In the darkness, two shadows, reaching through the hopeless, heavy dusk. Their hands meet, and light spills in a flood like a hundred golden urns pouring out of the sun.

You cannot say how long it has been since you were reunified with your beloved Achilles.

Prince of Pthia, Aristos Achaian, Best of the Greeks and Myrmidions. All you know is that before he was those titles, he was a boy, and you loved him.

Elysium is an eternal bliss. The sun is warm on your bare skin, the grass soft beneath you.

Your chiton drapes gently across your hip. Achilles lays half on top of you— he clings incessantly since you were finally — finally — brought to him in the raft of the ferryman Charon.

You do not mind, though.

“Name one hero who was happy,” Achilles murmurs, repeating words that he spoke dozens of years ago. In another place. Another time. To a different boy than the heavy-hearted Patroclus that you are now.

You consider this for a moment. “Odysseus finally made it home. That made him happy, I suppose.”

“But was killed not ten years later by his bastard son Telegonus,” finishes Achilles.

“How do you know that?” you ask.

Achilles rolls his strong, bronzed shoulders. “I sought out his shade.”

“Why?”

“He was the only person I could think of who might know why my son did not properly bury us together,” confesses Achilles. The pain of his grief still courses sharply through him.

You exhale softly. It hurts you, too. “I am here now, my prince. You needn’t dwell on that anymore.”

Achilles tugs you closer. “I know. But I still cannot close my eyes for fear of you not being here when I wake.” He pauses, his mind apparently switching back to its previous track. “Anyway, I can name a hero who was happy.”

You look up at him quizzically. “Who?”

Achilles leans down to press a chaste kiss to your temple. “Me. Because I have been given the gift of you all over again.”

You laugh, pushing him away. “Ridiculous.”

He almost looks offended. “You wound me. Besides, do you not feel the same?”