“He will come, and Troy will fall. The city cannot be taken without him, the Fates say.” Her face glows. Achilles stares. “You would bring him here?” “He is the next Aristos Achaion.” “I am not dead yet.” “You may as well be.” The words are a lash. “Do you know what I have borne to make you great? And now you would destroy it for this?” She points at my festering body, her face tight with disgust. “I am done. There is no more I can do to save you.” Her black eyes seem to contract, like dying stars. “I am glad that he is dead,” she says. It is the last thing she will ever say to him.
BITCHHHHHHH
