When he speaks at last, his voice is weary, and defeated. He doesn’t know how to be angry with me, either. We are like damp wood that won’t light. “It is done then? She is safe? She must be. You would not have come back, otherwise.” “Yes. She is safe.” A tired breath. “You are a better man than I.” The beginning of hope. We have given each other wounds, but they are not mortal. Briseis will not be harmed and Achilles will remember himself and my wrist will heal. There will be a moment after this, and another after that.
