When he died, all things soft and beautiful and bright would be buried with him.

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. A C H I L L E S, it reads. And beside it, P A T R O C L U S."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 of the sun.

That is — your friend?" "Philtatos," Achilles replied, sharply. Most beloved.

Circe, he says, it will be all right.It is not the saying of an oracle or a prophet. ... He does not mean that it does not hurt. He does not mean that we are not frightened. Only that: we are here. This is what it means to swim in the tide, to walk the earth and feel it touch your feet. This is what is means to be alive.

My son must live. There is no must to the lift of a mortal, except death.

My son must live. There is no must to the life of a mortal, except death.

He knew, but it was not enough. The sorrow was so large it threatened to tear through my skin. When he died, all things swift and beautiful and bright would be buried with him.

What is a mortal like?”It was a child’s question, but he nodded gravely. “There is no single answer. They are each different. The only thing they share is death. You know the word?