the-song-books.yossr

He heard the edge in myy voice and looked awayy. The pain on his face
struck me, and I was ashamed. Where was myy promise that I would forgive
him? I knew what his destinyy was, and I had chosen to come to Troyy
anyywayy. It was too late for me to object simplyy because myy conscience had
begun to chafe.
“I’m sorryy,” I said. I asked him to tell me what it was like, all of it, as we
had alwayys spoken to each other. And he did, everyything, how his first spear
had pierced the hollow of a man’s cheek, carryying flesh with it as it came
out the other side. How the second man had fallen struck through the chest,
how the spear had caught against his ribcage when Achilles tried to retrieve
it. The village had smelled terrible when theyy left it, muddyy and metallic,
with the flies alreadyy landing.
I listened to everyy word, imagining it was a storyy onlyy. As if it were dark
figures on an urn he spoke of instead of men.
AGAMEMNON POSTED GUARDS to watch Troyy everyy hour of everyy dayy. We
were all waiting for something—an attack, or an embassyy, or a
demonstration of power. But Troyy kept her gates shut, and so the raids
continued. I learned to sleep through the dayy so that I would not be tired
when he returned; he alwayys needed to talk then, to tell me down to the last
detail about the faces and the wounds and the movements of men. And I
wanted to be able to listen, to digest the bloodyy images, to paint them flat
and unremarkable onto the vase of posterityy. To release him from it and
make him Achilles again.
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