“Where do I aim? I heard he was invulnerable. Except for—”
“He is a man,” Apollo says. “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 flying, to push toy 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 eyes and feels its point push through his skin, parting thick muscle, worming its way 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.
Bu yaz yanınızdan ayırmak istemeyeceğiniz kitapları sizin için bir araya getirdik.
💬 Siz olsanız bu listeden hangisiyle başlardınız?
He collects my ashes himself, though this is a woman’s duty. He puts them in a golden urn, the finest in our camp, and turns to the watching Greeks.
“When I am dead, I charge you to mingle our ashes and bury us together.”
Priam’s voice is gentle. “It is right to seek peace for the dead. You and I both know there is no peace for those who live after.”
“No,” Achilles whispers.
He stands. “Do you think I cannot see your rejoicing? I know how you hated him. You have always hated him! If you had not gone to Zeus, he would be alive!”
“He is a mortal,” she says. “And mortals die.”
“I am a mortal!” he screams. “What good is godhead, if it cannot do this? What good are you?”
Give us both peace. Burn me and bury me. I will wait for you among the shades. I will—
But already he is waking. “Patroclus! Wait! I am here!”
He shakes the body beside him. When I do not answer, he weeps again.