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figsandphiltatos · 2 years

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Threading Future through the Past

chapter six is out now!

Story Title: Swallows in the Windless Field

Fandom: The Song of Achilles

AU: Robin Hood

Chapter: 6/?

Start from the beginning

Summary:

On a hot afternoon in Sherwood Forest, two knights met on the Great North Way. It was a strange sight in the serene forest, two men fully clad in armor. The tanned leather of the first knight’s shield, where it was strapped on his horse, was emblazoned with the silver owls of his coat of arms. His armor was ill-fitting, shifting on his body in ways that suggested the armor might have been hired or perhaps taken from some other knight he had defeated in battle. Aside from his helm, he was clad in chainmail.

The metal was heavy and hot. Patroclus, buried under Diomedes’ chainmail, wasn’t used to the accoutrement of a knight. The surcoat he wore was like a burlap sack chafing against his already sweaty skin. He had ridden plenty of horses in his time, but never accounted for the way that adding a stone’s worth of metal to his body might compound the exhaustion that came with horse riding. He supposed this was why most knights didn’t often travel wearing their full regalia.

The full plate armor of the second knight had only come into popular use recently. The steel flashed brightly under the filtered forest light, and was tailored well to the knight’s body. The silk surcoat he wore bore a golden lion on the front. The symbol could have easily been of his own coat of arms, or a sign that he was one of the lion-hearted king’s many men. It was the armor and trappings of some higher noble, not a common gentleman knight who had worked for his station.

He held himself with proud bearing, and Patroclus straightened up, trying to mimic what he was seeing. “Hail.” He raised his hand the way Diomedes had told him most knights greeted each other, but did not raise his visor. The weighty, too big helmet gave his voice a tinny quality.

“Hail.” The other knight greeted. He did not raise his visor either. It was hard to say if the faux pas was inspired by the first knight’s failure to identify himself, or intentional. “Have you been sent by the sheriff as well?” His voice was tinny, too, muffled by the steel encasing his head. Patroclus’ grip on the reins of his horse tightened. “And have you seen anything?”

“I’ve seen nothing.” He lied, mind scrambling with a quiet panic.

In the week since his rendezvous with Achilles, Patroclus had not seen any of the sheriff’s men patrolling the forest. It had taken time for him to relax, even marginally, but it soon became clear that the sheriff was not on the offensive. Yet. With each passing day, it seemed less and less likely that Hektor was somehow tied up in his schemes. Things around the Major Oak had all but gone back to normal. Still, Patroclus hadn’t been able to fully shake his paranoia.

It was for that reason he had asked to borrow Diomedes’ armor. It made a brilliant disguise, and only needed to work well enough to get Patroclus into Nottingham. There he could ask if word had spread about the outlaws in the forest, or the sheriff’s plan to deal with them. Briseis had scolded him the entire time they’d worked to outfit Patroclus in the oversized armor.

If there’s going to be trouble, let it find you for once. Instead of always seeking it out yourself.

But here was a knight, certainly hired by the sheriff to come and find them.

“I see.” The knight’s cavernous voice, echoing from inside his steel helm, was gruff. He sounded oddly disappointed. “I must be on my way, then.”

Patroclus did not urge his horse forward. He couldn’t allow some knight to go wandering further into Sherwood Forest and risk his friends being found. He was not entirely sure that he could win a fight with a knight. The way his arms felt sapped of their strength under the weight of the chainmail only made him doubt his abilities more. But he could not sit back and do nothing.

“We could search together.” He blurted out, thinking on his feet. His attack would stand the best chance of success if it was unexpected.

The knight stiffened. “I would prefer not to.”

Patroclus could feel his heart beating in his ears. He was unaccustomed to fighting on horseback, as well. It would be best if he could get the knight off of his mount, and meet him fighting on the ground. With adrenaline pumping through his veins, he leaned back towards his shield. “At least allow me to share some of my food with you, friend.” He lied.

The straps which held the shield were difficult. Though Patroclus was sure he must not have fumbled with them for long, it felt like an eternity passed. He was grateful then that he had told Diomedes to leave off his gauntlets. They would have made the task impossible. The helm severely restricted his vision, and he could not check from the corner of his eyes if the knight was suspicious. Even when he turned to face the knight again, he was met with the inscrutable shine of steel, not some face he could read for an expression.

Bracing himself, Patroclus swung the hefty shield in front of him and dug his heels into his horse’s flank. His mount rushed forward. At the sudden movement, the knight’s horse reared up in fear. It was a sure sign of an inexperienced horse, strange for how well equipped the knight was otherwise. But, Patroclus could only think about how lucky he was. It would make knocking him from his horse all the easier.

With the dull thud of wood crashing into the weight of a body, Patroclus felt his opponent give way as he fell backwards to the ground. An exuberant call left Patroclus without him really thinking about it. Clumsily, he swung himself down from his own horse. The armor made all his movements feel sluggish and off-kilter. By the time he was drawing his sword, the knight was back on his feet. He moved with a speed Patroclus hadn’t considered possible.

Their swords clashed against each other, startling birds above their heads. The clang of steel against steel and the rush of wings and bird’s calls filled the forest.

Dull panic clouded Patroclus’ judgment as they started to fight in earnest. The knight was considerably stronger than him, and he moved much quicker as well. Patroclus had not even considered how one was meant to injure a knight dressed in full plate armor. He pressed forward, fighting with wild confidence that he hoped might counteract some of his other disadvantages.

The knight parried another of his attacks, but Patroclus used the misdirection to create an opening for himself. With as much strength as he could muster, he kicked at the knight across from him. It would not do much, but Patroclus hoped it might push him off balance for long enough to knock the helm from his head. Only then did he stand any chance of injuring the knight at all.

Luckily, it was just so. Patroclus used his sword, clashing it clumsily against the helm. Again, he was lucky. The steel came flying off his opponent’s head, flashing against the sun as it fell uselessly to the dusty ground. There was a flash of gold then, too, before Patroclus was suddenly tackled.

The full weight of the knight settled on his chest, and Patroclus struggled wildly underneath him. There was no use, though. The knight on top of him was considerably larger than him. Still, Patroclus flailed in a panic, desperate to live to at least retreat and warn his men, until his arms were pinned down.

Only then did he slow enough to make eye contact with his would-be killer. Bright green eyes flashed down at him, harsher than he had ever seen them before. For a moment, his face twisted in rage and cold without an inkling of compassion, Patroclus almost did not recognize Achilles. It was the golden hair peeking out from underneath his mail coif that gave him away.

“Achilles?” Patroclus squeaked out, breath hard to come by with his chest under the knee of his old friend.

Achilles was still holding his sword, held up as though he were going to plunge it into his enemy’s chest at any moment. Watching his expression change was like the lifting of spells described in fairy tales. The harshness melted from his face, brows furrowing together in a moment of confusion.

“Patroclus?” Achilles’ voice was breathless, too. Recognition spread over his face like spring’s first warm days, and his eyes were suddenly lit with the compassion Patroclus knew him for. He sounded struck with disbelief, but scrambled to get off of the other armor-clad man. “What in god’s name are you doing? Why are you dressed like that?”

“Why are you dressed like that?” Patroclus echoed, pushing himself up once Achilles’ weight was off of him. There they both sat, wearing armor that wasn’t theirs, in the middle of the dusty road. Both of their horses had been spooked and ran well enough away from them that they were truly alone. Patroclus had stolen his from some noble’s wagon, and he knew it was not the experienced horse of a knight. Achilles’ must not have been, either.

“To come and find you. To join you.” Achilles said the words as if they should have been obvious. “The sheriff has been keeping a close eye on me. Not to mention Phoenix,” He muttered the indictment against his caretaker quietly, though without any malice. Patroclus knew Achilles could never manage to be truly angry with his father’s most trusted servant. “I had to find a way to get out of Nottingham without being seen.”

“Oh.” Patroclus pulled off the helmet and took a grateful breath of fresh air. The smell inside the helmet had been that of metal and sweat. It was a relief to have it off.

“And you?” Achilles urged.

Patroclus had not yet had the time to process what had just occurred. He was vaguely aware of the notion that he wasn’t meant to trust Achilles, but his head was dizzy with relief having survived their fight. There was some quiet, sacred yearning which kept him from distrusting Achilles by default. Relief to see him at all flooded his mind and Patroclus’ wits escaped him. “I was traveling into Nottingham to get information. My father hasn’t sent any scouts that we’ve seen. It was starting to make me nervous.”

Achilles only seemed to half hear him. “I missed you.”

It was then that reality came crashing back on Patroclus. “And you’ve found me. You should return to Nottingham, Achilles.”

"What do you mean? I've come out here for a reason, Patroclus," Achilles pushed his brows together in a half-pout. Patroclus recognized it well, but responded only with stony coolness.

"And you should go back. Can you imagine what you might bring upon us trying to join us?"

Achilles bit his cheek and breathed through his nose. It was a habit he had had since they were young, a way of burning off agitated energy he didn’t wish to redirect to Patroclus. "I don't reckon it is anything you cannot handle, if you and your lot are so clever. I thought you would want to see me," he replied, laying the hurt thickly on his voice. Patroclus knew better than to think it was play acting. If Achilles sounded so hurt, it was only because he was feeling it.

With a sigh, Patroclus pushed himself onto his feet and started to walk, still in the direction of Nottingham. Perhaps he could lure Achilles to follow. Achilles had to jog to catch up.

"Of course I want to see you.” He saw no good that could come from lying about that. Since the night when they met, and things had so fantastically fallen apart, Patroclus had craved seeing him again. He had desperately wished that Achilles might walk into their camp and beg to be forgiven, promising that it had all been some terrible misunderstanding. “That does not mean that you are not a fool for running into Sherwood Forest with reckless abandon, and it does not mean that I want you to join my men."

"I rival you in combat, I rival you in archery, I rival you in–" Achilles ticked each thing off on his metal fingers.

"Clearly not in wits. Will your father not send scouts, or... by the devil, Phoenix probably will in his name."

"Take that back. Father would never go against my wishes, even if he were in Nottingham."

Patroclus, who still walked a few paces ahead, cast him an annoyed glance. He kept marching on without another word. There was a bitter distance between them. It was a strange and painful thing, not familiar to either of them. Patroclus clenched his jaw painfully, holding himself back from comforting Achilles in any way. The sooner he left, the better.

"You sullen thing," Achilles remarked under his breath and stopped walking.

“What?” Patroclus turned.

Achilles’ arms were crossed over the golden lion on his chest. It was, after all, a symbol of his own rather than the king’s. “I won’t move until you take me to meet your men. I would rather Sherwood Forest swallow me whole.”

Patroclus raised an eyebrow. He knew these dramatics well.

“You said you were looking for information about your father’s plans. I know everything there is to know. I can tell you.” It felt wrong, that they should have to bargain to be close to each other. The unnaturalness of it was almost enough to make Patroclus give in.

“You don’t think that the disappearance of the earl’s son might change my father’s plans?” He asked flatly.

“Perhaps.” Achilles said in a tone which gave him away: he had not considered the possibility until this moment. Against his better judgment, Patroclus smiled, shaking his head.

Achilles pulled down his coif. His hair was matted flat against his head with sweat and yet, somehow, it still glowed like a halo around him. Patroclus could only imagine what his own unruly curls looked like.

A quiet moment passed between them and a thought slammed into Patroclus. “You have no idea where my camp is, do you?” He asked.

“No, I don’t.” Achilles responded with a pout, as if he believed Patroclus was gloating.

But Patroclus was not. He fought to suppress another fond smile. “And what was your plan? Did you plan to wander all of Sherwood Forest until you stumbled upon us?”

Achilles’ pout deepened, his soft pink lower lip jutting out slightly. “I didn’t plan on anything. But it worked, didn’t it?”

“Of course you didn’t.” Patroclus’ words came out in huffs as he failed to stifle his laughter.

“What does that mean?” Achilles demanded, stamping his foot like an indignant child. It only made the laughter harder to suppress.

Patroclus held a hand up to hide his mouth, as if it would conceal anything at all. His dark eyes crinkled with a potent mix of joy and relief. Achilles was not some spy sent by Menoeitius. He was the same Achilles he had been all those years ago, Patroclus was suddenly so certain of it he would have bet his life on it. Perhaps that was exactly what he was about to do.

Regardless of Achilles allegiance, it was still probably foolish to invite the heir to the Earldom of Nottingham back to the Major Oak.

“Follow me.”

It was not until they reached camp again that Achilles seemed to process why Patroclus had been disguised and heading towards town. “You can’t return to Nottingham!” He was insisting, pulling off his gauntlets and setting them aside in a bag Patroclus had found for him.

A displeased Briseis was helping Patroclus unfasten and pull off every last bit of chainmail. The others had seemed to understand there was some need for privacy, all keeping their distance, but Diomedes kept an eagle eye on his gear and how it was being handled. Patroclus could feel his eyes boring into them, regardless of how Odysseus attempted to distract him.

“I have before.” Patroclus defended himself.

“He’s right.” Briseis muttered under her breath, carefully setting aside the hauberk, folded the way Diomedes had exhaustively explained that morning. “You should avoid returning to Nottingham if possible. And this time it wasn’t necessary.”

Patroclus’ head whipped around to look at her. Since Achilles had introduced himself to her, obviously eager for approval which Briseis had not given, she had been silent. “I thought you didn’t trust him.” Patroclus complained, hurt by the sudden betrayal.

“I don’t.” She confirmed. “But, despite all reason, I think you might be more likely to let him talk some sense into you, since I seem incapable of making it stick.”

Patroclus blinked in stunned silence, before pulling a face like he’d tasted something bitter. Perhaps it was a bad idea to introduce Achilles and Briseis, after all. “Well, I don’t need to return after all. Achilles says he knows what the sheriff has planned.”

“You don’t suppose the sheriff will change his plans now, with the earl’s son missing?” Briseis asked dryly.

“That’s what I said!” Patroclus threw his hands up in frustration, which earned him a withering look from her.

“Besides, he seemed to know how close the two of you are. There’s a good chance he was not telling Sir Pelides all there is to know, or that he was even feeding him disinformation. He may have suspected you would reunite with each other.”

Patroclus glanced back towards Achilles to find him marveling. Briseis made good points, and quite apparently none which Achilles had considered before. Even Patroclus had not thought so much about it.

“You may call me Achilles.” He said. If he had hoped that the friendly, familiar words would have some kind of endearing effect on Briseis, he was sorely disappointed. She met his invitation with a steely expression. “I can still tell you what I know, even if it isn’t much. It’s better than sending Patroclus back into town.”

“He has a surprisingly good head on his shoulders.” Briseis commented, before turning back to join everyone else.

Achilles seemed unbothered by the backhanded compliment. Maybe he had only taken it at face value. Patroclus felt as though someone was squeezing his heart at the thought. “Are you going to introduce me to the rest of your men?” He asked.

Briseis had joined the rest where they sat by the extinguished fire pit. Logs and things to sit on were gathered there, making it the ideal place to meet even when there was no fire burning. Diomedes had relaxed slightly, now that his armor was carefully set away. Odysseus, as usual, was lounging against him. Hektor sat nearby the two on the ground, focused on something he was carving. Ajax was leaning against the Major Oak with Nestor, who had decided to leave the monastery for the day. They all quietly watched as Patroclus and Achilles approached.

As they neared, Odysseus suddenly reached out to grab at the hood of Hektor’s cloak. “Are these ears?” He asked, eyes lighting up with his discovery. He pushed himself forward, grabbing the cloak with both hands now. Sure enough, he held up the hood by two, long brown ears.

“Yes.” Hektor was a testament to patience in how he dealt with Odysseus. While the other man handled his cloak, Hektor barely reacted. “This is a horse skin cloak. My father’s horse, which I grew up riding, died a few years ago and my family made use of every part we could.” There was a pause, and Odysseus continued to ogle at the ears. “His name was Lampos. Now, if you’ll please stop pulling at my hood.”

Odysseus, to everyone’s surprise, did as he was told. He settled back onto the log with Diomedes and turned his attention to Patroclus and the new arrival.

“This is Achilles Pelides.” Patroclus said, feeling a sudden wave of anxiety rush over him. He remembered Odysseus waving the small paper in the fire light nearly a week ago and worried what he might say.

“Earl Peleus’ son.” Odysseus nodded politely, composing himself respectably in a rare moment of civility. “We’ve met before. I am Odysseus, son of Laertes, Earl of Locksley.” He explained. “And, I suppose, we met briefly when we robbed you.” He grinned.

“Your troop of outlaws is comprised of nobility?” Achilles asked, seeming to find that amusing.

“Hardly.” Ajax spoke up from where he sat. “Friar Nestor, Briseis and I are common people.”

“And you are?”

“Ajax.” He was not one for many words.

“It’s an honor to make your acquaintance, Ajax.” Achilles dipped his head politely.

“I suppose Hektor is, too.” Odysseus spoke up.

Hektor looked up from his work briefly. He nodded in Achilles’ direction before returning to his craft. If Ajax was a man of few words, Hektor was a man of none, when he could manage it. Still, he had settled into their group well. Suspicion was hard to hold onto around his steady presence. Odysseus stuck near him in a way that was hard to parse. It was alike in nature to the way a guard dog tailed a suspicious guest, but also the way an admirer stuck close to their beloved. He was a strange man, though, and Patroclus didn’t begrudge him his quirks.

“Sit, then.” Odysseus said, gesturing towards one of the logs. “If you’re lucky, Ajax will demand you fight him to prove your mettle.” He teased, and Patroclus relaxed ever so slightly. It was the same kind of welcome any man who sought them out could reasonably expect.

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