[He is not so studied in anatomy as Sieglinde, if only because his era's medical knowledge is yet incomplete - but he has learned Patroclus' anatomy, knows every inch of his second self. Thus, although he cannot say with certainty what each and every piece is, as he gathers the charred bones from the mound of ashes he laments: here are the wrists I once clasped, and there is the shoulder upon which I once rested mine own weary head - and there too are the fingers that stroked my hair and held my cheek.
Gone are the lips he once kissed, the skin he once held close against his own, the muscles that once shifted beneath him. The eyes that struck him like the lightning hurled by almighty Zeus.
Everything else, however, he slowly harvests to place piece by piece in the golden urn that his mother had gifted him. All the while, he speaks nothing aloud but only weeps for his fallen companion, for his own vacated heart.]
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Gone are the lips he once kissed, the skin he once held close against his own, the muscles that once shifted beneath him. The eyes that struck him like the lightning hurled by almighty Zeus.
Everything else, however, he slowly harvests to place piece by piece in the golden urn that his mother had gifted him. All the while, he speaks nothing aloud but only weeps for his fallen companion, for his own vacated heart.]