[He has set down the tome of legends upon whatever table might offer space and has taken instead the cup which Gilgamesh offers him. When the king of Uruk imbibes the dark wine, so too does Achilles; then as he speaks, Achilles watches with his noble brow furrowed by contemplation. At Gilgamesh's prompting he shall speak with words draped in solemnity, and thoughts turned to the ashes which wait for him.]

Well have I learned the sorrow that death leaves in its wake. It is a heavy pall which shrouds the eyes and smothers from sight all the sun's light. It is a plow which tills the heart and sows only the blackest fury in furrows barren of joy. Indeed I know better than most this sorrow. For upon the plains which surround steep Ilios I lost Menoetius' son Patroclus, pleasure of my heart, who fell by the pitiless bronze of murderous Hector. I heard not of men lost in our recent battle, in whose bloody jaws fortune seemed to stand by our side - do you mean to tell me one so dear to you was cast through death's gate?