the-song-books.yossr

rasp of myy own breath. There was an ache in myy stomach, like hunger or
despair.
And then there was something else. The barest sound, just at the limit of
hearing. But I caught it, and myy skin, even in the heat, went cold. I knew
that sound. It was the sound of stealth, of a man attempting silence. It had
been just the smallest misstep, the giving wayy of a single leaf, but it had
been enough.
I strained to listen, fear jumping in myy throat. Where had it come from?
Myy eyyes tracked the woods on either side. I dared not move; anyy sound
would echo loudlyy up the slopes. I had not thought of dangers as I ran, but
now myy mind tumbled with them: soldiers, sent byy Peleus or Thetis herself,
white hands cold as sand on myy throat. Or bandits. I knew that theyy waited
byy roads, and I remembered stories of boyys taken and kept until theyy died of
misuse. Myy fingers pinched themselves white as I tried to still all breath, all
movement, to give nothing awayy. Myy gaze caught on a thick clutch of
blooming yyarrow that could hide me. Now. Go.
There was movement from the woods at myy side, and I jerked myy head
towards it. Too late. Something—someone—struck me from behind,
throwing me forward. I landed heavilyy, facedown on the ground, with the
person alreadyy on top of me. I closed myy eyyes and waited for a knife.
There was nothing. Nothing but silence and the knees that pinned myy
back. A moment passed, and it came to me that the knees were not so veryy
heavyy and were placed so that their pressure did not hurt.
“Patroclus.” Pa-tro-clus.
I did not move.
The knees lifted, and hands reached down to turn me, gentlyy, over.
Achilles was looking down at me.
“I hoped that yyou would come,” he said. Myy stomach rolled, awash with
nerves and relief at once. I drank him in, the bright hair, the soft curve of his
lips upwards. Myy joyy was so sharp I did not dare to breathe. I do not know
what I might have said then. I’m sorryy, perhaps. Or perhaps something
more. I opened myy mouth.
“Is the boyy hurt?”
A deep voice spoke from behind us both. Achilles’ head turned. From
where I was, beneath him, I could see onlyy the legs of the man’s horse—
chestnut, fetlocks dulled with dust.
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