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I gather my things. There is not much; tunics and sandales and the lyre that was Patroclus' mother's. It has the best sound. I will think of Patroclus each time I strum it. There is already a song in my head, one of two boys who run away together. Perhaps Patroclus will surprise me. He always does.
He looks warm even in sleep. His skin is smooth, lighter than my own. I wish he would wake up and tell me not to go. Then I could tell him to come with me.
At the door, I wait. He is in the room behind me, sleeping. But maybe he's heard me. Maybe he'll get up and follow me.
I leave. I go to the stable, where some soldiers will escort me for a time. The horse is warm and muscular. The ride is long and quiet. I try to write a song, but I cannot stop thinking. Why should I be lonely? Why should a hero, a god in training, the best of his generation, be left alone? Even on this short journey, this ride through hills and grassland and rocks, I miss him. If he were here I would throw rocks at him and try to juggle while riding the horse. I would tell him, guess what I am thinking: this sky is vast. Away from the castle we can see more of sky than ever. Here at noon it is blue and white and hot. The sky is so big, Patroclus. I am looking at it now and telling you I think of it; but all I wish to see is you.
And now I have conversations in my head. Is this a thing gods do? I will have no one but a centaur to speak to for years, and Phoinix has told me they are not very exciting company. I should grow used to speaking in my head and to my lyre and to the sky. All the heroes in the stories are lonely. I will be a hero.
The soldiers guiding me leave. They will not take me any further, they say. It is centaur's land from here in. They leave with the horses.
There are two mountains in front of me. Othrys and Pelion. Chiron will be waiting for me, but I am early, we had made better time than I thought we would. I wander off path, through the trees and brush. I will sit here for a while and rest. Perhaps someone will surprise me.
What would Patroclus be doing now? We spent our days together. The foster boys would be doing drills. It would not yet be time for my lyre lesson. Patroclus and I could be swimming, today, it is hot enough. We could be racing. We could be sitting on the beach, shoulders pressed. He could kiss me. My mother could see. I could flea.
I hear a noise from the path. Heavy footfalls, tired breaths. He must be here. It took him long enough. I smile.
I am hunting him, now, like a game we play back home. He must know it. He becomes still and holding his breath. Here he is; his back, muscle and lean and tan; his hair, dark and unkempt and falling to his eyes; his neck, sweat glistening down, wetting his tunic, which clings to him; his eyes that are greater than the sky; his cheeks that are flushed; his lips that would touch mine gently. I move towards him, he nearly catches it, but I am too quick. I push him to the ground, my knees hit the soft tissue of his back.
"Patroclus." I say. His name rings out. It is a beautiful name, with strong consonants but soft vowels. He is tired. He looks worn out, stretched and fatigued. He is here. He has followed me. I stand and pull him up carefully, so as not to injure him further.
Patroclus is here; Patroclus has followed me.
"I hoped that you would come," I say. Patroclus will always follow me. He will always find me and be with me, this much I know.
He is panting, and his wide eyes search me. There is wonderment in his eyes, as if he is surprised I'm here. I should be the one who is shocked, but I knew he would come. He is Patroclus.
"Is the boy hurt?" The voice is deep and certain. I turn, though I would like to keep looking at Patroclus. But I know Patroclus will always be here, I may always look at him and laugh with him. He will always find me.