“Daughter!” This was Lycomedes, frowning in a way that was not unlike his daughter’s habit. “Stop this scene. Release Pyrrha.” Her face was blotchy and swollen with tears, her chest heaving. “No!” She turned to Achilles. “You are lying! You have betrayed me! Monster! Apathes!” Heartless. Lycomedes froze. Achilles’ fingers tightened on mine. In our language, words come in different genders. She had used the masculine form. “What was that?” said Lycomedes, slowly. Deidameia’s face had gone pale, but she lifted her chin in defiance, and her voice did not waver. “He is a man,” she said. And then,
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