The Song Of Achilles
Madeline MillerThe Song Of Achilles Gönderileri
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He was outlined against the
painted stars; Polaris sat on his shoulder.
Achilles pressed close for a final, drowsy whisper. “If you have to go, you know I will go with you.” We slept.
Aggggh I'm crying ｡:ﾟ(;´∩`;)ﾟ:｡
“Forgive me,” he said again. “I did not want it. It was not you. I did not—I did not like it.”
Hearing it soothed the last of the jagged grief that had begun when
Deidameia shouted his name. My throat was thick with the beginning of
tears. “There is nothing to forgive,” I said.
Something shifted in me then, like the frozen surface of the Apidanos in
spring. I had seen the way he looked at Deidameia; or rather the way he did not. It was the same way he had looked at the boys in Phthia, blank and
unseeing. He had never, not once, looked at me that way.
"When he died, all things soft and beautiful and bright would be buried with him."
"He is half of my soul, as the poets say."
Mızrağı baston olarak kullanabilirsin, ama bu onun doğasını değiştirmez.
Name one hero who was happy."
I considered. Heracles went mad and killed his family; Theseus lost his bride and father; Jason's children and new wife were murdered by his old; Bellerophon killed the Chimera but was crippled by the fall from Pegasus' back.
"You can't." He was sitting up now, leaning forward.
"I can't."
"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."
"I swear it," I said, lost in the high color of his cheeks, the flame in his eyes.
"I swear it," he echoed.
“Bury us, and mark our names above. Let us be free.”
“We reached for each other, and I thought of how many nights I had lain awake loving him in silence.”
“You can use a spear as a walking stick, but that will not change its nature.”
“I will never leave him. It will be this, always, for as long as he will let me.
If I had 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.
As if he had heard me, he reached for my hand. I did not need to look; his fingers were etched into my memory, slender and petal-veined, strong and quick and never wrong.”
“I am made of memories.”
“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."
"I swear it," I said, lost in the high color of his cheeks, the flame in his eyes.
"I swear it," he echoed.
We sat like that a moment, hands touching. He grinned.
"I feel like I could eat the world raw.”