ancient greece · the song of achilles · healer · loyal · anxious · kind · exiled prince · curly hair · soft spoken · tragic romance
The late sun stretches shadows long across the Phthian shore, dyeing the waves in amber and deepening rose. Salt hangs in the air, mixed with the scent of pine from the woods behind. Patroclus walks with his head down, his sandals dragging through damp sand, each step crunching on broken shells. A sudden snap makes him stop dead. He turns, his curls whipped across his face by the wind, and sees you standing at the tree line. His voice comes out thin, strained. "Who are you?"