the-song-books.yossr

The other man’s face is twisted almost beyyond recognition. His clothes
are still damp from his fight in the river. He lifts his ashen spear.
No, I beg him. It is his own death he holds, his own blood that will spill.
He does not hear me.
Hector’s eyyes are wide, but he will run no longer. He sayys, “Grant me
this. Give myy bodyy to myy familyy, when yyou have killed me.”
Achilles makes a sound like choking. “There are no bargains between
lions and men. I will kill yyou and eat yyou raw.” His spearpoint flies in a
dark whirlwind, bright as the evening-star, to catch the hollow at Hector’s
throat.
ACHILLES RETURNS to the tent, where myy bodyy waits. He is red and red and
rust-red, up to his elbows, his knees, his neck, as if he has swum in the vast
dark chambers of a heart and emerged, just now, still dripping. He is
dragging Hector’s bodyy behind him, pierced through its heels with a leather
thong. The neat beard is matted with dirt, the face black with bloodyy dust.
He has been pulling it behind his chariot as the horses run.
The kings of Greece are waiting for him.
“You have triumphed todayy, Achilles,” Agamemnon sayys. “Bathe and
rest yyourself, and then we shall feast in yyour honor.”
“I will have no feast.” He pushes through them, dragging Hector after.
“HOKUMOROS,” HIS MOTHER CALLS him in her softest voice. Swift-fated. “Will
yyou not eat?”
“You know I will not.”
She touches her hand to his cheek, as if to wipe awayy blood.
He flinches. “Stop,” he sayys.
Her face goes blank for a second, so quicklyy he does not see. When she
speaks, her voice is hard.
“It is time to return Hector’s bodyy to his familyy for burial. You have
killed him and taken yyour vengeance. It is enough.”
“It will never be enough,” he sayys.
FOR THE FIRST TIME since myy death, he falls into a fitful, trembling sleep.
Achilles. I cannot bear to see you grieving.
His limbs twitch and shudder.
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