The Song of Achilles

by Madeline Miller

Those seconds, half seconds, that the line of our gaze connected, were the only moment in my day that I felt anything at all.

“And perhaps it is the greater grief, after all, to be left on earth when another is gone. Do you think?” “Perhaps,” Achilles admitted.

“I wish I had known,” I said the first day, when he had showed it to me. “I almost did not come, because I did not want to leave it.” He smiled. “Now I know how to make you follow me everywhere.” The sun sank below Pelion’s ridges, and we were happy.

Oh lord

“Name one hero who was happy.” I considered. Heracles went mad and killed his family; Theseus lost his bride and father; Jason’s children and new wife were murdered by his old; Bellerophon killed the Chimera but was crippled by the fall from Pegasus’ back. “You can’t.” He was sitting up now, leaning forward. “I can’t.” “I know. They never let you be famous and happy.” He lifted an eyebrow. “I’ll tell you a secret.” “Tell me.” I loved it when he was like this. “I’m going to be the first.” He took my palm and held it to his. “Swear it.” “Why me?” “Because you’re the reason. Swear it.” “I swear it,” I said, lost in the high color of his cheeks, the flame in his eyes. “I swear it,” he echoed.

Oh LORDDDD

“If you have to go, you know I will go with you.” We slept.

Good absolute fucking bye

I could recognize him by touch alone, by smell; I would know him blind, by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth. I would know him in death, at the end of the world.

Hey I’ll never get over this

The king of Argos made a noise of disgust. “I’m sick to death of this tale about your marriage bed.” “Then perhaps you shouldn’t have suggested I tell it.” “And perhaps you should get some new stories, so I don’t fucking kill myself of boredom.”

I giggled

The never-ending ache of love and sorrow. Perhaps in some other life I could have refused, could have torn my hair and screamed, and made him face his choice alone. But not in this one. He would sail to Troy and I would follow, even into death. “Yes,” I whispered. “Yes.”

The room turned gray, then white. The bed felt cold without him, and too large. I heard no sounds, and the stillness frightened me. It is like a tomb. I rose and rubbed my limbs, slapped them awake, trying to ward off a rising hysteria. This is what it will be, every day, without him. I felt a wild-eyed tightness in my chest, like a scream. Every day, without him.

Tear count: 2

a bitterness of habit, of boy after boy trained for music and medicine, and unleashed for murder.

I forced my voice to match his in lightness. “I’m sure you’re right. After all, Hector hasn’t done anything to you.” He smiled then, as I had hoped he would. “Yes,” he said. “I’ve heard that.”

Fml

“How long will it be?” “I don’t know,” I say. And I don’t. How much heat does it take for iron to grow soft enough to bend?

My head drops back against the ground, and the last image I see is of Hector, leaning seriously over me, twisting his spear inside me as if he is stirring a pot. The last thing I think is: Achilles.

Absolutely do not speak to me

Achilles’ gaze lifts to meet hers. She is afraid, but does not draw back. “I hope that Hector kills you.” The breath rasps in his throat. “Do you think I do not hope the same?” he asks.

Fuck fuck FUCK

“It is time to return Hector’s body to his family for burial. You have killed him and taken your vengeance. It is enough.” “It will never be enough,” he says.

Fuck

they carry them to the golden urn where I rest. Will I feel his ashes as they fall against mine?

This is when the tears POURED

I conjure the boy I knew. Achilles, grinning as the figs blur in his hands. His green eyes laughing into mine. Catch, he says. Achilles, outlined against the sky, hanging from a branch over the river. The thick warmth of his sleepy breath against my ear. If you have to go, I will go with you. My fears forgotten in the golden harbor of his arms.

IF YOU HAVE TO GO I WILL GO WITH YOU

“Go,” she says. “He waits for you.” 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.

Good. Bye. Good. Bye. I will never recover.