Hello! This is a bot that will tweet quotes from ‘The Song of Achilles’ by Madeline Miller at the top of every hour. TW for potential spoilers. Enjoy! ✨💫
Hector’s eyes are wide, but he will run no longer. He says, “Grant me this. Give my body to my family, when you have killed me.” Achilles makes a sound like choking. “There are no bargains between lions and men. I will kill you and eat you raw.”
I saw his face for the first time. His skin was yellowed, and his graying beard looked like dirty fleece; yet his eyes were sharp enough. “Who is this man, Pyrrha?”.... Achilles answered coolly, “My husband.” I closed my mouth quickly, so I did not gape like a fish.
Why do you not go to him? “I cannot.” The pain in her voice is like something tearing. “I cannot go beneath the earth...This is all that is left,” she says, her eyes still fixed on the monument. An eternity of stone.
The slightest crease appeared between his eyes. “I do not like to lie,” he said. It was the sort of innocence other boys taunted out of you; even if you felt it, you did not say it.
Her mouth tightens. “Have you no more memories?” I am made of memories. “Speak, then.”I almost refuse. But the ache for him is stronger than my anger. I want to speak of something not dead or divine. I want him to live.
I lean forward and our lips land clumsily on each other. They are like the fat bodies of bees, soft and round and giddy with pollen. I can taste his mouth—hot and sweet with honey from dessert. My stomach trembles, and a warm drop of pleasure spreads beneath my skin. More.
His trust was a part of him, as much as his hands or his miraculous feet. And despite my hurt, I would not wish to see it gone, to see him as uneasy and fearful as the rest of us, for any price.
But I know the look on his face, the dark recklessness of his eyes. He will not yield. He does not know how. I have lived eighteen years with him, and he has never backed down, never lost. What will happen if he is forced to? I am afraid for him, and for me, and for all of us.
His gaze was on me always, preternaturally sensing the moment when a soldier’s eyes widened at the easy target I presented. Before the man drew another breath, he would cut him down.
I watched him strap these things on, one by one, saw the stiff leather dig into his soft flesh, skin that only last night I had traced with my finger. My hand twitched towards him, longing to pull open the tight buckles, to release him. But I did not. The men were waiting
I do not know this man, I think. He is no one I have ever seen before. My rage towards him is hot as blood. I will never forgive him. I imagine tearing down our tent, smashing the lyre, stabbing myself – and bleeding to death. I want to see his face broken with grief and regret.
He is lost in Agamemnon and Odysseus’ wily double meanings, their lies and games of power. They have confounded him, tied him to a stake and baited him. I stroke the soft skin of his forehead. I would untie him if I could. If he would let me.
“How many can you hold?” “I don’t know.” “Show me your hand.” I did, palm out. He rested his own palm against it. I tried not to startle. His skin was soft and slightly sticky from dinner. The plump finger pads brushing mine were very warm.