Clysonymus: A friend of Patroklos, who is accidentally murdered in a game of dice.
Menoetius: Patroklos' father
Alexandros: Trojan Prince before he took the name 'Paris.'


The sky eats itself nightly;
a ferocious red yawn.

They met in the forest – where the cave dwellers puff at the air with tempestuous Gods and guardian's deeper still in the hills. Before Alexandros howled in the snow tipped corners of the world for the most beautiful of prizes, before he ran home toward Troy to destroy the world with the taste of her specter on his lips, her flesh already between his teeth.

They met in the forest – Patroklos in dreaming of Clysonymus, of his briar bones crooked on the funeral pyre, of his kith and kin, or his father slightly ahead in those same dreams cursing his prince for the accidental death of day-worshippers. Menoetius was always a king of night; a king in twisted fate, once sailing with the God-Brother Jason on the Argo catching fish with his lined palms. Menoetius, who followed his son into exile.

They met in the forest – Patroklos with his staff unsheathed, pointed afar. Fate hungry for forest, and game, and war – and warriors are all the same.

Achilles appears as a ghost.

A boy, so much younger than the lover who first betook him.

It was in the forest that Patroklos first put his lips to the boys throat whispering: you are no one until the world knows your name.

It was Patroklos who first taught him to spar. Take his weapon to his enemy's throat and cut the deepest pearls from their skins. Though it was Achilles who brought his body to his brother sometime later, whispering: I am no one, though, I am yours.

When they came to the shores of Troy they laid themselves out across the night like swollen gasps of time, sucking duration and proclamation – Patroklos killer of the sons of Zeus, and all the while Achilles pulling him back. Tenderly, he takes him in his arms, though when day comes they separate, move through the crowds of war; plow their paths with sand, and blood, and time.

"Will you leave me thus!" Achilles shouts, the bitterness of the dawn hot on the flaps of the tent, the ocean is a calamity somewhere deep in their inner ears.

"Let me end this!"

"War is who we are!"

"Let me end this!"

When the body is brought to Achilles the sun breaks in the sky.

He will not allow it to be burned for days, instead he will lay atop the pre built mound with it. Whispering. Cursing.

When he finally rises to let the fires be set the Greeks stand mollified while he walks to the gates – Alexandros stands withered from his lusts, still drunk on her, still feasting from his cursed wife long into the day; long into the night.

He takes Hector as a prize, nothing more.

To know war is to be Greek.

Accidentally placed on the footpath of guardians and Gods – to wander the lonely woods – to destroy that which thrives and flourishes to devastate you.

The sky eats itself nightly;
a ferocious red yawn.

a/n: for Jack (InTheory)