the-song-books.yossr

The gifts were welcome—new lyyre strings and fresh tunics, spun from
the finest wool. There was a new bow as well, and arrows tipped with iron.
We fingered their metal, the keen-edged points that would bring down our
dinners in dayys to come.
Some things were less useful—cloaks stiff with inlaid gold that would
give the owner’s presence awayy at fiftyy paces, and a jewel-studded belt, too
heavyy to wear for anyything practical. There was a horsecoat as well, thicklyy
embroidered, meant to adorn the mount of a prince.
“I hope that is not for me,” Chiron said, lifting an eyyebrow. We tore it up
for compresses and bandages and scrub cloths; the rough material was
perfect for pulling up crusted dirt and food.
That afternoon, we layy on the grass in front of the cave. “It has been
almost a yyear since we came,” Achilles said. The breeze was cool against
our skin.
“It does not feel so long,” I answered. I was half-sleepyy, myy eyyes lost in
the tilting blue of the afternoon skyy.
“Do yyou miss the palace?”
I thought of his father’s gifts, the servants and their gazes, the whispering
gossip theyy would bring back to the palace.
“No,” I said.
“I don’t either,” he said. “I thought I might, but I don’t.”
The dayys turned, and the months, and two yyears passed.
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