tone smooth as polished bronze, “is my kin by way of his father’s mother, who is my own aunt – my mother’s sister. It is in recognition of the blood we share that he has so graciously offered us aid over the years.”
“More like he lied, simpered and flattered his own cousin into offering us his assistance,” Sthenelus muttered.
Patroclus watched as the man pointedly glared at Odysseus. He sighed. Capanides really needed to let go of his mother-henning instincts over Tydides. It was starting to grate.
He cast a glance toward Achilles, who was watching the exchange with quiet amusement, his lips twitching at the edges. If they had been forced to endure someone like Prince Sthenelus hovering over them, nagging and fretting like a nursemaid, he wasn’t sure either of them would have had the patience to bear it.
Really, it almost made Patroclus pity Odysseus and Diomedes.
Almost.
Agamemnon, who had been listening in silence until now, cleared his throat, reclaiming the floor with the ease of a man who expected all attention to return to him. “And we are much grateful for their generosity,” he said, “Lemnos’ generosity wanes. We cannot rely on their provisions indefinitely.”
Teucer nodded, “Which brings us back to the matter at hand. We must take action before our men begin to suffer more than they already have. We must raid one of the cities scattered down South.”
A murmur of agreement rippled through the tent, some eager, some resigned.
“But what of our homelands? Surely, we can call for– ” Antilochus began.
“No,” Odysseus disagreed, shaking his head. “Our constant orders for requisitions of supplies will weaken our own lands, leaving them vulnerable to foreign attacks while we are here. I agree with Telamonides. A couple of raids are more than overdue.”
Just as Achilles shifted, clearly excited to ask which cities Laertiades had in mind, the discussion was cut short.
A sudden brilliance flooded the war tent, a light so stark and piercing that for a moment, all else was cast into shadow. It was not the golden glow of Helios at dawn, nor the dim flicker of torchlight – this was something other, something divine.
The air crackled with unseen power, thick with the scent of storm-touched bronze and fresh olives.
Then came the sound – a low, resonant hoot, the unmistakable cry of an owl.
And then, she was there.
The glow subsided, but its remnants clung to her like the dying embers of a great fire. She stood before them, tall and unshaken, clad in armour that gleamed like the polished crest of the sea under the noonday sun. The shifting light of the day caught the intricate etchings of her breastplate, the fine craftsmanship of what appeared to be a war-goddess’ raiment. Her eyes, luminous and sharp as a honed blade, swept over the gathered men, and in the confines of the tent, they seemed to cut through the very air itself. Long, fiery red hair cascaded down her back, spilling from beneath the edges of her crested helm like a river of blood.
A ringing sound filled their ears, the echoes of something most evidently beyond mortal comprehension.
As one, the men scrambled up from where they had been seated and fell to their knees. There was no hesitation, no arrogance in the presence of such power. Even those who did not yet know her name knew enough to bow.
Patroclus, heart hammering in his chest, dropped to the ground beside Achilles, pressing his forehead to the earth. Awe gripped him like a vice, a reverence so profound that he dared not raise his gaze to her. This was no distant deity, glimpsed only through offerings at an altar or prayers made at a temple – this was divinity made manifest, standing before them in all her majesty.
Even Agamemnon, for all his pride and posturing, knelt without question. No doubt, Patroclus thought fleetingly, he was eager not to anger another god. Not after what had happened with Artemis Agrotera. Not eager to lose another daughter.
Then, a voice broke the silence, smooth and certain, utterly unshaken, with its usual ever-present amusement.
“Athena.”
Patroclus’ breath hitched.
Athena .
Goddess Athena, Pallas Athena, the best and wisest and most beloved of the daughters of Zeus Hypatus.
Lady Athena did not move at once, or, he could not hear her move. For a moment, she simply looked at them, her gaze burning through them even without him raising his head up to see it. Then, when she spoke, her voice rang through the tent, rich and sonorous, reverberating in his very bones.
“Rise!”
The command rolled through the tent like the clash of bronze upon bronze upon the battlefield, reverberating in the very marrow of Patroclus’ bones. The force of it sent a tremor through him, the weight of her divinity pressing down like a great and invisible hand. Even as he obeyed, rising on unsteady legs, his head remained bowed, his eyes cast downward. Reverence bound his limbs as surely as bronze cast chains. And without even thinking twice, he shifted slightly behind Achilles, instinct drawing him toward the only protection he had ever known.
Around him, the others rose just as hesitantly. No one dared to meet her gaze.
Her eyes – bright and glowing, swept over all of them, but only in passing. It was clear she was not here for them.
Her gaze found Odysseus.
Then, Tydides.
And it did not move.
It was as though the rest of them had ceased to exist in the Goddess’ mind, as she walked to her champions.
A heavy silence stretched between them, thick as honey, suffocating as the stillness before a coming storm. Patroclus could hear his own heartbeat hammering against his ribs, but he did not dare to shift, did not dare to speak. Even Agamemnon, who so rarely held his tongue, remained still, his breath shallow, wary of drawing her attention.
They had all known of her patronage of Tydides and Laertiades, yet knowing of her mentorship was one matter, and witnessing her presence another entirely.
Athena Ageleia exhaled – a sound that was not quite a sigh yet carrying the weight of one all the same. There was something in her bearing, that made Patroclus hesitate. A tightness around her mouth, the faintest shadow upon her brow.
He did not think it possible for gods to look troubled. And yet–
“There is something that will happen in a few moments,” she said, her voice measured, “It is the will of the Moirai.”
The very air in the tent seemed to cool down at the naming of those deities. A ripple of unease passed through the gathered men, though none dared to speak
Alalkomenêis Athena’s expression did not change. “As such, I can do nothing to stop it.”
Patroclus swallowed thickly. The Moirai. The Fates. Even gods bowed down to them.
Then, softer – though there was no mistaking the finality in her tone – she added, “I cannot intervene. But my gifts and blessings will be upon the both of you. As always.”
She lifted a hand, laying it upon Diomedes’ shoulder. A gesture of reassurance, perhaps. Or preparation. Patroclus could not tell. The ways of gods were not entirely foreign to him but it was still unfathomable in their depths. The only one he had been familiar with…
Well, there was very little being spoken throughout that experience, though plenty learned.
Pallas Athena then turned to Odysseus, and with a tenderness so startling it stole the breath from Patroclus’ lungs, she lifted her other hand to Odysseus’ face, brushing her fingers across his cheek.
The air in the tent grew impossibly still.
Patroclus felt his jaw slacken, his thoughts scattering like sand in the wind. He was not alone in his astonishment. Even Loving Achilles – Achilles, whose own mother was a goddess, who had been raised in the presence of divinity – watched with narrowed eyes, his lips pressed into a thoughtful line. The Atreides exchanged a glance, brows furrowed in something akin to disbelief. Ajax’s mouth had fallen open, mirroring Patroclus’ own expression. Antilochus and Nestor merely stared.
Only Diomedes remained unchanged. Unmoved.
As though he had expected this.
As though he had always known.
A beat passed. Then another. The world itself seemed to hold its breath.
Athena did not look at any of them – not at Agamemnon, not at Achilles, not at the countless warriors gathered in the tent. Her focus remained fixed upon Odysseus, her hand lingering against his cheek as though she sought to commit the shape of him to memory.
Odysseus did not flinch away. He did not bow, nor did he tremble as so many of them had. He merely stood there, his sharp eyes searching hers, his expression unreadable.
Then, with something like worship, he inclined his head.
The ghost of a smile, fleeting and knowing, touched Athena’s lips. And just as swiftly, it was gone.
She stepped back.
“The moment nears,” she said, her voice shifting, no longer quiet, no longer meant for just the two she had blessed. It rang through the tent, carrying the weight of inevitability. “Prepare yourselves.”
Diomedes gave a single, steady nod, his face set in stone. Odysseus’ mouth twitched at the corner, but whatever thought lingered behind his eyes remained unspoken.
Patroclus could feel the tension creeping through the tent, the warriors around him rigid with unasked questions, with unease that none dared to voice.
Athena did not offer further explanation.
She did not need to.
Instead, she turned, and with a final sweep of her gaze – one last flicker of burning embers – she was gone.
No flash of radiance, no fading glow. Just a blink, and she was no longer there.
But the air still hummed with her presence, crackling like the aftermath of a storm.
No one spoke. No one moved.
Patroclus let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His heart was still hammering against his ribs, his skin still tingling with the remnants of her power.
“What,” Agamemnon finally managed, voice strained, “was that?”
Odysseus did not answer him.
Instead, he turned his head – just slightly, just enough to meet Tydides’ gaze.
Something passed between them. Something silent. Something unspoken. As it always was with the two of them. Never before had he wished so desperately to know what the two of the most brilliant warriors of Achaea had going through their minds.
Well, except for that one night after a particularly harsh battle when the noises from Tydides’ tent had captured his fascination but–
“Surely my mother would tell me something,”
Patroclus looked to Achilles, who had picked up his spear from where it had been resting. Already, Patroclus knew what he intended.
He was going to pray to Thetis.
But before he could so much as kneel, the air in the tent shifted.
An eerie, haunting hum filled the space, and then – light.
Three distinct auras, each glowing with an unearthly radiance, swirled into existence at the heart of the tent. Obsidian. Silver. Crimson. The colours twisted together, spinning like a wheel set aflame, growing brighter with every passing moment.
Achilles’ breath hitched.
Patroclus barely had time to register the sheer wrongness of it – the way the air itself seemed to buckle beneath the weight of whatever was unfolding – before Achilles shoved him back.
"Stay behind me," Achilles ordered, his voice taut, arm bracing across his chest like an iron bar.
Across the tent, Diomedes reacted in the same instant. With a forceful yank, he pulled both Odysseus and Sthenelus behind him, his broad frame acting as a shield between them and the unknown force. His stance was battle-ready, shoulders squared, eyes sharp.
Agamemnon moved swiftly, one hand clamping onto Menelaus’ arm, dragging him closer as though proximity alone could ensure safety.
Nestor, reached for his son, pulling him close.
The three auras pulsed, a deep, resounding thrum vibrating through the ground beneath them. The tent itself trembled, the very fabric rippling as though caught in a storm.
And then they erupted.
A blinding, searing brilliance consumed them, swallowing them whole.
Patroclus’ world spun.
The air rushed from his lungs, his limbs weightless, untethered – falling – no, moving, but not by any force he could control.
The hum in his bones grew louder, louder, LOUDER–
And then – silence.
When his senses returned, the tent was gone.
The war camp was gone.
The scent of salt and sweat and blood – gone.
The terrible heat and wetness surrounding them was gone.
Patroclus barely had time to register the shift before he collided hard with Achilles, his breath knocked from his lungs. Someone’s knee jabbed into his ribs, he wasn’t sure whose. A sharp curse rang out – Agamemnon, by the sound of it – followed by a thud as Menelaus landed gracelessly beside him.
Patroclus groaned, half-crushed beneath Achilles’ weight. Somewhere near his head, Odysseus muttered something under his breath – likely a curse, though it lacked his usual dry amusement.
Diomedes had landed half on top of Sthenelus, his elbow digging into the man’s ribs, while old Nestor had somehow managed to shield dear Antilochus from the worst of the fall, though the King himself did not look pleased.
It was a mess.
Achilles was the first to react, shoving himself upright with a low snarl, no doubt his battle honed instincts taking over before logic could reassert itself. His arm moved automatically, dragging Patroclus up with him, his grip iron-tight.
Across from them, Patroclus could see Diomedes moving in a similar manner, yanking Odysseus and Sthenelus up by their tunics in a single, efficient motion.
Agamemnon – having nearly flattened Menelaus in his landing – grunted as he pushed himself up, his face twisted in irritation. “By the gods,” he spat, “what was that?”
Odysseus, rubbing at his shoulder, did not answer.
Instead, his intelligent gaze swept their surroundings.
And for the first time, they truly looked.
The chamber was vast, immense, with towering pillars of jet-black stone stretching high into a ceiling adorned with golden constellations, glowing as though plucked from the night sky itself. The walls shimmered, an elaborate mural of impossible craftsmanship, depicting what appeared to be tales of gods and mortals. Everything was gilded, lavish, crimson and gold, unlike anything they had ever seen before.
This was no mortal palace quarters; it looked akin to an overly grand of mimicry of one.
Silence hung heavy between them, their collective breathing the only sound.
Then, from the floor, Menelaus groaned.
“…Where in the name of the gods are we?”
“I was going to ask the exact same question,”
Patroclus turned sharply at the sound of another voice – wry, cool, and laced with no small amount of disbelief.
His gaze landed on a tall man rising from the far side of the chamber, brushing dust from a bronze-colour cloak. Dark hair framed a handsome, solemn, bearded face, and his bearing – poised, steady – spoke of someone used to command. Even without the Trojan crown atop his head, Patroclus would have known him.
Hector of Troy.
A chill coursed down Patroclus’ spine.
Next to Hector, three others were beginning to stir – a woman, dark haired just like Hector, though she looked younger still and terribly disgruntled. Another man, more slight in frame and lighter in colouring, still tangled in his cloak as he pushed himself up with a soft groan. His hair was fair, curling, and his lips were parted in bemused irritation.
They had not had as many battle encounters as with his elder brother, but Patroclus knew this to be Paris.
And between the two of them, caught in their midst like the eye of a storm, was a woman.
She was beautiful.
In a way that stilled the air, that felt almost unnatural, like the pause before a great beam of lightning struck upon an unknowing passerby, taking them entirely unaware. Her hair fell like a cloud of sunlit silver-gold, her skin glowing with the warm lustre of ripe wheat. She blinked in confusion, dazed, rubbing at her temple.
She looked up.
And then her gaze locked with Menelaus.
The gasp that tore from Menelaus’ throat was strangled, sharp with recognition. “Helen.”
Patroclus inhaled sharply. So it was her then. He had never seen her in truth, hence his unsureness on the matter – but now, there was no doubt.
Helen of Sparta. Queen. Stolen bride.
Helen’s eyes widened. She froze for a heartbeat. Then she screamed.
“MENELAUS!”
She lurched forward, but Paris’ hand shot out, catching her wrist. “Wait–”
“No!” she cried, struggling against him. “Unhand me this instant!”
Paris pulled her back, his grip tightening. “Do not, Helen, just—”
“Do not touch me!” she shrieked, thrashing with sudden, desperate force.
And that was all it took.
Menelaus was on his feet in a flash, his fury not yet caught up with his awe. “Helen!”
He surged across the space between them, crashing past the others. Hector moved instinctively, placing himself between the two parties, though his stance was more defensive than hostile. Paris swore, but he could not hold her.
Helen broke free.
And ran to her husband.
Patroclus could only stand and watch, his mind spinning with the implications.
What in the name of all the gods was this place? Why had they all been brought here – Achaeans and Trojans alike?
He glanced toward Achilles, who had said nothing, but whose posture was alert and coiled. And Odysseus – Odysseus was watching everything, his eyes narrowed, calculating. Diomedes' jaw was clenched tight, his hand drifting once again toward his sword on his hip.
Patroclus just stared, transfixed, as Helen and Menelaus collided in a tangled, broken reunion.
There was too much happening.
Far too much.
He watched on, pulse quickening, as Paris stepped forward, his expression clouded with anger.
“You should leave her,” Paris said coolly, though his voice trembled just slightly, betraying the emotion underneath. “She chose to stay in Troy.”
Menelaus’ head snapped toward him, the awe in his gaze hardening into rage. He shoved Helen behind him with a single, protective motion, his hand going immediately to the hilt of his blade. The soft sound of metal unsheathing hissed through the air.
“She was stolen,” Menelaus growled. “And you–” his blade rose, pointed straight at Paris “–you will pay for it.”
Paris stepped back, instinctively, but Hector had already moved.
The Trojan prince drew his sword in a flash, placing himself between his brother and Menelaus without hesitation. His calm, unreadable mask had shattered; his dark eyes burned with warning.
“Stand down,” Hector said, his voice low, deadly.
Patroclus sighed, rubbing at his temple. He could already feel the headache forming. The posturing. The dramatics. It was always the same, gods above – throw a group of men together and they'd draw swords over air itself.
Predictably, Agamemnon surged forward the moment Hector drew his blade, shouting something about “threats to his brother” and “cowardly Trojans,” already reaching for his own weapon, his face twisted with righteous fury.
Patroclus did not even bother glancing his way. He was too busy watching Achilles, whose fingers twitched near his spear with that frightening, barely-contained hunger for battle.
Gods, not again.
But before the tension could explode – before blades could clash and blood could be spilled–
A voice rang out.
Loud. Commanding. Divine.
“ENOUGH.”
It rolled through the chamber like thunder, arresting and absolute. All sound died.
And in the next breath, every weapon vanished.
Gone.
One moment, Hector’s sword was gleaming in the light; the next, his hands were empty. Menelaus’ blade disappeared from his grip mid-swing. Agamemnon blinked in confusion, reaching uselessly for a sword no longer on his hip.
Even Achilles froze, visibly startled.
Patroclus stared around, wide-eyed. Every weapon. Every single one. No one had cast a spell, no one had moved – yet it had happened.
His gaze swept the room, and then–
He saw her.
A divine being stepped forward from the far end of the chamber, as though she had always been there, simply unnoticed until now. The very air shimmered around her presence.
She was radiant.
Wings arched behind her – massive, resplendent, terrible in their beauty. They glimmered like butterfly wings, but to compare them to such a delicate creature felt almost sacrilegious. They gleamed with a shifting, blinding spectrum of colour, as if the brightness of the rainbow itself had been caught and woven into gossamer threads.
Her hair, red as molten copper, floated behind her like it existed in water, moving gently despite the stillness of the chamber.
Her robes – if they could even be called that – rippled with iridescent hues, ever-shifting from oceanic blues to violent violets, to shades Patroclus had no name for. Like the skin of some divine serpent, constantly changing, constantly alive.
She looked exhausted.
Irritated, yes. But beyond that was something else, something deeper. A tiredness that no mortal could know. The weariness of one who had endured gods and kings and the endless noise of their battles since time itself began.
Patroclus felt his mouth go dry.
She stepped forward, her wings trailing light, her clad feet making no sound as she moved across the marble.
The deity raised her arm, and with an imperious flick of her caduceus – a twisted staff crowned with twin serpents and wings that pulsed with chromatic light – she pointed directly at them.
“Sit,” she commanded, her voice sharp as lightning cleaving a mountain, threaded with ancient exasperation. “And do not make me repeat myself. I have endured millennia of divine nonsense and mortal theatrics, and I will not tolerate another squabble over stolen brides or bruised egos.”
The power in her voice echoed and tolerated no argument. Even Achilles, who rarely bent to anything or anyone, stood still as stone. Around the chamber, one by one, warriors from both sides lowered their hands, their weapons already vanished, leaving them only their uncertainty and pride.
But before they moved, Menelaus stepped forward, straightening slightly, as if trying to salvage some dignity amidst this. He bowed his head – not deeply, but with enough reverence to be understood.
“My Lady Thaumantis Iris,” he said, voice hoarse but formal, “Messenger of the gods. Herald of Hera Anassa herself, I greet you.”
Patroclus blinked.
Oh.
Lady Iris.
So this was she – the rainbow-winged herald, rarely seen in full glory, her presence often a blur of colour and wind. She tilted her head, regarding Menelaus coolly. But after a moment, she inclined her chin, the smallest gesture of acceptance.
“Correct,” she said. “And I will remind you all that while I serve the Queen of the Heavens, my patience is very much my own. Try it, and you will know what it means to be turned inside out, in metaphor or not.”
Nobody argued.
Instead, she swept her caduceus toward Helen, whose arms were still wrapped tightly around her husband, their foreheads pressed together, tears slipping silently down their faces.
“Go child,” Lady Iris said gently this time. “Sit wherever you wish. I will have no more petty ownership debates.”
Helen did not even glance at Paris. She did not flinch. She only clutched Menelaus tighter, as if trying to press her soul into his chest, her voice breaking softly with each whispered word he breathed into her hair.
They wept openly, with no shame but rather the ache of love long lost and miraculously returned. Their hands never stopped moving – brushing cheeks, tracing fingers, like they could not fathom the other was real and in their arms. Patroclus’ throat tightened, and though he had never had any particular fondness for Helen or for Menelaus outside of them being countrymen, he felt the ache of it, of time stolen and the bitter clawing for a moment of peace.
Had it not been the thought of losing Achilles that haunted him since this war began?
Behind them, with another flick of Lady Iris’ caduceus, something shimmered into existence.
Klines.
Dozens of them, stretching out across the chamber as though it were the feasting halls of Mount Olympus itself. These were no battlefield pallets or war camp benches. These gleamed, lavish and decadent, with cushions thicker than his thigh and fabrics that shimmered like starlight woven into silk. Gold and deep reds, sea-glass green and twilight blue – no two the same.
Everyone hesitated. Then, slowly, they moved.
Diomedes made for one of the central klines with confident, unhurried steps. He lowered himself into the center of it with the ease of a king on his throne. Odysseus followed, slipping in beside him with a dry, resigned huff, and Sthenelus took seat on Tydides’ other side with a relieved sigh, already rubbing his shoulder where Diomedes had landed on him earlier.
From the other side, Patroclus watched Hector murmur something to Paris – something calming, by the set of his features. Paris looked unconvinced, still stiff with resentment, but he allowed Hector to guide him gently to a kline near the far end. With his other hand, Hector ushered along a dark-haired woman who looked halfway through berating him – her tone seemingly firm. She was striking, regal in bearing, and the resemblance was unmistakable, though she looked terribly disgruntled and kept glancing back at them in fear and disgust.
A sister. Of course. There was no denying the blood between them.
Agamemnon, very surprisingly yet also unsurprisingly, softened. He wordlessly took Menelaus’ shoulder and guided both him and Helen – still clinging, still quiet – toward another kline. The three of them collapsed into it as if the weight of the years had finally caught up all at once.
Then–
A gentle tug on the back of Patroclus’ chiton.
He turned, half-expecting some other person he had not met
But it was only Beloved Achilles.
His lover stood silent, his sea-glass eyes steady, one arm wrapping around Patroclus’ waist like an anchor. With no words – because none were needed when it came to him – he led him to one of the nearby klines and eased them both down.
Patroclus sat on Achilles’ left.
On his right, Cousin Ajax – face confused yet calmer than usual – settled in, beside him, Teucer took his place without a word.
Further down, Nestor and Antilochus took their seats, the elder murmuring something soft to his son, who nodded solemnly.
And then, with a deepening sigh, Patroclus looked to his left.
Where Odysseus – somehow already lounging like he belonged in this strange place – raised a brow and offered him the smallest of smirks. Next to him, Diomedes was speaking quietly with Sthenelus, all three settled into their kline like this was a symposium, not the strangest day of their lives.
Patroclus narrowed his eyes.
Odysseus winked.
Gods help us all, he thought before turning back to look ahead.
The goddess seemed to shine more with frustration than divine glow now, her luminous wings twitching with barely restrained agitation. Her eyes, the colour of every sunrise and sunset he had ever seen, narrowed at them all as if daring someone to ask a question or worse – complain.
She exhaled, long-suffering.
“I will be perfectly honest with you all,” she said, voice still ringing with that undeniable divine cadence but tinged now with mortal exasperation. “I do not wish to be here in the slightest.”
A ripple of awkward silence ran across the chamber.
Patroclus blinked. He had not expected that.
“I would rather be anywhere else,” she went on, wings fluttering in tight, irritated flicks. “This should have most easily and simply gone to Hermes and have been his assignment. Messenger of the gods, guide of souls, charming trickster, lover of mortal chaos. It would have suited him far better than it does I.”
She paused, rolled her eyes with a dramatic, theatrical flair that nearly outdid Achilles himself.
“But no. The Moirai themselves insisted.” She lifted her caduceus slightly and gave it a little spin, as though in punishment. “Apparently, it was time for something different. A change in the tune, they said. Hermes is too unpredictable.” Her lips pressed thin. “And what could possibly go wrong when the Fates are feeling experimental?”
Patroclus was not sure whether she intended for them to laugh or weep or… something else entirely?
“But,” she said, voice hardening once more, “here I am. And here you are. All of you – dead, soon-to-be-dead, and tragically-not-dead-enough-yet. And before any of you mortals dare ask, no – you do not get to leave.”
Achilles snorted beside him, arm still curled loosely around Patroclus’ shoulders. The warmth of it grounded him. Comforted him.
Lady Iris lifted her chin, the light from her wings casting vibrant rainbows across the marble.
“You are here to witness something,” she said. “A tale crafted many thousands of years from now – far in the future of this world. But it has been altered for your benefit, your faces and names and fates made true within it.”
A buzz of reaction stirred across the klines – murmurs, shifting bodies, the tension of shared confusion.
“It is the story,” she continued, “of a man who earned kleos aphthiton – undying glory – beyond that of any other hero before or after. A legend of cunning, endurance, and despair.”
Patroclus felt a rush of heat through his chest. He looked sharply at Achilles beside him, almost vibrating with certainty.
It is you, he wanted to say. Of course it is you, who else could compare.
Achilles was already turning to look at him, a familiar, lazy, smug grin creeping across his perfect face. His hand squeezed Patroclus’ hip once, victorious.
“I told you,” he murmured, pleased. “They will remember me.”
But Lady Iris was still speaking.
“I know,” she said, and gods, she sounded tired again. “It is not exactly fair. This tale centres almost entirely around one man. The rest of you are... supporting cast at best.”
There was a dry, affronted scoff from Agamemnon. Odysseus, lounging with the same irritating grace as ever, gave no visible reaction – though Patroclus could see the spark of interest in his sharp mismatched eyes.
“Which is why,” Iris went on, “there will be moments interspersed throughout. Scenes. Glimpses of your futures, your ends, and the consequences of your choices. So that you may understand the thread of your own lives.”
That got their attention.
The air itself tensed. Faces sharpened. Agamemnon straightened. Helen’s hand went still on Menelaus’ knee. And across the chamber, Odysseus tilted his head, no longer lounging but watching with open focus.
But no one from the Trojan kline moved.
No one.
Paris remained as he had, tense and stone-faced. Hector leaned forward slightly, protective and suspicious. The dark-haired sister sat rigidly between them, her mouth a thin line.
And still Lady Iris was not finished.
“If,” she said with emphasis, “you manage to behave yourselves – and I mean miraculously – then I may allow you to meet your children.”
Patroclus flinched.
Her voice dropped, softer now. Less thunder, more fate.
“You would do well to take my offer seriously, for most of you will not live long enough to see them again.”
Silence.
Stone-thick silence.
She let the words hang in the air. Let them settle. No one dared speak. Not even Achilles.
He is thinking of Pyrrhus no doubt.
“Do I make myself clear?”
There was a shuffling of nods. A chorus of mumbled “yes, my lady” and “understood.”
Only once every head had dipped – Trojan and Greek alike – did she turn slightly, lifting her staff.
She pointed.
Behind her, the space shimmered. Warped. And then appeared.
It was rectangular. Massive. Its surface black and smooth like obsidian. Featureless and strange. Patroclus stared at it, uncomprehending. It looked like some sort of grand shield, but there were no markings. No handles. No gleam of bronze.
The object pulsed once, glowing faintly.
Achilles tensed beside him, then immediately pulled Patroclus closer, the two of them pressed shoulder to thigh.
Patroclus did not realize he was holding his breath.
“What... is that?” he whispered, more to himself than anything.
Lady Iris did not miss it.
“It is called a screen,” she said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Do not ask how it works. Do not attempt to touch it. You will not enjoy the outcome.”
Patroclus blinked, still thoroughly baffled.
“You will see and hear the story through it,” she added. “It will show you what has been remembered – and forgotten – of your deeds, your wars, your victories and your monstrous mistakes that will be your undoing.”
The black surface burst into light.
She turned, dramatically, her wings unfurling fully as she gestured with her caduceus.
“And it begins now, but before it should start – the moirai would appreciate it if you all should introduce yourselves: name and title, naturally.”
A beat of hesitation, and then, surprisingly, Hector rose first. His siblings followed: Paris and apparently Cassandra.
The Achaeans were next, Agamemnon beginning and Menelaus following. Then Helen rose between them, “I am Helen,” she said clearly, “Queen of Sparta.”
Well that had settled things clearly, he thought as Menelaus pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, and she leaned into it.
Tydides and Laertiades followed, and then it him and Achilles and the rest of the men left.
Lady Iris, at last, gave a nod of satisfaction.
“Good,” she said. “The record is set. Now let it be known: what you are about to witness is a series of songs – tales woven long after your deaths, meant to immortalize deeds both worthy and terrible.”
She raised her staff again. The screen behind her flickered, glowed.
“This,” she announced, “is the saga of Polymetis Odysseus. From the final battle at Troy, to his journey home... to Ithaca.”
The word Ithaca rang like a note struck on bronze.
There was a beat of stunned silence.
And then – chaos.
Gasps, shouted questions, disbelief erupting like arrows from all sides.
“What?!” Ajax barked.
“Odysseus?!” Sthenelus scoffed.
“That cannot be right,” muttered Agamemnon.
Patroclus, stunned, turned wide-eyed to Achilles beside him.
Achilles was already on his feet, fury crackling around him like lightning in a bottle.
“No,” he growled. “No, that is impossible. I was promised that glory. I was told it would be mine!”
His voice rang with betrayal. He took a step forward, toward Lady Iris, fists clenched.
“What is this?!” he demanded. “A trick? A lie?”
Patroclus placed a hand on his arm, trying to calm him. But even he was reeling from this.
He looked back at Odysseus–
Who was, even more shockingly, completely silent.
His face was unreadable. Eyes wide, lips parted, breath stilled.
And then the viper burst out laughing.
Not a chuckle. Not a grin.
Full-throated, absurd, wheezing laughter.
He doubled over on the kline, gasping between peals of delighted disbelief. Teucer blinked. Ajax stared. Even Helen looked puzzled.
Of course he was delighted, he just found out that he would be greater than all of them – greater than any hero who lived.
“Oh gods,” Odysseus wheezed, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. “Oh gods above and below, I– I get the kleos? Me?!”
Achilles’ affronted scowl darkened further, but Odysseus did not seem to care. He looked at Patroclus and cackled harder.
“I swear by the Gods,” he gasped, “this is going to be hilarious.”
Patroclus could hardly hear his own thoughts above the chaos, but he registered one thing with absolute clarity: every single person in the chamber – Achaean and Trojan alike – was stunned.
Even Tydides looked momentarily thrown, he blinked like someone had just slapped him across the face with a fish, though there was the faintest twitch of a smirk curling at the edge of his mouth. Sthenelus leaned forward as if he thought he had misheard. Teucer standing next to his brother let out a disbelieving breath.
Odysseus, meanwhile, had not stopped laughing.
Patroclus blinked rapidly. The man was glowing with glee, absolutely basking in it like a cat in sunlight. And Achilles – oh dear Achilles was practically shaking with rage beside him.
Before things could spiral entirely, Lady Iris flared her wings wide and stomped her staff once.
The sound rang like a bell through the marble, sharp and commanding.
“Enough,” she said, her voice like honey poured over bronze. “Sit. Down!”
The effect was immediate. Achilles grumbled something under his breath but sank back onto the kline, arms crossed like a child told bedtime came too soon. Ajax and the others muttered and exchanged upset glances but obeyed. The Trojans also lowered themselves cautiously back to their seats. Odysseus wheezed one final breath of mirth before collapsing sideways onto Tydides, still grinning, like this was the best day of his life.
I imagine it is.
Lady Iris took a long breath through her nose.
“And you – son of Thetis,” she added, turning directly to Achilles, who sat with his chin lifted and mouth drawn in a hard line. “Will indeed earn your renown. Of that there is no question. Your song is a blaze of glory and wrath and vengeance that will echo for millennia.”
Wrath and vengeance?
Though that – thankfully – seemed to pacify him somewhat. Achilles sat up straighter, chin tilting slightly in pride.
“But,” Lady Iris continued with pointed emphasis, “it is Odysseus’ name that will be remembered the longest. His story that will be retold in lands you will never know, across seas that you know not exists. His kleos will surpass yours.”
It was as if the world tipped.
Patroclus watched Achilles go very still, then twitch slightly, like the words had actually stabbed him. His eyes widened, lips parting in pure disbelief. He turned to stare at Odysseus, who was now beaming like a lunatic.
There was a moment of dead silence.
Then Odysseus clutched his ribs and howled, laughing so hard he actually slid halfway off the kline, Tydides catching him just in time to keep from hitting the floor.
“Shut up!” Achilles snapped, practically lunging across Patroclus, eyes blazing.
Odysseus snorted, wiped a tear, and managed between giggles, “Sorry– you must forgive me– I just– oh, the look on your face, Pelides–”
Achilles growled, and Patroclus had to lay a firm hand on his thigh to keep him from launching across the room.
How could this even be?
Lady Iris rolled her eyes so hard it was a wonder they did not fall from her skull.
“Anyway,” she said with supreme divine exhaustion, turning her back to them all and lifting her caduceus once more. “Now that everyone has thoroughly humiliated themselves before the great reckoning has even begun…”
She did not finish the sentence.
The screen shimmered to life again, bright and pulsing with unknown powers.
Patroclus felt something in his chest twist – it felt as though the ground had shifted under his feet and he had not yet learned how to balance.
Lady Iris turned back to them, expression regal and aloof once more.
“Let it begin,” she declared, voice echoing like thunder in the silence.