[When he is ushered in, he presently senses the change in Gilgamesh's mood in the way one feels the shift in the air on the precipice of a storm and in that swell of pressure the skin prickles and rises. Gone is the glinting grin with which Achilles has grown familiar, and in its stead remain features whittled down by sorrows unspoken.]

Happily shall I accept what you offer.

[Then his hand is assuring upon Gilgamesh's shoulder.]

But tell me, for what do you wear this weary look? Surely you have had time enough to delight in the pleasures offered in these grand halls, yet you appear as one whose heart is heavy with cares, as evident as is a branch weighed down with the burden of the fruit it bears. Tell me, worthy companion, what might I do to to soothe your chapped breast? I have brought with me that which you gave me, but perhaps it is my lyre that I should have brought.