[He now understands a sliver of what Automedon must have felt as he watched him pour the hearth's ashes over his golden hair, knelt before the ruined body of Patroclus: for to see one so glorious so fallen of spirit, one who usually stands so sturdy so shaken, one cannot help but share in the sorrow. The greatest of heroes are not spared the heaviness of loss, nor are the gods. His hand is again upon Gilgamesh's shoulder, simply because he cannot be left alone now.]

I knew that no matter the noble cause these men proclaimed, they could be no more than the lowest of cowards who honor not the warriors who take the brunt of their battles upon their own shoulders. Was it not you who lent the might of your thousand spears and swords to the fight against wave-ruling Ryba? Then was this your reward for such glorious bravery? For your dear companions to be torn from you and brought elsewhere, as if they are no more than slaves? Indeed does my heart churn to hear of this vile injustice.