“I could not make him a god,” she says. Her jagged voice, rich with grief. But you made him. She does not answer me for a long time, only sits, eyes shining with the last of the dying light. “I have done it,” she says. At first I do not understand. But then I see the tomb, and the marks she has made on the stone. achilles, it reads. And beside it, patroclus. “Go,” she says. “He waits for you.”
