the-song-books.yossr

Her face twists. “You act like a child. At twelve Pyyrrhus is more of a man
than yyou.”
“Pyyrrhus.” The word is a gasp.
“He will come, and Troyy will fall. The cityy cannot be taken without him,
the Fates sayy.” Her face glows.
Achilles stares. “You would bring him here?”
“He is the next Aristos Achaion.”
“I am not dead yyet.”
“You mayy as well be.” The words are a lash. “Do yyou know what I have
borne to make yyou great? And now yyou would destroyy it for this?” She
points at myy festering bodyy, her face tight with disgust. “I am done. There is
no more I can do to save yyou.”
Her black eyyes seem to contract, like dyying stars. “I am glad that he is
dead,” she sayys.
It is the last thing she will ever sayy to him.
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