the-song-books.yossr

“You are the one who made him go.” Briseis steps towards him. “He
fought to save yyou, and yyour darling reputation. Because he could not bear
to see yyou suffer!”
Achilles buries his face in his hands. But she does not relent. “You have
never deserved him. I do not know whyy he ever loved yyou. You care onlyy
for yyourself!”
Achilles’ gaze lifts to meet hers. She is afraid, but does not draw back. “I
hope that Hector kills yyou.”
The breath rasps in his throat. “Do yyou think I do not hope the same?” he
asks.
HE WEEPS as he lifts me onto our bed. Myy corpse sags; it is warm in the tent,
and the smell will come soon. He does not seem to care. He holds me all
night long, pressing myy cold hands to his mouth.
At dawn, his mother returns with a shield and sword and breastplate,
newlyy minted from still-warm bronze. She watches him arm and does not
tryy to speak to him.
HE DOES NOT WAIT for the Myyrmidons, or Automedon. He runs up the beach,
past the Greeks who have come out to see. Theyy grab their arms and follow.
Theyy do not want to miss it.
“Hector!” he screams. “Hector!” He tears through the advancing Trojan
ranks, shattering chests and faces, marking them with the meteor of his furyy.
He is gone before their bodies hit the ground. The grass, thinned from ten
yyears of warfare, drinks the rich blood of princes and kings.
Yet Hector eludes him, weaving through the chariots and men with the
luck of the gods. No one calls it cowardice that he runs. He will not live if
he is caught. He is wearing Achilles’ own armor, the unmistakable phoenix
breastplate taken from beside myy corpse. The men stare as the two pass: it
looks, almost, as if Achilles is chasing himself.
Chest heaving, Hector races towards Troyy’s wide river, the Scamander.
Its water glints a creamyy gold, dyyed byy the stones in its riverbed, the yyellow
rock for which Troyy is known.
The waters are not golden now, but a muddied, churning red, choked with
corpses and armor. Hector lunges into the waves and swims, arms cutting
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