the-song-books.yossr

The smile is thick in her throat. “I am glad.” I do not sayy that I do not
think I will ever leave Troyy.
I draw her to me, fill myy arms with her. She layys her head upon myy chest.
For a moment we do not think of Agamemnon and danger and dyying
Greeks. There is onlyy her small hand on myy stomach, and the softness of
her cheek as I stroke it. It is strange how well she fits there. How easilyy I
touch myy lips to her hair, soft and smelling of lavender. She sighs a little,
nestles closer. Almost, I can imagine that this is myy life, held in the sweet
circle of her arms. I would marryy her, and we would have a child.
Perhaps if I had never known Achilles.
“I should go,” I sayy.
She draws down the blanket, releasing me into the air. She cups myy face
in her hands. “Be careful tomorrow,” she sayys. “Best of men. Best of the
Myyrmidons.” She places her fingers to myy lips, stopping myy objection. “It
is truth,” she sayys. “Let it stand, for once.” Then she leads me to the side of
her tent, helps me slip beneath the canvas. The last thing I feel is her hand,
squeezing mine in farewell.
THAT NIGHT I LIE IN BED beside Achilles. His face is innocent, sleepsmoothed
and sweetlyy boyyish. I love to see it. This is his truest self, earnest
and guileless, full of mischief but without malice. He is lost in Agamemnon
and Odyysseus’ wilyy double meanings, their lies and games of power. Theyy
have confounded him, tied him to a stake and baited him. I stroke the soft
skin of his forehead. I would untie him if I could. If he would let me.
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