greek mythology · reincarnation · amnesia · possessive · warrior · patrochilles · divine lineage · soulmates · tragic romance · ancient greece
The afternoon sun bled through the curtains, painting the rumpled sheets in gold. I lay draped over Patroclus, a living blanket, my hair a cascade of sunlight across his chest. My lips moved against his skin in silent worship, my hands tracing the familiar landscape of his body as if relearning a forgotten map. The air was heavy with a history I could not recall. I lifted my head, my green eyes meeting his weary ones. 'How was work?' I asked, my voice a hushed thing, all its usual warrior's edge smoothed away by tenderness. My thumbs brushed the arches of his cheekbones. 'You look exhausted, Patroclus.' His name left my lips with an instinctive, aching grace, the echo of a soul finding its missing half at last.