Chapter Text
The market district in Elysium was busiest in the mornings.
Or rather, whatever hours Elysians decided was probably morning,- that’s when shops opened and the shades who lived closest to the high-rise of the market chose to call on each other for game and sport and social visits.
The market was as large as several city courtyards, though where surface Grecian cities were clay and packed earth, white pavement and the occasional flourish of marble or lumber, Elysium was made almost entirely of weathered gray stone. It was allowed to crumble in its age, but never collapsed, covered on every surface in climbing vines and the moss that so loved the mist wafting off of the Lethe.
Patroclus did not need for much, nor did any shade here he supposed. He arrived on this particular morning partly out of curiosity and partly out of boredom. Achilles left for the house a little over an hour ago, and Zagreus had grown powerful enough in his escapades that Patroclus presence would not make or break his success. There was no one waiting on him for the moment, so he decided to wander.
He passed a smith of some sort, the hammer falling loud and rhythmically in a mundane sort of way. Not so mundane however, was that he worked not with coal and flame but from magma brought up from Asphodel. Stranger still that the sparks that flew off of it were green, then blue, then white, every hammer fall throwing different colors. The finished weapons on display were the same that the Exalted carried.
Patroclus was better with swords than with a spear, not that he had done much in the way of dueling in his time here. The gear he had now served him well enough, but it very plainly belonged to someone else. Achilles armor was unique enough to be easily recognized, and that was part of the plan to begin with. Dying because he wore it was admittedly not part of the plan.
He digressed,--he would not mind new gear, but he did not want to look like an Exalted, or fight like they did, -faces shrouded in that odd glamour they wore, nearly possessed by whatever weapon they carried. Lethe-drunk and sadistic, wearing no armor on their backs because they wanted to feel the hit. No, Patroclus did not care for the Exalted. They made his stomach churn.
He shrugged away from the smith. It was no hurry, not a necessity in any case, just a passing fancy. Perhaps the both of them, he and his Achilles, could stand to have new cloaks instead. Achilles could acquire one with a hood, that way he could more easily cover his tell-take golden head as he was want to do in more bustling areas.
There was no shortage of weavers and tailors here, as most shades are often in need of a craft to fill their time, something tangible to show for their work. He kept his eyes open for such a display of fabrics while he stopped to lean over a jewelry display, seeing if any bands or rings were even big enough to consider for himself or for Achilles. They usually were not. The woman at the stand smiled in greeting before turning back to her conversation. She wore many of the rings on her hands and many of the bands on her arms. Patroclus was particularly fond of a silver brace beneath her shoulder, shaped like a coiled snake with little gems for eyes. Displayed to sell surely, but his arm was easily triple the size of her own..
“Is that Patroclus of Opus?” A voice asked, breathless with disbelief but gritty and affable. All yearning for shiny trinkets forgotten, replaced with the urge to kick himself for not making it to the hooded cloaks first. “By the gods, it could surely be no one else!” Patroclus turned toward the approaching shade, knowing full well who it was by sound alone. Far more wisened than he was last Patroclus saw him- topside, that is- but still lean and strong in stature. Forever sun-tanned as a sailor, thick hair and beard more salt than pepper. He stood shorter than most other shades, but you would not notice it for the way he carried himself. He was decorated as always in pride and maroon, standing upright and confident as any king would, the bow on his back nearly as long as he was tall.
It was Odysseus, gods curse them both.
He had teased Achilles endlessly when they so deftly outmaneuvered a reunion with the adventurer in the baths not a week past, had been encouraging and soothing after. Achilles feared his own anger, so he hid from it. He was ashamed of the cruelty it had wrought, and so he sought to avoid those who may remember him for only that. Patroclus would not begrudge him. If it meant the wounds would heal, he would protect him from it until it could be observed and dissected and understood, and to understand was to overcome.
Patroclus had no such fears, however, about his own anger. And though he would not tell his love, he might hate Odysseus more than Achilles could ever dream.
Thetis sought to keep her son away from the fighting, once she heard they sought him by name. Always a pretty thing, despite his strength, so she hid him among maidens and princesses in the court of Skyros. A dreadfully clever disguise.
Until ever-clever Odysseus flushed him out. Spun a siren song of glory and fate and destiny, insisted Greece would fall-or be forever at war- without golden Achilles. Oh, and how easy it is to lure young men in such a way. Notoriously reckless, daring and joyous and stupid. He preached to him about a duty to his homeland as if Odysseus himself hadn’t done everything he could to stay out of the war, with a trick even more ridiculous than the one Thetis devised. And so Golden Achilles was convinced to fight the Trojans. The rest of the story follows swiftly as a sword on the chopping block.
Odysseus knew of the distaste Patroclus had for him, and sought only ever to prod and tease him at every turn. Patroclus met him head on at every turn, their strange rivalry growing to be some of the only genuine fun to be had at the coast nearest Ilium. They could have been friends. Truly. If only Patroclus had lived. Instead he sat by the Lethe and simmered, lingering too long and too harshly over all the people he could blame for his melancholy. Who had brought Achilles out of hiding?
And here they are, ghosts, one ever young and one ever matured- and Odysseus had the gall to be happy to see him?
“Odysseus.” he greeted politely with a nod of his head, not letting a single one of his thoughts be easily read in his eyes or on his face. Sharp-eyed Odysseus, ever calculating. He’d gouge them out if he thought it would make a difference, and sending him down the Styx would only put him in Achilles path at the house of Hades.
“Oh, sweet-voiced Patroclus, seeing you here is a joy, a balm on the heart.” he said through a smile that crinkled his eyes, patting his face and clapping his shoulders in a genuine comradery. His face fell slightly, somewhere between bittersweet and grim. “The whole world felt your absence keenly. It is only just that you rest here.”
“It was not by my deed that I am here, though the story is long. And the gods are very rarely just.”
“My friend, that I know!” he laughed with a good-natured misery
“If you are such an old man before me now, they must not have been terribly fond of you.” Patroclus said with a twitch of a brow. He begrudgingly grinned, against his will, when Odysseus chuckled.
“An astute observation, though I doubt you know the half of it.” he shook his head. “I mean no insult to you when I ask, but I must know: Do you stay here alone?” ” Where is Achilles?” the question implied.
Patroclus opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by several startled yells somewhere behind them. As he turned to see what the commotion was, a gust of wind so powerful swooped by that it knocked over two carts and three shades, threatening to knock down Odysseus too if he hadn’t already had a grip on an unwilling shoulder. He followed the crowd's eyes, watching whatever flew by slow it’s ascent to perch briefly on a narrow ledge, near the top of Elysium's ever-reaching walls. It fluttered but for a moment, then darted away, faster than the eye could follow, and far enough away now that it’s wing beats made no breeze. It seemed to vanish into an unknown height, leaving the market briefly quiet as a tomb.
After a half-beat, the crowd erupted into hushed chatter and casual laughter.
“Lord Hermes must be running late this day!”
“Mischievous thing, disturbing the peace like that!”
“‘Twas only a large bat-”
“Master Thanatos must be behind schedule, so unlike him-”
Patroclus noticed Odysseus eyes linger on the same spot his own did, the ledge where the diving creature paused. Something felt odd in the air, not unlike the shiver that heralded Thanatos, though the thing that passed was pale in color. Quick as the messenger himself, though Hermes would never even stop to catch his breath.
“I know creatures yet undiscovered make nests of the Underworld,” Odysseus mused beside him, eyes still glued to the ledge, “but rare are winged things below the earth.”
“Hypnos and Thanatos are winged things, when they have need to be.” he mused in return, convincing no one.
“Are they so swift?”
“Not at all.” Patroclus relented, formulating a daring plan for the day. At least it would kill some time, he thought. “We will have to catch up another time, my king, for something has finally come up in my schedule.” he turned to clasp his forearm with Odysseus, who looked at him with undisguised confusion, sputtering something as he was left behind in the crowd.
Patroclus turned to weave past the market courtyards, having to dive through several streets and squeeze through two alleys in the residentials that lined it to finally reach the stone edge of the realm, looking up at his target. His eyes followed little trails in the rock, making note of every jut and dip and protruding petrified root. His mind took a whimsical jaunt through a memory, back on Pelion with Master Chiron.
“The task is not to prove the strength of the body but the swiftness of the mind. It is not the power in your limbs but the way you utilize them.” the centaur said calmly to the two teenagers who looked up at him, one in dawning horror and the other in grim resignation.
“You mean for us to scale the mountain?” Achilles asked, the answer obvious but a desperate mind will seek any alternative it is given.
“I do. Gaia, the Earth Mother, has many treacherous footfalls, many lessons she can teach only brutally. A titan of your own lineage, though distantly, so you should find the task no great challenge.” He spoke as calmly and sage-like as he always did, though at this time Patroclus could swear he saw a bit of amusement in his brown eyes.
Patroclus shakes his head at the memory, removing his cloak. The chest piece is not bulky, designed to be purposefully light, but it is snug on him, slows his movements and limits his range of motion. An interesting and obvious thought that he should have had the first time he put it on. He begins unlacing the leather from the sides, now determined to soon get some gear that was made with him in mind. As he hefts it over his head, it makes a mess of his hair, ever wild. He takes a lace from the armor, gathers his hair and loops the leather around it several times, tying down the ends tightly enough that he’ll curse himself for it later. Some hair is bound to escape, but the majority of it will stay out of his eyes. His chiton alone should be thick enough to prevent scrapes on his back and chest, and for the same reason he leaves the bracers on his forearms and shins both. After a brief pause he decides that he’ll be more successful without his sandals, bulky as they are and hard to feel through.
He plops down on the cold stone to begin unbuckling and unlacing them when a quickened set of footsteps approaches. He throws his head back and sighs through his nose, as if any god above could hear the musing of a shade underground.
Odysseus, of course, had followed him to see what he planned to do. Meddling. He opened his mouth to ask Patroclus his schemes, but froze when he put the pieces together himself.
“You don’t mean to climb up there yourself, surely?” he huffed, shaking his head.
“I surely do.” he said, kicking off his sandals as they became loose enough to do so. He straightened his clothing when he stood, secured a stubborn piece of hair as he tracked his eyes along the wall once more. “You doubt that I am able?”
“I doubt anyone able.” Odysseus assured him. “Seems an excellent way to take a quick dip back in the Styx, and I wouldn’t fancy an audience with the lord of the realm.”
“If something unusual is underway, the lord of the realm should be made aware of it. It would be silly to go to him without first arming yourself with information. Information requires investigation, and thus I will climb the wall.” he gestured, as if it were the obvious thing to do. He can feel the patience of his forced civility wearing thin, and he is starting to suspect Odysseus will not be shooed away like a weathered old dog. On a whim, he grabbed the cloak off of the pavement and tied it around his waist.
He grabbed his first ledge, about a foot over his head, giving a wiggle with as much force as he could manage to test the give of it. Do ghosts weigh anything? Momentarily irrelevant, he decided, as he deemed his hold secure. He hoisted himself up by the strength of his arms alone, before finding a crevice with his foot he could use for leverage, pushing himself over onto the flat of it. He repeated this three more times before he looked down to see his progress, standing about as high as one of the neighboring roofs.
The ledges narrowed from here, less than his foot’s width, then turned almost immediately to stalactite and gnarled tree root before the ledge he sought to reach. He huffed, pressing himself flat against the wall to creep along the protruding edge. With little vision of his own steps, he had to simply feel around for footholds.
“Have you given much thought to how you’ll get down?” Odysseus called, looking up with his hands on his hips.
“Do you think my head full of air?” Patroclus rebutted, resigning himself to make a sideways lunge-very nearly a jump-and caught himself with his upper body alone before finding a new foothold. There was a wider ledge to his right, but he’d lose some hard earned altitude in exchange for the stability. He took it, dropping down about the length of his body to initiate the second part of the climb. “I am a tactician, if you recall, not a concubine.”
He did not have a plan for getting down.
He looked upward at the first stalactite, unwinding the cloak from his waste and pulling it taut like a rope. It did not have the ideal reach, but it had enough for the task at hand. Probably. With each end grasped in his hands, he threw the fabric up to hook over the jagged rock. He tested the stability again, wincing when he heard the popping of seams, but decided to let the cloak take his weight anyway, climbing up the flat of the wall. Each lift and swing of the cloak to a new anchor had to be swift, not only because the interim left him at the start of a fall each time, but because the longer the cloak took his weight, the more it frayed.
Unfortunate for his current position, standing on a narrow jut of a root with the only surface left to reach his destination. There were no protruding places for the shredded cloak to hook onto, and the wall between him and the ledge smooth as marble. It would have to be a terribly impressive jump. Odysseus was now too far away to hear, thankfully, though he did seem to be shouting something.
His anxiety evaporates like Lethe fog when he remembers that he is dead already. With a shrug and a stretch of his shoulder, he pops his neck once before bracing and lunging.
He catches so much air on the jump that he assumed briefly that he was plummeting, but his hands slap into the jagged stone hard enough to hurt, cutting into the curl of his fingers as he dangles there wishing he was slightly smaller. He heaves, getting his elbows up before slipping on the smooth stone and returning to his original free-hang. The second attempt he pushes himself harder, past the point where he would be able to on a mortal plane,- his elbows cleared again, resting more securely now as he uses the strength in his middle to get a knee on the ledge,-
Before he knows it he’s laying flat on his back on the cool stone, letting the temperature seep into his clothes and calm him slightly. He groans and rubs his face, looking straight up at the crystals that grow of the ceiling and mimic untold constellations. After the brief reprieve, he sits up, looking around the ledge to see if anything could be found of the creature they saw, for he knew it was not Hermes.
There is moss, of course, because there is moss everywhere. Dust, of a sort. Gravel from eroding rock. The only thing of only interest is three broad leaves, looking a little worse for wear, unassuming if not for the color. Vegetation in Elysium has an odd hue, more blue than green at times, so deep as to appear violet depending on where they grow. He ties the abused shreds of the cloak around his waist again, using an innermost fold as a pocket for the leaves that are unmistakably surface green. He makes a second glance around just to be sure, finds a strange stain so close to the wall that he almost missed it. It looks dark on the rock, but stains his hands in a metallic way, gold enough in color to look stark against his hand.
“Zagreus bleeds red.” Achilles told him once, though he’d seen him in bad shape more than enough times himself. “Maybe the only god that does.”
“Do gods not bleed?” he asked.
“They don’t bleed red. Nyx-born gods have a strange ink they bleed. It makes their skin look ashen and smears violet when they wipe at it. But the ichor of Olympians is gold.”
“Never a dull day.” he mutters to himself, glancing down at Odysseus. How to get down now, so he can give his findings to Achilles after he returns, or to catch Zagreus in passing. The cloak was too threadbare now to use, and there would be no efficient climb back down to the market district.
He supposed, however, that there was a very efficient path to the house of Hades. He waves once more to Odysseus with more enthusiasm he had before and a salute before strolling over the edge to plummet.