[As Patroclus brushes his fingers against his shirt collar and smudges his thumb over his sooty cheeks, these shows of affection that are quiet as the night sky yet just as surely possess a certain presence, all the while Achilles' countenance crinkles from grinning. This seems to him like a dream still, to have a precious piece of home here in his hands. Yet the clarity of this moment assures him that the gauzy veil of sleep drapes not his eyes: Patroclus' heartbeat, which echoes in the veins strung through his wrist, insists this is so.]

Always shall there be a place for you in whatever dwelling I claim for my home - and wherever I make my bed, so too shall you find a bed upon which to lie, my dearest friend. As for where we might find a stream in which to wash our weary limbs, I have been in this land but a short while yet I know rather well its form and features.

[So speaking, his eyes part with Patroclus to survey their surroundings. The distant hills are dotted with narrow trees that together thicken into a wood, one of the few scattered about this landscape whose bones want for water, and toward this he tilts his head.]

A brook runs through the grove there - its waters are shallow even now during what the wild-eyed Qorral proclaim the wet season, yet this shall have to suffice. The bitter cold that hangs in the air is greater cause for worry, so it seems to me. As we have no means of heating the water we shall have to make haste. How I wish I could show you instead the lavish bath which until lately stood in the inn where once we made our beds - with but the turn of a knob, out would pour water hot enough to wreathe itself in steam!