[His heart can be as cruel and immutable as the cliffs that jut forth from the sea, and her pleas are as the waves that break against its jagged face: for all the force with which they foam and spray, still the rock does not crumble. Even with her hand so warm in his, both smeared with his blood and the dust of the desert, his thoughts are occupied by the hateful visage of Koltira, the shame he has suffered, and the revenge he shall reap. So often has her touch soothed his savage breast, and so often have her words been as a salve for all his aches, yet now both feel far colder than he has ever known. It is as if between him and Olivia stretches a chasm carved by his pride, across which she cannot reach even as she stands by his side.

How many times must he learn the lesson that his pride when swollen only wounds those whom he most loves? That his anger is a sword whose devious double-edge may slice his own flesh just as deeply as the flesh of him against whom he raises it?]

My sword and my splendid shield lie there upon the earth - these I cannot leave behind, for if I do the scoundrels who hide here in the wilds shall claim my armaments for trophies.

[So speaking, Achilles struggles to retrieve first his blade from where it had fallen in the struggle. Although his body has healed beneath Olivia's hands, still his weary flesh remembers well how he had been ravaged, and the ache remains in the memory of his muscles as would the night fog linger when morning has just broken. He falters as he bends, he who usually boasts such grace, and he must slap a palm upon the ground to steady himself as his fingers curl around the sword's handle. Laboriously he rises once more and replaces the blade in its scabbard which hangs there along his thigh. All the while his eyes scarcely meet Olivia's]