[Weighed down by sorrow as a branch is burdened by fruits, his gaze falls to the floor beside the humble hearth, where remains the cup from which Olivia had only begun to sip. What few possessions they had together managed to salvage from the blaze sit bundled beside his god-burnished armor and shield, there in the corner opposite the beds he had fashioned. All appears ready to welcome her home - some shade of home - waiting for her to pass once more through the tent's entrance as Achilles fears she never shall.

Again he shakes his head, and his fingers tighten in his friend's.]

What other reason could there be? Just yesterday all was well, and ere sleep shrouded our eyes for the night we lay together as is the way between man and wife. What more has changed between then and now, but for your return to my side? Is it the prospect of living in this hut that turns her from my arms, now that the house in which once we were guests has turned to cinders? No, this cannot be, for she and I have together shared meaner dwellings than this.

[He breathes in a breath as sharp as the jagged rocks that jut forth from the sea. His nostrils fill with the reminder of the meal that Patroclus still prepares, but where before his heart swelled with contentment for the new house he would settle, it now sinks in despair.]

I have neither appetite for supper, nor thirst for wine - for a man as wretched as I, no pleasure shall come of these. I had thought this night would be one of thanksgiving, yet now my joy has turned to grief, and I find myself as shocked as the farmer whose crops waste to seed at once. How swiftly man's fortune turns!