Cleansing

Slowly but surely, Patroclus was healing. The pain that came with an arrow wound in his side, he had expected, but he had not anticipated a different sort of torture; waiting in the tent every day, desperately pouring libations and praying fervently that Achilles would come back.

Intellectually, he knew that whether he was on or off of the battlefield made little difference in Achilles’ chances, but he couldn’t help wondering, all the same, if that one man he might have killed would let a random spear fly, and if that spear were to hit Achilles…it didn’t make sense, but few emotions do in the face of helplessness. He had only been absent from fighting once before, three years ago, when he had caught a deadly fever. This emotion was new, however, because the last time the fever had left him totally insensible, unable to register lists of deaths, or dangers to his lover.

And there was no getting back to the battlefield, either. Achilles had told him, in no uncertain terms, that even if he had to tie Patroclus to the bed, there was no way he was rejoining the war until Memnos had declared him totally well again. Patroclus had tried futilely, to convince him otherwise, but to no avail.

It made little difference to Achilles that the healer had much more important things to do in the middle of a war than to see if one warrior’s wound was quite through healing, and it was obvious that Achilles’ refusal to allow Patroclus to fight made little or no difference to many men in combat every day. As Patroclus, desperate for something to occupy his time, cleaned and re-cleaned his own armor (he would have cleaned Achilles’, but it was always in use), he could hear the faint voices of combatants passing by, and he always imagined that they were all whispering about him, imagined that they all thought him weak, and a co.
.

Finally, after nearly a week in ‘captivity,’ Patroclus was finished with being cosseted. For the first few days, he had enjoyed the evenings aast,ast, as Achilles had returned from the fighting to regale him with tales of battle and bravery, and would wash him and make love to him after changiis bis bandages. By now, however, his wound had scabbed over cleanly, and was as healed as it was going to get from bed rest. No matter ho mov moved, it didn’t break open, so he attempted to slip past his impromptu guards (two of Achilles’ Myrmidons no longer fit for combat--one of whom had lost a leg in the war, the other who had lost his sight). Both men were under strict orders from Achilles not to allow Patroclus to leave his tent, and were surprisingly hard to evade.

Despite his repeated assurances that he was only going to see Memnos, which confused his guards to no end, as they didn’t know if that was allowed or not, he was time and time again returned kindly to his tent with admonitions that it was for his own good .

Glowering, Patroclus waited for Achilles to return, ready to give him a piece of his mind.

**********************************************************

Achilles swiped his forehead with the back of his hand, lip curling in disgust as it came away slick with sweat from the exertion of battle and the heat of the Trojan summer. As he ploughed his way through the sands, he heard Odysseus’ voice calling out to him and paused, waiting for the older man to catch up.

“Another day like that one,” the Ithacan king said jovially, clapping the younger man on the shoulder, “and the Trojans will have no choice but to surrender! You fought very well today, my friend.”

Achilles smiled wryly, recalling that of all the people who said that to him, this man’s opinion was the only one he really valued apart from his old teacher, Chiron the centaur. Odysseus had seen his own share of fighting, and had nothing to gain and nobody to court favor with for his opinions. He replied, “Thank you, Odysseus, and pass my compliments onto your men. You’ve trained them very well.” He turned to make his way to his tent, but Odysseus placed a restraining hand on his arm.

“If I were you,” the king began, “I wouldn’t speak too much of today’s battle around your tentmate. You know he feels left out.”

Achilles nodded, and headed off to his tent. He nodded to the two men he had left to watch over Patroclus, and wondered why they looked so relieved to see him. Shrugging it off, he pushed aside the tent flap and stepped inside.

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he unbuckled his sword, tossing it aside, he was alarmed not to see his lover, when all of a sudden he felt something pounce on him from behind. Immediately, he reacted by springing into a combat pose, but was taken so off-guard that he found himself flat on his back, his wrists pinned over his head. His enemy was quick and strong, but by the gods, he had chosen the wrong man to attack. He furiously readied himself to head-butt his opponent when the face above him came into focus, and he stopped struggling. “Patroclus?” he asked in disbelief.

The young man released his lover’s hands and sat back on his heels, looking satisfied. “I’m obviously well enough to hold my own in combat. Now, will you let me out of this tent?”

In a flash, Achilles lunged forward and reversed their positions, seating himself on Patroclus’ legs and trapping both of his hands in one of his own above his head. His lover squirmed, trying to free himself, but then felt Achilles’ other hand right where his neck met his chest, and abruptly stopped moving. Achilles leaned down so that his lips brushed Patroclus’ ear, and hissed, “Never do that again, unless you want to find yourself in a very dangerous position.” His eyes burned holes into Patroclus, making the smaller man gulp, then nod.

Achilles did not, however, release his lover immediately, as he had expected. Instead, he dipped his head down to capture Patroclus’ lips in his own, slowly and sensuously melting his lover’s tenseness away, but not loosening his grip on the other man’s wrists in the slightest. Patroclus sighed through his nose, luxuriating in the silky feeling even while wishing Achillouldould stop being so gentle, as he had been since his lover’s injury. He loved the change, of course, but at the same time wanted things as they used to be, before Achilles took mother henning into his head.

Achilles softly released Patroclus’ lips with a small look of regret, then locked eyes with his lover once again, and whispered, “So you think you’re ready to rejoin the field, do you?” At Patroclus’ nod, he continued, “And has Memnos told you that you’re well enough?”

“Memnos has too many patients dying and being fatally wounded in battle to take the time to reassure you, Achilles!” Patroclus replied hotly, once again struggling to free himself from Achilles’ relentless grasp.

Achilles frowned, but Patroclus could tell that he could see the reason in his argument. Patroclus pressed, “If I could hold my own with you earlier, surely I’m well enough to fight Trojans. Don’t you agree?”

Achilles smiled, saying, “You surprised one man, alone, off his guard, in the dark, for a moment. That hardly qualifies you for a war, in my opinion.”

Patroclus winced as Achilles shifted his weight, reflecting that he really should have pounced on Achilles after the other man had removed his armor. His lover’s breastplate was digging into his stomach, and Patroclus could feel Achilles’ sword prodding his thigh. Patroclus shifted, trying to re-angle the weapon, then blushed as he remembered that Achilles had removed his sword earlier. Apparently, Patroclus wasn’t the only one who missed the way things used to be between them ... he arched his eyebrow at his lover, and changed his strategy. He murmured, “Well, then, what can I do to convince you that I’m well enough to strive with the best, mighty Achilles?”

He knew instantly that he had won, as Achilles lips curved in a slow smile and released his lover’s hands. Patroclus was confused for a moment as Achilles rose, but then understood when the warrior began to shed his armor, along with the rest of his clothing. Patroclus shivered as he beheld his lover in all his glory, from his still sweat-soaked hair to his now sandal-free toes, pausing importantly to survey his lover’s erection, standing out proudly from the rest of his body.

Patroclus loved seeing Achilles nude, as he had ever since he had met the other man, many years ago in Larissa. When he was still a boy of twelve, he had loved to bathe with Achilles after an intense combat training session, had loved to watch his older companion’s graceful form as he dove into the water, was struck with envy of every one of the droplets cascading down his perfect body. The gods themselves could not compare with such perfection, Patroclus was certain. For there was not a single flaw, not one blemish upon his magnificence, that much he knew.

The owner of the much-admired form advanced on his lover, covering the other’s nude body with his own. Patroclus gasped at the sudden contact, loving the feel of Achilles’ hot skin, as Achilles claimed his mouth once more.

There was no gentleness in his kiss, only a burning desire that would either inflame or consume. Patroclus met him passion for passion, ready to be devoured as he sank into his lover’s embrace. He let out a startled moan as Achilles ground his hips against his own, feeling his hot flesh throb with wanting, as Achilles mercilessly increased the friction, nearly driving Patroclus insane. He never wanted it to end, the glorious sensations thare wre washing over him. Gentleness, tenderness, these things were good in moderation, but there was a time and a place for savage hunger, and this was it.

Abruptly, the body above his was gone, and Patroclus cried out in dismay. He was soon silenced, though, by an amorous kiss, and two strong hands grabbing his hips and twisting him around to face the ground. He heard Achilles growl in his ear, and felt one of those powerful arms slip around his stomach, hauling him onto his hands and knees. He heard his lover groping for something, and immediately realized what it was as he felt a hot oiled finger slide into his entrance, making him moan loudly. Achilles added his fingers in quick succession, readying his lover thoroughly, harshly.

Patroclus began thrusting backwards, loving the feel of those fingers deep inside of him, wanting more, and all too soon, Achilles removed them. Patroclus had no time to mourn their loss, however, as he almost immediately felt something larger positioned at his opening, and Achilles took him with a noise that sounded more jungle cat than human.

It was something wild, feral that Patroclus had wanted, and that was exactly what he got. There were no whisperings of love, no soft strokings of flesh, no tender caresses, merely the harsh, brutal thrusting of the greatest warrior in the world, filling him again and again with his rock-hard manhood, the pang of his shoulder, being roughly bitten hard enough to draw blood, and that strong arm around his waist, insistently yanking him back onto his lover’s cock, again and again.

“Mmmh,” Patroclus moaned, riding his lover for all he was worth. It was too much, he knew, but he wanted more. “Harder, Achilles. Harder!”

Achilles loved it when he talked, he knew, so as his lover thrust faster, deeper, he moaned, “Want you...want you deep inside me...take me harder, Achilles! Harder!”

With a growl, his lover complied, ramming Patroclus backwards at the same time he thrust forward, jamming his hardness in all the way to the hilt, leaving Patroclus unable even to beg for more, filling him completely, slamming his hips against Patroclus’ again and again, until Patroclus began to shake uncontrolably, screaming his lover’s name as he climaxed, Achilles roughly grabbing his erection and pumping it ruthlessly until his spurts stopped.

His arms buckled, and he collapsed, held upright only by Achilles hands, both on his hips now, as he slammed himself into Patroclus again and again until he came with a hoarse shout.

He too collapsed, and disengaged himself from his lover, panting hard. When their breathing had returned to normal, he whispered, “Be ready to march at dawn tomorrow, love.”