In the darkness, two shadows, reaching through the hopeless, heavy dusk. Their hands meet, and light spills in a flood like a hundred golden urns pouring out of the sun.
When he died, all things soft and beautiful and bright would be buried with him.
And perhaps it is the greater grief, after all, to be left on earth when another is gone.
He is a weapon, a killer. Do not forget it. You can use a spear as a walking stick, but that will not change its nature.
and her skin shone luminous and impossibly pale, as if it drank light from the moon.
But is it not a sort of genius to cut always to the heart?
She wants you to be a god,” I told him.”I know.” His face twisted with embarrassment, and in spite of itself my heart lightened. It was such a boyish response. And so human. Parents, everywhere.
Patroclus,’ he said. He was always better with words than I.
Wealth and reputation were the things our people had always killed for.
He looked different in sleep, beautiful but cold as moonlight.
He looked different in sleep, beautiful but cold as moonlight. I found myself wishing he would wake so that I might watch the life return.
He knew, but it was not enough. The sorrow was so large it threatened to tear through my skin. When he died, all things swift and beautiful and bright would be buried with him.
Above us, the constellations spun and the moon paced her weary course. We lay stricken and sleepless as the hours passed.
There is no law that gods must be fair, Achilles,” Chiron said. “And perhaps it is the greater grief, after all, to be left on earth when another is gone. Do you think?
Exile might satisfy the anger of the living, but it did not appease the dead.
We cannot say who will survive the holocaust of memory.
Patroclus, he says, Patroclus. Patroclus. Over and over until it is sound only.
Achilles’ eyes lift. They are bloodshot and dead. “I wish he had let you all die.
When I am dead, I charge you to mingle our ashes and bury us together.
Bury us, and mark our names above. Let us be free.
Achilles weeps. He cradles me, and will not eat, nor speak a word other than my name.
That is — your friend?” “Philtatos,” Achilles replied, sharply. Most beloved.
Peleus acknowledged this. “Yet other boys will be envious that you have chosen such a one. What will you tell them?” “I will tell them nothing.” The answer came with no hesitation, clear and crisp. “It is not for them to say what I will do.
Indeed, he seemed utterly unaware of his effect on the boys around him.