[How often had he boasted to men that he would make widows of their wives? That there would be little left to mourn once the carrion birds were finished feasting upon the flesh? And now Koltira had very nearly done the same unto him: he is certain that had Olivia arrived even a moment later his life would have been lost, spilled there upon the unforgiving desert floor.
As Olivia clings to him, soaking his chest with her tears as the rain would soak the parched earth, he feels weak as he has so rarely felt before. Yet the chilled grip of this feeling he does remember. He had felt it as he watched Deidamia push their son into the world, as he hovered at the nurse's side utterly helpless to quiet the cries clawing from his lover's throat, to lift the burden he had forced upon her. The burden of a life so delicate and small in his hands was one for which he was not prepared, and for the first time in his life he had been terrified.
He had felt it too when Patroclus' body was brought to his hut, the flesh and features so dear to him ruined because of his own unbridled pride, the life he so loved wasted because he would not raise his splendid spear in battle. For all his strength, this too he could not undo: he could only sob over his companion's cold body and pour ashes over his own golden curls, so sure that there remained no beauty in the world.
On the night Neoptolemus was born he had begun to feel trapped by his life upon steep Scyros, and in him burned brighter the desire to win glory, the need to bear proudly his noble name. On the night he lost Patroclus his grief had fed the flames of his fury and whet his hunger for revenge. Now as then, from the disquiet for this weakness that weighs his limbs grows his anger.
His hands withdraw from Olivia's back as he purposes to sit up, his muscles slow for still his body remembers its countless aches and it begs for rest. For this effort he cannot help but grimace.]
It shall not happen again...never again shall you weep over me as you do now.
[In the billowing smoke of his rage he forgets that this is a promise he cannot keep, for he knows that his fate cannot be deferred forever more. Yet his words continue, each one hard and bitter even as his hands gently surround Olivia's.]
For when next I see black-hearted Koltira, I shall challenge him to single combat. He shall not again take me by surprise with tactics so dishonorable, the foul tricks of a coward. By dint of my spear I shall rend his flesh as he has rent mine - I shall repay him in equal measure for the suffering he has caused me, but the death blow I shall not spare him. This fiend has robbed me of my pride, and I shall not be satisfied until I have won it back.
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As Olivia clings to him, soaking his chest with her tears as the rain would soak the parched earth, he feels weak as he has so rarely felt before. Yet the chilled grip of this feeling he does remember. He had felt it as he watched Deidamia push their son into the world, as he hovered at the nurse's side utterly helpless to quiet the cries clawing from his lover's throat, to lift the burden he had forced upon her. The burden of a life so delicate and small in his hands was one for which he was not prepared, and for the first time in his life he had been terrified.
He had felt it too when Patroclus' body was brought to his hut, the flesh and features so dear to him ruined because of his own unbridled pride, the life he so loved wasted because he would not raise his splendid spear in battle. For all his strength, this too he could not undo: he could only sob over his companion's cold body and pour ashes over his own golden curls, so sure that there remained no beauty in the world.
On the night Neoptolemus was born he had begun to feel trapped by his life upon steep Scyros, and in him burned brighter the desire to win glory, the need to bear proudly his noble name. On the night he lost Patroclus his grief had fed the flames of his fury and whet his hunger for revenge. Now as then, from the disquiet for this weakness that weighs his limbs grows his anger.
His hands withdraw from Olivia's back as he purposes to sit up, his muscles slow for still his body remembers its countless aches and it begs for rest. For this effort he cannot help but grimace.]
It shall not happen again...never again shall you weep over me as you do now.
[In the billowing smoke of his rage he forgets that this is a promise he cannot keep, for he knows that his fate cannot be deferred forever more. Yet his words continue, each one hard and bitter even as his hands gently surround Olivia's.]
For when next I see black-hearted Koltira, I shall challenge him to single combat. He shall not again take me by surprise with tactics so dishonorable, the foul tricks of a coward. By dint of my spear I shall rend his flesh as he has rent mine - I shall repay him in equal measure for the suffering he has caused me, but the death blow I shall not spare him. This fiend has robbed me of my pride, and I shall not be satisfied until I have won it back.