[His pride and his honor are the headwaters from which all other considerations flow. How easily he allows himself to be swept along once surges his fury, and now just as in the past he considers not the hearts of others nor shall he listen to any counsel but that which his rage rasps in his ears, drowning out all other voices. His hands tighten around hers as they tremble, and his winged words cut the stillness of the night air.]
You would take your husband for a coward? How can I rest while my pride lies wounded, trampled into the dust by this hateful man's heel? Death is vile to men, but so shameful a defeat is no better - not once did I slice his flesh with my sword, not once did the blade drink of his blood. I might well have been a young man green in battle still, not he who is lauded as the best of the Achaeans. What has a man if not his pride? Thus I must challenge Koltira, or else bear this shameful burden forever more.
[Long has he known that here in these far-flung lands, so far from the familiar nations of the Achaeans, his godlike strength is outstripped by men who wield gifts in imitation of godcraft. He had admired Gilgamesh for his golden might, which shone far more glorious than his own, and such radiance he held in awe. Here where the world unfolds ever wider, he finds himself no longer the greatest of warriors.
Yet never before had this truth rattled Achilles so deeply as it does now in the wake of his defeat at Koltira's hands. Such is how the sun must feel when eclipsed. Entwined with his rage and his shame is fear, as difficult to pin down as are the shadows thrown by a flickering candle. What the elf's blade had pried loose is the question of his fate, which always lies embedded in the pit of his stomach: for how much longer can he defer that which the Fates intend?
He makes to stand, but his legs are enfeebled still and he folds to his knees. For this lingering weakness that drapes his weary body like a heavy pall, he lets loose a snarl and strikes his fist against the earth.]
no subject
You would take your husband for a coward? How can I rest while my pride lies wounded, trampled into the dust by this hateful man's heel? Death is vile to men, but so shameful a defeat is no better - not once did I slice his flesh with my sword, not once did the blade drink of his blood. I might well have been a young man green in battle still, not he who is lauded as the best of the Achaeans. What has a man if not his pride? Thus I must challenge Koltira, or else bear this shameful burden forever more.
[Long has he known that here in these far-flung lands, so far from the familiar nations of the Achaeans, his godlike strength is outstripped by men who wield gifts in imitation of godcraft. He had admired Gilgamesh for his golden might, which shone far more glorious than his own, and such radiance he held in awe. Here where the world unfolds ever wider, he finds himself no longer the greatest of warriors.
Yet never before had this truth rattled Achilles so deeply as it does now in the wake of his defeat at Koltira's hands. Such is how the sun must feel when eclipsed. Entwined with his rage and his shame is fear, as difficult to pin down as are the shadows thrown by a flickering candle. What the elf's blade had pried loose is the question of his fate, which always lies embedded in the pit of his stomach: for how much longer can he defer that which the Fates intend?
He makes to stand, but his legs are enfeebled still and he folds to his knees. For this lingering weakness that drapes his weary body like a heavy pall, he lets loose a snarl and strikes his fist against the earth.]