One, Two, Three.
There were others before him but they don't really matter once he lies dead in the dust. He didn't love them, us, not really. How could he when we still had so much to become, so much to lose? We are blocks of marble, unfinished statues. Patroclus is so pale he could be a chalk figure today, the most delicate and fragile artwork ever to grace the mortal earth.
There is sand on his eyelashes and lips. Probably in his throat too or mixed with his blood. I can't remove Troy from him and take back what we've done.
Achilles has become some kind of collector. Like a proud hunter displaying heads on his walls. I line them up for him, one, two, three. I spill tears on him, wash her, kick him. One, two, three. I try to make myself useful, lest he turn on me for what we did.
Did I really whisper this to Patroclus? Did we conspire death together, whilst I was between beds?
Did I spring from the seed of Aphrodite and Ares?
I am no longer permitted to tend his weapons. I am not to be trusted with my own life. He says that he does not wish to lose anyone else. It is true, but that is pride not love. If I leave him it has all been purposeless. Uncontrollable. If he kills me, it is revenge. A nice deceit. He imagines a river is rippling silk and barely has the wit to avoid reaching out and falling in.
He sits with my ally, our enemy, his father and discuss the handing over of another body. Funny that there was no discussion for Briseis. I was someone's child once too.
My lamp wavers. When it goes out he shall visit every part of me. He will need another body to lie next to his Amazon after Priam's visit. It will not be long before I am absolved of my guilt, until the fair body that has brought me shame and suffering shall be as little part of me as it often feels. My lamp will not last the night. Even the sun must bow to midnight's gates.
There is no one in the camp he has not blamed but I know how the blows shall fall. One, two, three: Hector, Agamemnon and me.