(no subject)

[amari_z]

Title: Fallow
Warnings: slash
Characters: Achilleus/Patroklos
Summary: Achilleus is annoyed; Patroklos contemplates alternative career paths.
Notes: For fanfic100 prompt 50 "spade." My table is here. General notes are here.


The fighting had been fierce for days, and at last the Trojans sent the herald Idaios to the Achaian camp to ask for a truce to allow each side to see to the dead. Yesterday, the bodies were gathered from the field. Today, no one stirred forth from the encampment of the Achaians, and no Trojan ventured out of the high walls. Instead, the morning sky was darkened by the smoke from the pyres of the burning dead.

The dead given their due rites, the fighting would resume on the morrow. The remainder of the day was spent in rest. Even after nearly five years of war, Achilleus found battle more invigorating than exhausting, but he did not chafe at the delay to their eventual, if long-coming, victory; he was happy at the prospect of spending an afternoon in pleasurable pursuits with Patroklos. The only problem was Patroklos, who had stood silently with him through the rites of the morning, had disappeared some time after noon when Achilleus had been called away to speak with Agamemnon.

Dealing with Agamemnon always put Achilleus in a foul mood as it was, and he grew more and more irritated as he strode through the Myrmidons’ camp and could not find Patroklos. He checked the tent they shared, the shelter where Xanthos and Balios were stabled, he found Menesthios, Peisandros, Eudoros, and Alkimedon, all at their leisure, but no Patroklos. He went down to the place in the river where Patroklos liked to swim; he checked the ships in case Patroklos had some task there. Nothing.

Everywhere he went he was greeted, but then left alone at the sight of the scowl on his face. He did not ask anyone for help--he was quite capable of finding Patroklos on his own. But at last, the afternoon wasted and now sure that Patroklos was no where in the Myrmidons’ camp, frustration drove him to stop Automedon. Automedon gazed back at him cautiously, as though afraid of being bitten. As civilly as he could manage, Achilleus growled out, "Have you seen Patroklos?"

Automedon blinked in sudden understanding--so that was what Achilleus had been doing stalking through the camp. The word to stay out of Achilleus’ path had spread quickly among the Myrmidons, who, while the bravest of men, were not stupid enough to stand in the way of Achilleus when he was angry. But then Automedon swallowed in consternation as he remembered when he had last seen Patroklos and realized that his answer was likely to anger Achilleus further. Cautiously, he said, "I saw him talking to Polites earlier. I think he went over with him to, er--the field."

The Myrmidons had been mocking some of the other Achaians’ efforts to grow crops on the land by the river, which was part of the rich Trojan farmland that had lain fallow since the war had started. Achilleus himself had been heard commenting that the Achaians had come to fight not to grub in the dirt like the lowest of peasants.

Polites was one of Odysseus’s men and it was Odysseus who allowed Polites to organize the project (Achilleus had taken to calling Odysseus the chief of the farmers), although men from many other kingdoms had joined in. In truth, although the high-born warriors belittled the idea, the men in the ranks were most of them farmers and herders--even if at home they had chattel to do the worst of the work. The longing for home was such that while the crops themselves would be more than welcome, it was perhaps homesickness that drove men to wish to put down their swords in exchange for plow handles, if only for a little while. But wily Odysseus knew that the crops would aid the Achaians efforts in more than just morale—the less time spent in plundering the surrounding lands for provisions, the quicker Troy could be brought down. Or so he had argued in the assembly.

But it was easy for the Myrmidons, led as they were by Achilleus, to feel contempt. They could afford to scoff at the efforts of these others, since they were always first into the surrounding cities that the Achaians sacked for supplies.

Automedon watched Achilleus’ reaction cautiously, but was relieved when, rather than asking what Patroklos was doing with such a low man, Achilleus only gave him a hard look before he strode off.


Helios’s chariot was near to the horizon and the newly tilled land was empty of its would-be farmers when Achilleus arrived. He at last found Patroklos after some searching but he was not pleased. Patroklos was laying on the freshly tilled soil, arms spread, staring up at the sky. He did not react to Achilleus' approach, which only increased Achilleus’ annoyance. Achilleus nudged at his leg with his foot. "This is no place to be napping."

"I'm not napping." Patroklos smiled up at him, but Achilleus did not wish to be disarmed. "I'm enjoying the scent of the earth."

Achilleus snorted. "If you want to be close to the dirt, then come and have a match with me. I’ll make sure that you have a chance to thoroughly smell it." Patroklos ignored that, and, while he was still irritated, somehow Achilleus found himself sitting down on the ground beside his friend. In truth, he could not stay annoyed with Patroklos. Although they had been together since they were children, they had only ever had one true fight.

"Can't you smell it?" Patroklos gathered up a handful of the dark, loose soil and held it out to Achilleus, who batted his hand away.

"Has some god stolen your wits?"

"Polites was telling me that they're ready to plant the seeds and will do so next time there is a break in the fighting." Patroklos's voice was low and dreamy, and there was a light in his eyes that Achilleus had not seen for sometime. "I've been wondering--"

"What?"

"This soil. It's richer than the soil of Phthia or Lorkis or anywhere at home."

"And?" It came out sharper than he intended.

Patroklos glanced at him and then away. He let the dirt shift through his fingers and sighed, the light in his eyes dulling. "Nothing."

The last of Achilleus' anger melted away at that and he leaned forward so he could see Patroklos's face clearly. His voice lost all of its sharpness, "Tell me."

At his tone, Patroklos just looked back at him for a long moment, his lips curving into a half smile, before he answered. "I was just thinking--we come here, and, if the gods will it, we will take the city and Menalaus will have his wife back. We then we will strip Troy of its wealth and its people and go home. And this rich soil, which is Demeter's treasure--on which we let spill so much of our own blood--we have no interest in it."

"You want to stay here? And farm?" Achilleus could not help smiling a little at the thought.

"I don't want to stay. I want to go home. But I don't know that it would be so bad a thing to be a farmer. It might be nice--to cultivate the gifts of the gods."

Achilleus had to laugh at that. "You always listened a bit too hard to Cheiron. Toiling in the dirt with your back bent, like a slave. Why would you want to do that?”

Patroklos answered him seriously. “Do you truly think it harder work than what we do here? He raised one hand from the dirt and gestured vaguely at the plain.

“I have little doubt it is easier work, but where's the glory in it?"

There was something almost like pain in Patroklos’s voice. "Perhaps in watching the efforts of your labor bloom."

Achilleus just looked at him for a moment. Patroklos was a fearless warrior, but in truth his heart was too tender and there were times when he had a surfeit of blood. It was not a warlike attitude, but Achilleus would not have changed it for all the riches in the world. In a gentle voice that few but Patroklos had heard, he said, "Perhaps it would not be so bad. But it is not your fate."

Patroklos turned his head then to look at Achilleus fully. Patroklos’s long hair was spread on the dirt, like the most golden of grain freshly reaped and fallen to the ground. Achilleus never tired of watching his face. Most mortals were by nature unobservant, so not many noticed his beauty on their first look, but it was a beauty that grew with each look thereafter, until those who knew him well found it almost unbearable. Achilleus, who knew him best of all, believed that there was nothing finer in the world.

Patroklos reached up to touch Achilleus face. "No," he said at last. "I suppose it is not."

They ended up coupling there on the rich smelling earth just as the sun was setting. Later, far later, near the end, Achilleus will dream of it--Patroklos's golden, warm flesh beneath him, the smell of the fresh-tilled land, which mixes with the scent of their bodies, so heady as to be intoxicating. Patroklos will arch up beneath him, spilling his seed, which will mingle with the earth, just as Achilleus knows that his blood did when he fell, enriching this land, which they do not even want to keep.