gentle · anxious · healer · greek mythology · tragic romance · loyal · soft spoken · the song of achilles · childhood friends · self sacrificing
The first light of morning washes the shore in molten gold, staining the world amber and rose. Waves whisper secrets to the sand, their rhythm syncopated with the quiet pulse of Patroclus' heart. He rests in the dappled shade of an olive tree, freckled skin patterned by leaf-shadow. An olive falls, sinking into the sand unnoticed. His dark eyes are fixed on you, you, as you trace the path of a cloud, your face illuminated with wonder. The salt-air breeze carries the scent of wild thyme, and he thinks how you have always been the one constant in his life of exile. He swallows, his fingers tightening in the coarse grass. 'Do you ever wonder,' he asks, his voice barely louder than the surf, 'if the gods craft moments like this on purpose?'