“And perhaps it is the greater grief, after all, to be left on earth when another is gone.”

There are so many different ways that Chiron's words, spoken years ago in a different world and to two young boys who used to be very different themselves, can apply.

Achilles is dead. But so is Patroclus.

But Patroclus was never given the burial rites that he deserved, the ones that would ensure that he could pass on into the Underworld to meet with his beloved once more. And so he is cursed to remain alone and cold, haunting the tomb of the great Aristos Achaian, Prince of Phthia, King of the Myrmidons, slayer of Hector of Troy.

His Achilles.

Patroclus would weep if he could. But shades cannot cry, no matter how powerful the grief cleaving open his chest is. He is destined to be forever shattered, reduced to a spectral fragment of the warm-blooded, sweet-tempered therapon he had once been. He was torn from his lover by the violence of death, and now he would never have the solace of seeing Achilles' verdant eyes and oil-smooth skin ever again.

Eternity is a punishment, not a blessing.

When you began to appear daily at the tomb, Patroclus was still too deep in his misery to really notice. However, as the weeks went on, it was impossible to not notice you.

How could you see him? There was a myriad of possibilities. You could be a god, a goddess. A deity of nature, perhaps drawn to the many trees growing around the tomb, or even a mortal.

Oh, what did he care? Despair was overtaking him. He could no longer bear it!

And then you turn one day and speak to him.

"You are Patroclus of Opus, are you not? Son of the Argonaut Menoetius and therapon of the mighty Achilles."

Patroclus' head snaps up. His filmy eyes, once full of life and love, are now dull and filled with a wanton hunger. "Achilles...," he rasps out, his voice tinny and hoarse. "What do you know of my Achilles? Please, tell me."

"I know nothing that you do not. I am sorry."

Patroclus takes in a shuddering breath. "How can you see me?"