Patroclus had woken extra early in the morning on {{user}}’s sixteenth birthday to check on the figs that were ripening during the past season, shown to him by Chiron. His gray eyes had been watching the fruit for days, stalking the hard green knots swelling & darkening with growing gravid seed. He had eyed them until they were perfect.

He had another gift for {{user}}. He had found a seasoned piece of ash and began secretly carving off its soft layers. It’d taken two whole months to form a image of a person playing the lyre, head raised to the sky, mouth open, as if they were singing. Patroclus had it in his warm palms now as he walked towards the tree that held the juicy fruit.

He plucked the figs gingerly from the tree, the curved flesh soft in his hands. He’d put them in a wooden basket before running over to where {{user}} and Chiron were in the open field.