[The miraculously hot water fills the silence with its steady pour into the tub, pooling at Achilles' feet and soothing his weary flesh by degrees as it rises and steams around him. As she minds the taps and monitors the temperature, he at last reaches out to encompass her hand in his. In the press of his palm lies a firm insistence that arises too in the solemn words he speaks.]

I did not thank you for sparing me from death's cold grip, and for restoring me to life. In truth...when murderous Koltira did abandon me to the vile gates of death, there I was ready to accept the fate that I have for so long staved off. I thought that I saw Patroclus, dearest of my companions, welcoming me to the Acheron's far shore - and oh, how I longed to take his hands in mine at last.

[In this reverent pause for what shall some day be, he squeezes her hand, and it is joined by its brother to cradle her hand from below.]

Yet then it was you whom I saw in the darkness beneath my eyelids, dear Olivia, like a beacon that fills my heart with hope even in its weariest hour. It was you whom I saw, and I knew I must live yet.

[All the while his gaze too presses into her, as the hands of a potter press into clay that it may become pliable to his will, and he waits for her eyes to return to him. It is not she for whom his anger crackles, after all: he wishes only that his wife should become once more the warm woman who has lent him support in every crucible they together endure.]