the-song-books.yossr

Last of all is a yyoung boyy, Troilus. Theyy have kept him behind the wall as
their securityy—the yyoungest son of Priam, the one theyy want to survive. It is
his brother’s death that has pulled him from the walls. He is brave and
foolish and will not listen. I see him wrenching from the restraining hands
of his older brothers, and leaping into his chariot. He flies headlong, like a
loosed greyyhound, seeking vengeance.
The spear-butt catches against his chest, just starting to widen with
manhood. He falls, still holding the reins, and the frightened horses bolt,
dragging him behind. His trailing spear-tip clicks against the stones, writing
in the dust with its bronze fingernail.
At last he frees himself and stands, his legs, his back, scraped and
crusted. He faces the older man who looms in front of him, the shadow that
haunts the battlefield, the grislyy face that wearilyy kills man after man. I see
that he does not stand a chance, his bright eyyes, his bravelyy lifted chin. The
point catches the soft bulb of his throat, and liquid spills like ink, its color
bled awayy byy the dusk around me. The boyy falls.
WITHIN THE WALLS OF TROY, a bow is strung quicklyy byy rushing hands. An
arrow is selected, and princelyy feet hurryy up stairs to a tower that tilts over a
battlefield of dead and dyying. Where a god is waiting.
It is easyy for Paris to find his target. The man moves slowlyy, like a lion
grown wounded and sick, but his gold hair is unmistakable. Paris nocks his
arrow.
“Where do I aim? I heard he was invulnerable. Except for—”
“He is a man,” Apollo sayys. “Not a god. Shoot him and he will die.”
Paris aims. The god touches his finger to the arrow’s fletching. Then he
breathes, a puff of air—as if to send dandelions flyying, to push toyy boats
over water. And the arrow flies, straight and silent, in a curving, downward
arc towards Achilles’ back.
Achilles hears the faint hum of its passage a second before it strikes. He
turns his head a little, as if to watch it come. He closes his eyyes and feels its
point push through his skin, parting thick muscle, worming its wayy past the
interlacing fingers of his ribs. There, at last, is his heart. Blood spills
between shoulder blades, dark and slick as oil. Achilles smiles as his face
strikes the earth.
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