All That Was Golden
By Orion O’Connell
Achilles—golden, beloved—trades father’s crown for one made of flowers and blushes as the maidens call them beautiful. They were always made for war, not for roses. To touch them is to bleed. To be close is to provoke destiny. Such things, the heroes of legend, are not meant to be soft. If the hero must be painted in red, must it be with blood and not something gentle, more delicate, like the petals of such flowers, velvet on skin.
They delight in their new name and bury the secret in their heart, lets it catch fire, spins it into dance. Repeats it as bare feet skip across palace grounds. Pyrrha. Red, and not golden.
And she wishes there weren’t a war. Wishes to be beautiful, clothed in silk, and painted as art. Wishes for no more than to be lovely. And this, too, is like a flower. Beautiful in the moment, but quick to fade, to die. To become nothing.
Pyrrha would become nothing. End as nothing.
Achilles would win the war, achieve immortality in stories.
Pyrrha dances with pretty maidens, forgets the world. Doesn’t forget Patroclus, the honey of their childhood. Messy and lazy, syrup laden summers that had woven them together as one, bound their hearts like all things that are written in the stars.
And Patroclus does not know Pyrrha, only Achilles.
And Patroclus cannot find him here, under this guise, only half of who they are.
For they are both. One and the same.
They whisper Patroclus’ name syllable by syllable, long and drawn out as they count the days. After a time, they judge not in one, and two, and in three, but in the way the changes mark them, who they become. Pyrrha graces the king’s daughter with lipstick kisses, leaving mark of their betrayal all while thinking of Patroclus, beloved. What would true lover do, they wonder, with kisses that stain like wine?
There is no answer for this, although princess whispers adorations, praises so devoutly that they reach the heavens. She compares them to the god of poetry, and of the sun. Jealous Apollo hears them—and knows Achilles then—and stifles revenge. For everything has its moment, and Achilles’ time is not nigh. Whispered words are powerful. They have thorns of their own, a rare weapon that could wound the pride of even a god. No one reaches for the sun without burning in its glory.
In this moment, Pyrrha does not endeavor for the sun, nor the spoils of promised victory. She simply wishes to share this secret with the one who matters, wishes to whisper with delight into beloved’s ear: Her. Her. Call me her.
Instead, she paints her face as days diminish. Watches war-taught features begin to soften. Coldness blossoms like spring into warmth for the princess of Skyros, for Deidamia, she becomes a dear friend, and Achilles tells themself that one day, they may love her in return. That one day, perhaps friendship will catch fire and remove disgraced boy from mind, the one that had come from nothing and simply had become their everything.
Even joys of hope fade. Light dies in the winter, forgets itself for darkness that remains. When the lipstick smears against the princess’ bare skin, it too, looks like blood. What was once sweet tastes bitter in the mouth. Patroclus is not coming, and neither Achilles nor Pyrrha shall ever love again.
One may trade a shield for an instrument, unwrap feet from heavy boots and learn to dance with them instead of march to war. Still, they will tell you your destiny. They will decide who you are.
Such is the way of the world.
When mother Thetis had baptized them in the River Styx, the trees had not whispered of Patroclus. Never mentioned Pyrrha. Whisper of nothing that matters and claim to know everything. And when the poets write of them, they too, will know only Achilles. They will compare them to Icarus, call them prideful, say they flew too close to the sun.
They will act as though it was ever a choice.
They will ignore the beauty of the moon, inconstant, in flux, lovely in phases and cold in the next. The scholars will not compare them to flowers or night sky, only speak of more death.
The color red for blood, always blood. Never of the heart, broken. Never of flowers, blooming. Never of secrets stifled by destiny.
Flowers bloom over graves too. For and in spite of it all.
They just forget to mention them in the songs, like all things that were once beautiful.
Orion O’Connell (they/them) is an aspiring novelist and not-so-secret poet whose work has recently been featured in publications such as Ink (2021), Tell Your Story (2021), and Endings (A Fix-It Zine) (2022). Orion believes in love, kindness & happy endings, and can be found on Twitter @orionoconnell.