[Achilles follows him to the couch and there he settles into the soft seat beside him - close enough that he might offer reassurance, yet not so close that his presence might be cloying. It was Patroclus, not he, who could so naturally discern the needs of others, but Achilles tries his best to anticipate what might bring some small scrap of comfort to Gilgamesh.]

Right you are to say that the spear is my true calling, for which skill I have won renown, but so too am I skilled with the lyre. I am no stranger to weaving together song and poetry, although I seek no wide audience as would a bard, nor as you have so reached, Gilgamesh, shepherd of the people.

[Again he sips from his wine and in his mind he turns over the word with which Gilgamesh had so inexplicably painted himself: a king made a servant. He knows not if he refers to his bitter servitude within the ranks of ALASTAIR, or another matter entirely as he has before hinted, but now is not the time for such questions. Instead he shall ask another.]

What is the tale that you shall tell me tonight?