The Song of Achilles

by Madeline Miller

Perhaps Peleus’ blond-haired son would be equal to this, I thought.

Three sets of hands, prettily adorned with bracelets, lay quiet in their laps. One of the women was taller than the other two.

Even as a child I felt it, and I marveled at the power of this woman who, though veiled, could electrify a room.

The boy’s family demanded immediate exile or death.

This was how I came to be ten, and an orphan. This is how I came to Phthia.

I could still remember the dark wreath against his bright hair, the way his pink soles had flashed along the track. That is what a son should be.

He rolled onto his side to face me. A stray lock of gold fell half into his eyes; he blew it away. “My name is Achilles.”

That night I dreamed of the dead boy, his skull cracked like an egg against the ground. He has followed me.

I froze, caught between flight and fury. Anger won. This was mine, and he would not push me from it, no matter how many boys he brought.

Therapon was the word he used. A brother-in-arms sworn to a prince by blood oaths and love.

“Patroclus.” Achilles did not slur my name, as people often did, running it together as if in a hurry to be rid of it. Instead, he rang each syllable: Pa-tro-clus.

At night I still dreamed of the dead boy. But when I woke, sweaty and terror-stricken, the moon would be bright on the water outside and I could hear the lick of the waves against the shore. In the dim light I saw his easy breathing, the drowsy tangle of his limbs. In spite of myself, my pulse slowed. There was a vividness to him, even at rest, that made death and spirits seem foolish. 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.

He said what he meant; he was puzzled if you did not. Some people might have mistaken this for simplicity. But is it not a sort of genius to cut always to the heart?

“There is no one like you,” I said, at last. He regarded me a moment, in silence. “So?” Something in the way he spoke it drained the last of my anger from me. I had minded, once. But who was I now, to begrudge such a thing? As if he heard me, he smiled, and his face was like the sun.

This feeling was different. I found myself grinning until my cheeks hurt, my scalp prickling till I thought it might lift off my head. My tongue ran away from me, giddy with freedom.

For who can be ashamed to lose to such beauty? It was enough to watch him win, to see the soles of his feet flashing as they kicked up sand, or the rise and fall of his shoulders as he pulled through the salt. It was enough.

Among our bragging, ranting heroes, Peleus was the exception: a man of modesty.

Gods were cold and distant, far off as the moon, nothing like his bright eyes, the warm mischief of his smiles.

We were only twelve, too young to brood.

Oh no, Patroclus you werent supposed to know

Achilles was taller still, seeming to tower above me. Eventually we would be of a height, but he came to his maturity sooner, with a startling speed, primed perhaps by the divinity in his blood.

“You are not. You are tormenting our poor Skops.”

I lean forward and our lips land clumsily on each other. They are like the fat bodies of bees, soft and round and giddy with pollen. I can taste his mouth—hot and sweet with honey from dessert. My stomach trembles, and a warm drop of pleasure spreads beneath my skin. More.

could leave. The thought was sudden, arresting. I had come to the road meaning only to escape the sea. But the path lay before me, and the mountains. And Achilles. My chest rose and fell rapidly, as if trying to keep pace with my thoughts. I had nothing that belonged to me, not a tunic, not a sandal; they were Peleus’ all. I do not need to pack, even. Only my mother’s lyre, kept in the wooden chest within the inner room, stayed me.

“Patroclus.” Pa-tro-clus.

said. My stomach rolled, awash with nerves and relief at once. I drank him in, the bright hair, the soft curve of his lips upwards. My joy was so sharp I did not dare to breathe. I do not know what I might have said then. I’m sorry, perhaps. Or perhaps something more. I opened my mouth.

“Yes.” My cheeks warmed. Achilles, his jaw jutting, had thrown the word back with no hesitation.

“There is no law that gods must be fair, Achilles,” Chiron said. “And perhaps it is the greater grief, after all, to be left on earth when another is gone. Do you think?” “Perhaps,” Achilles admitted. I listened and did not speak. Achilles’ eyes were bright in the firelight, his face drawn sharply by the flickering shadows. I would know it in dark or disguise, I told myself. I would know it even in madness.

“I wish I had known,” I said the first day, when he had showed it to me. “I almost did not come, because I did not want to leave it.” He smiled. “Now I know how to make you follow me everywhere.”

I stood, unsteadily, and obeyed. “You have lived too long with mortals, Centaur,” I heard her say before the animal skins closed behind me. I sagged against the cave’s wall; my throat tasted brackish and raw. “Achilles,” I said. His eyes opened, and he was beside me before I could speak again. “Are you all right?” “Your mother is here,” I said. I saw the tightening of muscle beneath his skin. “She did not hurt you?”

“You are wider here also,” he said. “And this.” His finger touched, gently, the soft bulb that had emerged from my throat. I swallowed, and felt his fingertip ride against the motion. “Where else?” I asked. He pointed to the trail of fine, dark hair that ran down my chest and over my stomach. He paused, and my face grew warm.

I will never leave him. It will be this, always, for as long as he will let me.

We were like gods at the dawning of the world, and our joy was so bright we could see nothing else but the other.

“Tell me.” I loved it when he was like this. “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.

“Father, I do not see a place for Patroclus.” My blush went even deeper. “Achilles,” I began in a whisper. It does not matter, I wanted to say. I will sit with the men; it is all right. But he ignored me.

Making myself as small as I could, I followed Achilles to our seats. “She’ll hate me now,” I said. “She already hates you,” he answered, with a flash of smile.

No, I thought. My hand tightened on the edge of the chair. Not yet. Across from me Thetis’ face was cool and still, her eyes distant. She knew this was coming, I realized. She wants him to go.

Menoitiades.

Achilles’ mouth tightened. “There will be other wars.” Peleus did not nod, exactly. But I saw him register the truth of it. “What of Patroclus, then? He is called to serve.” “He is no longer the son of Menoitius. He is not bound by the oath.” Pious Peleus raised an eyebrow. “There is some shuffling there.”

I had lain awake in this room loving him in silence. Later, Achilles pressed close for a final, drowsy whisper. “If you have to go, you know I will go with you.” We slept.

You do not give up so easily as you once did.

I could recognize him by touch alone, by smell; I would know him blind, by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth. I would know him in death, at the end of the world.

WHEN I FOUND ACHILLES again, I pressed myself to him in relief at the joy between us, at being released from her sadness and hurt. Later, I almost convinced myself it had not happened, that it had been a vivid dream, drawn from his descriptions and too much imagination. But that is not the truth.

“I would not care,” I said. The words scrabbled from my mouth. “Whatever you became. It would not matter to me. We would be together.” “I know,” he said quietly, but did not look at me.

He was spring, golden and bright. Envious Death would drink his blood, and grow young again.

“Will you come with me?” he asked. The never-ending ache of love and sorrow. Perhaps in some other life I could have refused, could have torn my hair and screamed, and made him face his choice alone. But not in this one. He would sail to Troy and I would follow, even into death. “Yes,” I whispered. “Yes.”

His eyes, green as spring leaves, met mine. “Patroclus. I have given enough to them. I will not give them this.” After that, there was nothing more to say.

“And this? Surely, I would not have forgotten this.” His cat’s smile. “Tell me I did not.” “You did not.” “There is this, too.” His hand was ceaseless now. “I know I have told you of this.” I closed my eyes. “Tell me again,”

This is what I will miss. I think: I will kill myself rather than miss it. I think: How long do we have?

He no longer belongs to me alone.