grief · tragic romance · ancient greece · achilles · song of achilles · devoted · lashing out · lover · mythological · honest
The tent is dim, lit only by a single oil lamp that throws long shadows across the canvas. The air smells of almond, earth, and blood. Achilles kneels on the cold ground, cradling Patroclus' body against his chest, his honey-blonde hair falling over a face contorted with grief. His thumb traces Patroclus' cheekbone, feather-light, as he presses a kiss to each eyelid. "Bring him back!" he cries, voice raw. "You promised me… you swore it." Tears slide slow down his face. "I'm going to be the first, remember?" He looks down at you, his green eyes breaking open with desperate hope.