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For many crowns of violets and roses at my side you put on
and woven garlands, made of flowers, around your soft throat
And with sweet oil, costly, you anointed yourself
and on a soft bed, delicate, you would let loose your longing
Fragment 94, Sappho, tr. by Anne Carson
When Achilles lifted his arms, they looked like wings.
It was the ease of the motion, the grace. It was in the way the wrists curved, so delicately, fingers extending from the soft pads of his palms like feathers. It was in the arc they drew over his head, only to fall once more, faintly, faintly.
Then they lifted again, and it was like a bird taking flight.
I was not the only one watching him in awe. Lycomedes’ hall was full of people, tables packed and overflowing with food platters and bronze cups, with servants silently weaving amongst the bystanders. The other dancers moved around him, the hems of their dresses whispering, but at that moment, for me, there was only him.
Most days, Achilles was aware of the effect he had on people, however little it concerned him. That day, though, he seemed entirely oblivious of the crowd, moving for the sake of the movement, his feet tapping the ground gently, his legs prettily curving, in love with their own motion. He tossed his head back, and the golden hair underneath the purple cloth that bound it glittered in the shifting flames of the lit braziers. The large room was drab and colourless even with the bright tablecloths and the decorations on the walls, but Achilles was swirling in the midst of it, catching the light, like a jewel.
The music of the flute, the cymbals and the lyre rose and fell in time with the dancers’ practiced movements, and the people around me watched, enthralled, some even forgetting to drink the wine that the servants were pouring in their cups. When the music finally drew to a close, the dancers gathered in a semicircle and curtsied, lifting their skirts slightly to show their slender ankles.
They all straightened in unison and the people around me slowly stirred from their rapture, like a spell lifting. Achilles looked up, his eyes searching mine in the crowd. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes were shining with satisfaction; I could not help but smile at him. He smiled back as the dancers departed in single file back to their quarters to change.
I took a sip of watered down, spiced wine. Lycomedes’ feasts were usually modest —Skyros was not a wealthy island— but the wine was always sweet and fragrant, easy on the tongue. My food lay before me in my plate, untouched, and Achilles’ was beside me. Ever since I had come to Skyros, he had stopped taking his meals with the other dancers, sitting beside me at Lycomedes’ table instead.
I leaned back in my seat, my eyes scanning the room as I waited for him to return.
The dancers, one by one, entered the hall again and returned to their seats. Achilles was not amongst them.
Curious, I approached one of the dancers that I had seen him speaking with once or twice, a girl with curly hair and dark, tilted eyes. “Where is Pyrrha?” I asked her in a low voice.
She glanced up at me, a little startled. “She stayed in the women’s hall,” she replied simply. “She was feeling unwell.”
Her words surprised me. Achilles seemed perfectly fine a moment earlier; what could have happened in the space of minutes to make him feel so unwell?
I thanked the girl, and immediately departed. The corridors beyond the hall were dark and cool, and thoroughly void of guards, servants and passers-by. They had all gathered at the hall, where food was being served. I made my way to the far side of the palace on quick, silent feet, like a shadow.
I hesitated only for a moment before pushing the door to the women’s quarters open. No man was supposed to enter there, other than certain trusted guards, but my curiosity and concern for Achilles got the better of me.
“Pyrrha?” I called quietly, and then, when I received no answer, “Achilles?”
Silence met my words. I followed the path of lit torches to the far end of the corridor, which led to a large room. It was humbly decorated, like the rest of the palace, but the embroidered rags on the floor were newly made and vibrant in colour and the stone benches were covered in plush cushions. A half finished piece of colourful cloth was stretched on the loom shuttle in a corner, and coiling tendrils of fragrant incense smoke drifted towards the ceiling from the braziers.
“Achilles?” I called again, then I walked in.
A whisper of fabric behind me, so faint I thought I’d imagined it. The door clicked shut and the latch was drawn before I could so much as blink, then a piece of cloth fell over my eyes.
“Got you,” I heard Achilles’ voice next to my ear.
I laughed, bringing my hands up to touch the fabric he had placed over my eyes. It was the same one he used to bind his hair, purple with embroidered red and yellow flowers, and it smelled of him: almonds, crushed rose petals and pomegranate, the musk of his skin.
“What are you doing?”
Achilles did not reply as he tied the cloth securely at the back of my head. His slender fingers then slid down the side of my neck, following the line of my collarbone, the curve of my shoulder. “What does it look like?”
My skin prickled as he moved lower, caressing the length of my arm. “Lycomedes is waiting for us in the hall, Achilles,” I said, trying to keep my voice level. I could tell he was in the mood for games, but that was hardly the place, or the time. “He’ll want to make a toast; we have to be there.”
“We will. In time.” His breath skimmed my cheek, and his lips brushed the shell of my ear. His light and careful touch sent a shiver down my spine, and I barely bit back gasp when his arms came around me, pulling me flush against him. “But first: this.”
I swallowed thickly, trying to retain whatever little control I had left. “What if someone comes in?”
“I have locked the door.”
“What if someone walks by and hears us?”
His smile was pressed against my skin; I could tell it was a wicked, mischievous one. “Then you’ll have to be quiet, won’t you?”
I could only let out a breathless chuckle as Achilles moved around me and caught my hand. I let him guide me to one of the benches, close to the window. A crisp breeze was blowing, caressing my skin, and I shivered when Achilles pushed me gently down upon the cushions and kissed me.
His lips were soft, delicate, when they brushed my own. I sighed into the kiss, my worries about anyone seeing or hearing us quickly melting away. His tongue, when it brushed over my own, tasted of sweet, honeyed wine.
I surrendered myself to his touch, to his palm that slowly skimmed the length of my leg and slithered underneath my tunic, slowly slithering upwards. A quiet moan escaped me when his lips left mine to kiss my jaw, my neck, my collarbone. I reached up to lift the scarf that he had placed over my eyes, but Achilles deftly caught my wrist.
“No peeking.”
I laughed. “Am I supposed to stay in the dark, then, while you can see?”
“Yes.”
“That doesn’t sound fair, does it?”
Achilles undid the clasp of my tunic, the fabric loosening over my shoulder. “It is fair.” He pushed it down, until I was bared to the waist. Achilles’ lips raised goosebumps along my skin when he pressed soft kisses down the center of my chest. His tongue flicked over my nipple, his teeth then closing gently over it. “For me.”
“That is, perhaps, the exact opposite of ‘fair’,” I protested half-heartedly, but already I could feel my defences evaporating at his every touch.
“No peeking. Swear it.”
“Alright,” I sighed in acquiescence, arching underneath him. “I swear it.”
It always had this effect, Achilles’ touch on me: no matter how hard I would try to keep my composure, my thoughts would soon drift away to be replaced by the sure and sharp desires that his soft lips and deft hands sparked within me. It was a familiar jest between us, that whatever argument I would think to bring up during times like these would just crumble and dissolve as soon as I felt his lips on me, his hands, his tongue.
My tunic was swiftly pulled down and discarded. I caught the faint whisper of the fabric as it touched the floor beside us. Achilles’ mouth moved lower, following the line of soft hair that led to my navel; I shivered in anticipation, gripping the cushions beside me to keep my hands from straying to the blindfold.
“Gods,” I gasped quietly when his lips closed around me, enveloping me in slick, velvet heat.
He moved slowly, his tongue moving in broad strokes; he knew the rhythm I liked, the pace, the pressure. My hand moved as if on its own to cup the back of his neck as he gave me pleasure, feeling the silken locks slipping through my fingers. I knew what he looked like even without seeing: I could see the flushed lips, the rosy cheeks, the heavy lidded gaze. I could see him, in my mind’s eye.
With every motion of his mouth and fingers my desire grew bolder, stronger. I wanted to see him with my own two eyes.
I lifted the blindfold and gazed down at him. His lips were full and glistening as they wrapped around me, the cascading waves of his hair framed his face, his eyes were dark with wanting. I reached down to caress his hollowed cheek with the tip of my finger.
“You are so beautiful,” I sighed, “Achilles.”
He slid his mouth off of me when he saw me looking, and frowned. “I said, no peeking.”
I bit my bottom lip, grinning. I said, “I’m sorry,” though I wasn’t, really.
“You swore.”
“I know.” I cupped his neck, pulling him up to bring his lips to mine. I kissed him hard, my tongue slipping past his teeth to twine with his. “Some oaths are made to be broken.”
Achilles moaned softly, rocking against me. I caught him by the waist and rolled him underneath me, coming on top of him. Though he was stronger than me, slightly taller, he was slender and agile and moved easily along with me. He gazed up at me, the flames from the braziers dancing in his eyes. His hair was spread like a halo around his head, the golden strands matching the swirls of the embroidered cushions beneath him.
He looked so vulnerable, so soft when he gazed at me like this, eyes sparkling with desire and expectation. My pulse beat hard in my throat when I reached down, to his ankles, and pushed up the rich fabric of his skirts. The dress did not look foreign on him; Achilles had always been graceful in his movements, and there was something soft about his features, delicate, like a woman’s. Now, as I smoothed my palm over the silky skin of his calves, the muscles of his strong thighs, revealing more of him, he was a creature of gold and ivory, of bone and rough cut jade. Neither man, nor woman, neither hero nor legend, not yet; floating in the spaces in between, he was mine. Mine. My Achilles.
Outside, beyond this door, in the halls and the palaces and in the eyes of all men, he shone like the midday sun, his rays touching everyone that gazed upon him. Here, in this room, he shone just for me.
“Achilles,” I whispered as my fingers curled around his length. Achilles gasped against my lips, arching into my touch and thrusting in my palm. I kissed him hungrily, moving with him, drinking in his moans and his gasps.
The wick of the oil lamp flickered beside us, releasing a sweet scent of roses and beeswax. I reached out and dipped my fingers in the warm oil, then reached down between us once more, smoothing the liquid between his legs.
I pushed inside him gently, one finger, then another, watching his every expression as if I were a starving man. Achilles’ eyelids fluttered in pleasure, his hips rising to meet my hand.
“Patroclus—” he breathed as he writhed, pleading for more. He wrapped his long legs around me, pulling me close. “Patroclus, I want you, I—” He licked my lips, caught my tongue between his teeth. “I need you. I need you, philtatos.”
I shuddered at the sound of his voice, the words that left his lips. He always, always knew the right things to say.
I carefully pulled my fingers out and pressed myself against him, pushing past the tight ring of muscle. I whispered praise and sweet nothings against his lips as I did —I must have— but my thoughts were dispersing swiftly like the coiling tendrils of incense smoke when the breeze blew. Gods, you’re so warm, so soft, I might have breathed in his hair while I thrust slowly, opening him up; or you’re beautiful, you’re so beautiful, my Achilles, I might have gasped against his palm when I brought it up to my lips to kiss it; or, perhaps, I sighed philtatos as he locked his ankles behind me, pulling me closer, philtatos as he threaded his fingers through my hair and kissed me breathless, drawing air from my lungs, philtatos, philtatos, philtatos, my beloved, my Achilles.
In truth, I cannot remember. It always had this effect on me, Achilles’ touch.
I remember his smile, sharp and wicked when he pushed me on my back and climbed on top of me, straddling me. His hair fell in dishevelled curls of spun gold down his shoulders, and the fabric of his skirt bunched around his waist. His dress was a mess, only half of it undone in our haste, though Achilles seemed to care about it not at all. The buttons and laces down the front were open to his navel, leaving his chest exposed, the rest of the rich fabric falling to his elbows. He was swaying on top of me, head thrown back and lips half parted in ecstasy, eyes closed.
Our pleasure soared in tandem as he moved, taking me deeper with every roll of his hips. I smoothed my palm up his chest and curled my hand around his slender throat, caressing the arch of it with my thumb.
“Look at me,” I whispered. “Look at me, Achilles. Open your eyes.”
I waited until the fair eyelashes lifted and revealed warm, jade eyes, eyes that gazed at me with hunger, warmth and adoration, everything that was pure, everything that was him.
I held that gaze as if it were a lifeline as I thrust faster, sinking deeper and deeper inside him, chasing those shimmering threads that tied us to each other. I watched his every expression as we leapt over the edge and let the waves of warmth and pleasure wash over us, as we both came undone. Achilles was shivering on top of me when I reached down and took him in my hand, stroking him through his finish. The beads of his seed shone on the fabric of his dress, white on white.
Achilles collapsed on top of me with a sigh. His heart was beating frantically against my chest, the thrum of it mingling with my own until I couldn’t tell them apart. I held him close to me, nose buried in his hair, letting the sweet and musky scent of his skin fill my lungs as my pulse quietened, breath by breath.
I could not tell how long we stayed like this, entangled. The night breeze blew crisp and chilly from the half open window, and over the gentle trill of the crickets I could just make out the sounds of music and chatter coming from the main hall.
Achilles hummed softly as he rolled off of me to lay beside me, nestled against my side on the narrow bench. His features were calm and tensionless, and he had the softest of smiles on his flush, bitten lips.
“Think Lycomedes has finished with his toast?” I asked, gazing into the night.
“Gods, I hope so,” Achilles said, and his voice was still a little hoarse from passion. “They always seem to go for hours.”
I looked down at him with a knowing smile. “Pleased with yourself, are you?”
He cracked open one eye to peek at me, the edges of his lips curling even more. “Whatever for?”
“Because it seems your ruse was a success, after all,” I mused teasingly, shifting on my side to face him. “Drawing me away from the hall just so you could avoid listening to Lycomedes’ toasts.”
Achilles huffed a quiet, sleepy laugh. “I did nothing. You came on your own.”
“You knew I would,” I chuckled, drawing him closer. The skin of his brow was hot when I pressed my lips to it, smooth like silk. I closed my eyes.
Wherever you are, I thought, you know I’ll follow.