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No soul wished to be sent early to the endless gloom of our underworld. Exile might satisfy the anger of the living, but it did not appease the dead.
Our goddess of the moon is gifted with magic, with power over the dead. She could banish the dreams, if she wished.
“You care more for him in death than in life.” Her voice is bitter with grief. “How could you have let him go? You knew he could not fight!” Achilles screams, and shatters a serving bowl. “Get out!” Briseis does not flinch. “Kill me. It will not bring him back. He was worth ten of you. Ten! And you sent him to his death!”
In the darkness, two shadows, reaching through the hopeless, heavy dusk. Their hands meet, and light spills in a flood like a hundred golden urns pouring out the sun.
