“I am made of memories.”
“Philtatos,” Achilles replied, sharply. Most beloved.
“When he died, all things soft and beautiful and bright would be buried with him.”
“In the darkness, two shadows, reaching through the hopeless, heavy dusk. Their hands meet, and light spills in a flood like a hundred golden urns pouring out the sun.”
“And perhaps it is the greater grief, after all, to be left on earth when another is gone.”
“There was more to say, but for once we did not say it. There would be other times for speaking, tonight and tomorrow and all the days after that.”
“I could recognize him by touch alone, by smell; I would know him blind, by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth. I would know him in death, at the end of the world.”
“I had only thought of Achilles‘ danger, of how I would try to keep him here, if I could. I had not even considered myself.”
“I know. They never let you be famous and happy.” He lifted an eyebrow. “I‘ll tell you a secret.”
“Tell me.” I loved it when he was like this.
“I‘m going to be the first.” He took my palm and held it to his. “Swear it.”
“Why me?”
“Because you‘re the reason. Swear it.”
“If I had words to speak such a thing, I would have. But there were none that seemed big enough for it, to hold that swelling truth.”
“I will never leave him. It will be this, always, for as long as he will let me.”
“I would know it in dark or disguise, I told myself. I would know it even in madness.”