The Song of Achilles

by Madeline Miller

“I am Patroclus, son of Menoitius.”

the Fates had foretold that her son would far surpass his father.

I gaped at the cold shock of his beauty, deep-green eyes, features fine as a girl’s.

“My name is Achilles.”

Achilles.

That is what a prince should be.

Here is where I tasted the full truth of Peleus’ kindness: well trained and indebted, we would one day make him a fine army.

No one spoke to me. I was easy to ignore. It was not so very different from home, really.

It was the only time I saw Achilles.

In the huge hall, his beauty shone like a flame, vital and bright, drawing my eye against my will.

Indeed, he seemed utterly unaware of his effect on the boys around him.

At least once a dinner he would turn and catch me before I could feign indifference.

Those seconds, half seconds, that the line of our gaze connected, were the only moment in my day that I felt anything at all.

His presence was like a stone in my shoe, impossible to ignore.

His gaze, which had been following the circling fruit, flickered to mine. I did not have time to look away before he said, softly but distinctly, “Catch.”

Without thinking, I brought the one he had thrown me to my lips.

“He is surprising.”

After a time, I found I could sleep again. Time after that, the dreams lessened and dropped away.

He was like a flame himself. He glittered, drew eyes.

“There is no one like you,” I said, at last.

As if he heard me, he smiled, and his face was like the sun.

And as we swam, or played, or talked, a feeling would come. It was almost like fear, in the way it filled me, rising in my chest. It was almost like tears, in how swiftly it came. But it was neither of those, buoyant where they were heavy, bright where they were dull.

It was enough.

I would not lose him yet.

He watches me. It seems that he is waiting.

I lean forward and our lips land clumsily on each other.

“Patroclus.” Pa-tro-clus.

“I hoped that you would come,”

Achilles had not gone to Chiron. He had waited, here. For me.

A chill went through me to see it touched, that place where Achilles’ life was so slenderly protected. I was glad when we spoke of other things.

I would know it in dark or disguise, I told myself. I would know it even in madness.

My mother’s lyre. He had brought it with him.

“Now I know how to make you follow me everywhere.”

So cute!

and we were happy.

“You would not be displeased, I think. With how you look now.”

Over nearly two months a shape had emerged—a boy playing the lyre,

He examined it, his fingertips moving over the small marks my knife had left behind. “It’s you,” I said, grinning foolishly. He looked up, and there was bright pleasure in his eyes. “I know,” he said.

It was a miracle.

A surety rose in me, lodged in my throat. I will never leave him. It will be this, always, for as long as he will let me.

“Patroclus,” he said. He was always better with words than I.

But then he was awake, his lips forming a half-sleepy greeting, and his hand was already reaching for mine. We lay there, like that, until the cave was bright with morning, and Chiron called.

our joy was so bright we could see nothing else but the other.

I loved this about him. No matter how many times I had asked, he answered me as if it were the first time.

“I’m going to be the first.” He took my palm and held it to his. “Swear it.” “Why me?” “Because you’re the reason. Swear it.” “I swear it,” I said, lost in the high color of his cheeks, the flame in his eyes. “I swear it,” he echoed.

If I stayed still enough, perhaps we would not have to go.

“You do not give things up so easily now as you once did,”

“Father, I do not see a place for Patroclus.”

“Patroclus is my sworn companion. His place is beside me.”

We reached for each other, and I thought of how many nights I had lain awake in this room loving him in silence.

“His mother has him. She took him last night as he was sleeping. They are gone, no one knows where.”