[To this he merely nods his assent. Where once conversation might have filled the length of their journey - with Achilles weaving his thoughts into small stories, and Olivia delighting in this as she so often has done - there now stretches silence as heavy as a funeral pall that drapes them both. With his thoughts so wholly occupied by Koltira, he can think of little else to share with her. Yet he knows that to utter his intent to challenge Koltira shall only bring her breast to ache. He is not so blinded by his rage that he sees not how he hurts her, yet he knows not how to soothe the disquieted waters of her heart when all she wishes is for him to lay aside his pride, that to which he clings most fiercely.
All this she shall feel like the haze of smoke that lingers even after the fire has been doused, clogging the air with cinders and making acrid what once was sweet.
Thus they limp along, leaning one against the other. His feet feel heavy upon his weary legs, like fruits that burden the branches of a tree, and as the sun sinks into the desert, burnishing the landscape to a vermilion gleam before fading to dusty purple and then extinguishing itself, Achilles finds that more and more he longs only to lie down. His rage shall have to bide its time, fermenting inside his breast to become all the more bitterly potent, festering like a wound that worsens the longer it goes undressed.
At long last, they enter the corridor of buildings that marks the town's main thoroughfare, and soon they arrive at the inn from which they have carved a temporary home. The saloon hums with spirited conversation and glasses clinking, but this warm glow of merriment reaches not into the grim pall that hangs over Achilles and Olivia. They make their way down the narrow hall to the lone bathroom, where sits a copper tub in the corner.
Against the wall Achilles sets his tarnished shield and with it his blade in its leather scabbard. Then gingerly he sets himself upon a wooden stool that beside the tub waits, and he begins to unbind the sandals from his feet.
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All this she shall feel like the haze of smoke that lingers even after the fire has been doused, clogging the air with cinders and making acrid what once was sweet.
Thus they limp along, leaning one against the other. His feet feel heavy upon his weary legs, like fruits that burden the branches of a tree, and as the sun sinks into the desert, burnishing the landscape to a vermilion gleam before fading to dusty purple and then extinguishing itself, Achilles finds that more and more he longs only to lie down. His rage shall have to bide its time, fermenting inside his breast to become all the more bitterly potent, festering like a wound that worsens the longer it goes undressed.
At long last, they enter the corridor of buildings that marks the town's main thoroughfare, and soon they arrive at the inn from which they have carved a temporary home. The saloon hums with spirited conversation and glasses clinking, but this warm glow of merriment reaches not into the grim pall that hangs over Achilles and Olivia. They make their way down the narrow hall to the lone bathroom, where sits a copper tub in the corner.
Against the wall Achilles sets his tarnished shield and with it his blade in its leather scabbard. Then gingerly he sets himself upon a wooden stool that beside the tub waits, and he begins to unbind the sandals from his feet.
All the while, there remains little to be said.]