#the veins on Patroclus' foot.

[kebriones]

Very sad when people redraw the Patroclus/Achilles bandaging scene but cover up Patroclus' crotch.

[3d-wifey]

And They'd Find Us in A Week - Chapter 12

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Reader Word Count: 8.4k Synopsis: Here! Playlist: Listen up! Tag list: - @melancholicmelanin, @yvy1s, @glomp-me, @honethatty12, @swftlore, @hashcakes, @antoheartit, @finnickodaddy, @lilifl0wer, @antoheartit, @kermitcrimess, @persophonekarter, @aawdrea, @obaewankenobis, @xyxlyn, @meandurdaughtergotaspecialthing, @innercreationflower, @kisskittenn Chapter Summary: There's a certain kind of pain in reading or watching something from the perspective of a character who doesn't know about the tragedy ahead of them. It's like watching a scary movie and going, "No, don't go to sleep! He's behind the door!" Like in The Song of Achilles, we all know how the original story ends. We know how the actual prophecy plays out. We know that the moment Patroclus's heart stops, Hector and Achilles fates are set in stone. You wince whenever Achilles says he has no reason to kill Hector because "What has Hector done to me?" You want to tell him that Hector will do the unforgivable to him. You want to tell Patroclus not to go on the field. Tell Achilles to get his damned head out of his ass as he disguises Patroclus as himself because he is at risk of losing something far more important than his pride. You hold your breath as Patroclus is speared in the back and as Achilles realizes the consequences of his actions. You knew it was coming, and yet, you still read the story because a part of you hoped. You hoped for the hopeless. All this to say that knowing and still having hope regardless is crueler than complete ignorance. A/N: I imagined your stylist as Anne Hathaway in Alice in Wonderland.

Past (xiii) - You [22 & 23] - THE CAPITOL

If you were from any other district, maybe it would have surprised you how attached Rue is to you. But the sense of community in Eleven breeds this need for kinship. You’re social creatures; you’re not meant to be on your own. Certainly not in a place like the Capitol. It’s how you end up hugging your knees to your chest, an unnamed ocean projected on your wall as you try to get lost in the tides the night before the tributes will be marched into the arena.

No one talks about this part, or maybe they just don’t want to think about it. The part where being forced back into the room you slept in during your own Games eats at you—that anxiety that courses through your veins and leaves your body thrumming. Because no matter what you tell yourself, your body isn’t entirely convinced that you won’t be the one entering the arena tomorrow. You close your eyes and suddenly you’re fifteen again, gripping the sheets so hard you could tear holes in them as you fight the vomit threatening to ride the wave of acid reflux.

Sleeping beside Finnick helped. He reminded you that you weren’t fifteen and alone and wishing you’d die in your sleep so you wouldn’t be slaughtered live. And now? Well, at least there’ll always be the ocean.

There’s a knock on your door, so tentative that you would have missed it if you weren’t already so keyed up.

You pause the projection of the ocean, assuming the sound woke someone up. You get up and go to open it, only to see Rue. Suddenly you’re shamefaced and embarrassed, like you’ve been caught doing something pathetic, even though it’s doubtful she even knows what the sound was, let alone the significance of you listening to it.

“I’m sorry, honey. Was I being too loud?”

“No.” She shakes her head, shifting from foot to foot. “Um, I couldn’t sleep. And I just—I saw that your light was on and thought maybe you couldn’t sleep either?”

That may be true, but you don’t think it’s the only reason. Rue is the oldest of six and they all live in Shacktown. With all those people in one house, you’re sure Rue’s never slept alone a day in her life. It makes you wonder how she managed these past few days.

You’re an only child; your dad was killed before your parents could have any more, so you can’t say for certain that you understand what she feels. Yet, you reminisce on the fact that you’ve never really gone through a year of mentoring without Finnick being within arm’s reach.

She stares up at you with those big, pleading puppy-dog eyes, and you twist your mouth to the side.

“C’mon.” You move so you aren’t blocking the entrance anymore and you nod your head towards your room. “How ‘bout you sleep in here with me tonight? You don’t have to, of course, but we might as well stay up together.”

You know you’ve made the right choice when she grins big, rushes in, and takes a running start to jump on your bed. You shake your head fondly as she scurries to get under the blanket, lying down with them pulled under her arms and getting comfortable like she belongs there. The door slides shut behind you and you twist the dimmer until the only light comes from the projector. You settle into your bed beside Rue andyou snort at how she keeps smiling at you.

“So… What were you watching?”

“Uh.” You pick the remote up to unmute the device and the sound of crashing ocean waves fills any remaining silence. “The ocean.”

She looks over, seemingly transfixed by the drag and pull of the water. The nearest ocean to Eleven is the one that rests just outside of the towering fence and only serves as a deterrent for escaping. This is her first time seeing one outside of a textbook. “Why?”

“Well, I,” you let out a weighted breath, "I thought it would make me feel better. Help me sleep.”

“Oh.” Says Rue and then she looks at you. “Why?”

You let out a surprised laugh. “Um. I guess the ocean reminds me of my friend and—I don’t know. It’s just easier to sleep with him around."

“Is he your crush?” Crush? Such an innocent question feels surprisingly weighted considering your current relationship with Finnick. Or lack thereof. Is it a crush now that it’s unrequited?

“I love him.” You tell the wall and it’s the sad truth. You still do. You wouldn’t be so hung up if you didn’t.

"Whoa. You like like him.” Like like. It’s been years since you heard that. It brings to mind how young she is. It’s not as if you needed another reminder. “It’s okay, I won’t tell. I like someone too.”

“Oh? And what’s his name?” You smile. You both flip over to face each other. You picture little you and little Sage, shyly holding hands during downtime, and find yourself hoping this boy liked Rue back.

“You can’t tell anyone.” She narrows her eyes and makes you swear, which you do with a pinky promise. “Coriander.” Her voice goes all quiet and timid as she hides her face and you wonder if you’ve ever seen anything cuter.

“Ah, I think I might know him.” She looks at you with wide eyes as you tease her, peering out from between her fingers.

“Nuh-uh, no way.” She denies it as you tap a finger on your chin and pretend to think about it.

“No, no. I think I do. He’s got pink hair, no teeth, and walks with a waddle, right?”

“No! ” She giggles and you can’t help but giggle along with her. You take a moment.

“Finnick. The boy I like.” You provide when she looks confused. “His name is Finnick.”

“Oh, oh! Is he that boy from Four? The victor?” It’s hardly shocking that she recognizes him. He’s one of ‘the greats’. You nod and she gasps like that’s the juiciest piece of gossip she’s ever heard.

“He’s pretty.” She whispers.

“He is.” You laugh.

“Is he nice?”

“The nicest,” you say without thought or contempt. Finnick’s indeed been nothing but kind to you since you’ve met him, current behavior not included. You find that even when you’re mad at him, you can’t disparage him. And you don’t want to lie to Rue. “He made me this." You lift your wrist and show her your bracelet. You’ve been wearing it around your ankle while you’re out in public, but when you’re on your own, it goes back to its rightful place.

“Cori made something for me too.”

She pulls her necklace up for you to see. It’s woven grass attached to a wooden charm shaped like a flower—you squint—or maybe a star? Definitely the handiwork of a child. Adorable. It reminds you of Cane.

“Your token?”

“Yep. He gave it to me when everyone came to see me off after I was reaped. He ran all the way home and back to give it to me. He almost didn’t get back in time, but I waited for him. I knew he’d come, and that’s why it’s good luck.”

“Makes sense.” You nod and she nods with you, like she’s happy that you get her logic. “He must like you a lot to go through all that.”

“Yeah. He’s sweet.” She smiles, fidgeting with the charm.

“I bet he is.” You push some of her curls out of her face. Just two doomed girls talking about their equally doomed crushes.

It’s silent for a moment; ocean noises make your eyes feel heavier with the pull of each tide. You watch as the shadows cast from the projector paint the ceiling in a series of swirling blues. You think you can see Finnick’s favorite color hidden amongst the other shades.

“Were you scared? When you went into the arena?” Rue asks and you still can’t find it in yourself to lie to her.

“Terrified.”

“Really? You’re so brave though?” She sounds so genuinely confused that you have to hold back your laughter. You don’t want her to think you're making fun of her. You appreciate the vote of confidence. It’s more than you have in yourself.

“I think…being brave means doing something even if you are terrified.” You look away from the ceiling to make eye contact. “It’s okay to be scared, Rue. You know that, right?”

“Yeah, I know.” She mumbles like she doesn’t actually believe it.

“I think you’re incredibly brave.” You know she regularly went foraging for food for her siblings, and she took on more hours than what was required of her. Who knows how many times she’s entered her name for Tesserae?

And she’s still so young.

“Really?”

“Oh, definitely.” You laugh at her skepticism. You’ve laughed more with Rue in the short time you’ve had with her than in the last two years combined. Sadly, there hasn’t been much of a reason for you to. Realizing that this is the last night you two will laugh together is devastating. “I was fifteen and I felt like I was on the edge of breaking down the entire time. How are you so calm?” She’s only twelve years old—not even a teenager. If you were in her shoes, you’d have dehydrated yourself from how much you were crying.

“I am scared, but…" She drags out the ‘uh’, then shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess it doesn’t feel real.”

“Hmm. I get that.” You don’t tell her that it won’t start feeling real until she either wins or dies. It’ll only make her feel worse. She closes her eyes and you two are quiet for a time—so long that you think she’s fallen asleep.

Her voice is small when she asks, “Can I hold your hand?”

“Of course.” You hold your right one out for her to take, and her little fingers lace with yours. Her palms are callused too. Not as much as yours. No, she’ll never have enough time to catch up to yours.

Rue moves closer to you and you wrap your left arm around her. You feel her say your name more than you hear it and you hum in response. “Thank you.”

You pull her closer to your chest, your linked hands resting between you. “Of course, sweetheart.” You say this into the crown of her head, wishing that you could have done more for her and Thresh—wishing you weren’t so helpless.

But you can do this. You can give her this last comfort, this last embrace from home. You hold her tight as you both fall asleep and you only let her go when they come to take her away in the morning.

You do not cry.

-

You miss him, you decide one day. You thought you hated him after you got through your self-pity, but the words "hate" and "Finnick" are too oxymoronic to ever stay together for long. You were so angry at yourself, angry at the world, but you sat with that anger long enough to know what it truly was. Grief. You miss him the way you'd miss a limb. You're so used to having it that you only remember it's gone when you notice the space it used to occupy and feel the phantom aches of what it used to be—what you used to have and took for granted.

Chaff has described in detail the pain of losing his hand. But, he said, nothing hurts worse than remembering it’s not there.

You've never taken Morphling and you don't know anyone personally who's gotten hooked on it, but you imagine this is what withdrawal feels like. You haven't seen him since before he sent that letter, and it feels like he's actively avoiding you. You said years ago, after Annie's Games, that you could handle just being his friend if he decided he didn’t want you anymore. But he never gave you the chance.

That’s alright. It’s perfectly fine. You know when you’re not wanted around, you can take a hint.

Maybe it's for the best. There’s no telling what you would do if you ran into him again. Something pathetic, probably, like begging him to take you back. There's a specific moment when you really feel your loss. A few days into the 74th Hunger Games. Chaff is finalizing the transaction with the money Eleven gathered to send bread for Rue and Thresh, so you’re on your own. 

“Your girl is something else.” You tell Haymitch from where you stand beside him, arms crossed, as you split your attention between him and the Games.

He cocks his head slightly, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, then returns to watching Katniss and Rue rehearse their strategy. “I can say the same to you.” You hadn’t expected Rue to team up with anyone, but you can’t say you are surprised that it’s Katniss. The girl did volunteer for her little sister, after all. Primrose, was it? But you’re concerned that your little speech about being brave by doing things that terrify you may have swayed her to come out of hiding and help Katniss.

You can’t take full credit, though. Rue—well, she’s far too kind for her own good.

You look him over, a glass of something alcoholic in one hand while the other remains buried in his pocket. Honestly, you’ve never seen him this invested in the Games before, but you could hazard a guess why. You weren’t just blowing smoke up his ass about Katniss. She’s honestly got a pretty good shot of winning, if not making it to the top five. She’s already a fan favorite, along with Rue, Peeta, Glimmer, and Cato. She’s exceeded your expectations, along with Haymitch’s. No wonder he’s been networking his ass off. If she’s actually got a chance at surviving this, he owes it to her to try.

That’s when it happens.

Rue’s screams echo in your ears as Katniss races through the forest. Something has gone wrong—she's been captured or the Careers are using her as bait, or—you wipe your sweaty hands on your dress and then recross them, wanting more than anything to bite at the skin around your nails. You hold your breath, hoping beyond hope that she’s saved from whatever fate has befallen her.

She’s by herself in the clearing. Caught in a net, but not hurt. Katniss manages to get Rue out and your muscles begin to untense, but the relief is incredibly short-lived. 

Marvel, that cocky little boy from two, throws his spear with deadly precision, lance soaring past Katniss to pierce Rue in the abdomen.

Your hands are numb as they cover your mouth, but then you remember where you are and drop them just as quickly. She pulls the spear from her chest and you want to yell at her not to, that taking it out will only make her bleed quicker. Like it even matters at all when she’ll bleed out regardless. You think you need to sit down.

Katniss catches her before she falls. You’re lightheaded.

Katniss sings to her after she whispers something that the mics can’t pick up and it feels like your heart is being wrung dry. You think of Rue’s mother. You think of her six siblings, who all look up to her. You think of Coriander. You think of how small she felt in your arms and how tightly she held your hand. You think of a lot of things in the time it takes for her heart to stop beating.

The cannon fires and all eyes go to you. Ranging from curious to pitying. Some are even tearful. She was a fan favorite, after all. Mentors and Capitols alike split their attention between you and the screens to catch your reaction, but your face is deceptively blank. You stare ahead silently, your eyes unseeing as they remain on the screen.

You will not give them the pleasure of seeing you break down. Katniss will leave and Rue’s body will be airlifted out and that will be the end of it.

This is nothing new for you. You’ve gone through this twelve other times. Why would she be any different? She isn't. You tell that to your shaky hands and they only tremble further. You tell your heavy lungs and they only get heavier. You try telling your chilly skin, but all it does is make you feel colder. Why is she different?

You want to close your eyes as Katniss grieves. To be able to save one little girl but not another, it must weigh heavy.

“I’m so sorry." Someone comes to stand beside you, some Capitol elite. “One less chance for your district to win.” You look at him from the corner of your eye and Haymitch scoffs on your other side. For one stupid moment, you thought he was offering his condolences.

“Right. Well. There’s still Thresh.” He nods along to your words, thoughtfully, like you’re talking about the likelihood of a horse winning a race.

“Yes, he’s the big one, right? I have money riding on him or Cato winning.” Of course, he remembers his name and not Thresh’s. You close your eyes before they can roll out of your head. “I’d like to send him something to eat as a sponsor. I worry—what is she doing?” You open your eyes to see what tribute has captured his attention, only to see Katniss again. But she’s still with Rue, kneeling next to her body with an armful of flowers—

“She’s giving her a funeral.” You bite your bottom lip to keep it from trembling. Rue rests on a bed of flowers—white daisies and lavender. She tucks a bouquet of daisies in her little hands and you wonder if Katniss knows the significance that being surrounded by flowers has for your people. Or maybe that’s something your two districts have in common. All that’s missing is fruit and it would be a proper Eleven funeral.

A funeral for a little girl. Your heart grows heavy with that realization and your mouth curls into a scowl.

You shouldn’t think about how she clung to you before she was sent into the arena. You shouldn’t think of Coriander’s childish hope dying with her. You shouldn’t think about her family watching this. You shouldn’t think of how her mother woke up this morning with six children and will go to sleep with only five. You shouldn’t, you shouldn’t, you shouldn’t—

“Oh, how sweet.” The man coos.

“Yes.” Katniss faces the camera, kisses her three middle fingers, and salutes the cameras—salutes District Eleven. You don’t think of Coriander sprinting to the train clutching a grass-woven necklace with a good-luck charm that wasn’t very lucky. “Very sweet."

On instinct, you reach to the left for Finnick, but there's no hand to hold other than your own.

You need Finnick, and he isn’t here and for the first time since you've become a mentor, you have to brave the games by yourself and shoulder your grief alone. 

“Kid…” A flinch rolls through you at the unexpected voice, and you look to your left at Haymitch’s face as he goes through a range of emotions before settling on sympathy. No. Empathy. For a moment, you forgot he was beside you. But he hasn’t forgotten you. 

He does something that surprises you again. He places a big hand on the nape of your neck, warm and callused, and squeezes. You exhale sharply, your face twisting minutely, and it’s the closest thing to crying that you’ll allow yourself to do. He pulls you into his side, and it’s a battle not to burrow into him—a battle you lose. Your image will allow you to do this much. Allow you to be comforted while many of the other Capitols in the room do the same thing because it’s all very sad. You wrap your arms around his waist from where you’re held tight against his side and his hand goes down to rub your back soothingly.

No words are said between you two, and that’s enough. It has to be. Past (xiii) - Finnick 

[ 22 & 23] - DISTRICT FOUR Finnick has never felt worse.

The sky is clear, the stars are bright, and Finnick has never felt worse.

It’s a particularly quiet night on the beach. There’s no one walking along the shore, no bonfires, no night swimming. There’s only Finnick. 

He sits with his legs crossed under him; the coarse sand is warm against the exposed skin of his legs and feet. He’s always been able to come down to the beach to think and unload any weight on his shoulders. With how heavy his heart feels, he’s never needed that release more. A cool breeze carries the smell of the ocean, but it’s not as comforting as it should be. 

He reaches into the ornate box sitting between his thighs and just rests his hand there, letting his fingers ghost over the pages upon pages of parchment paper. He’s kept a tight lid on this box, hoarding your letters and your scent inside like a corvid. Even now, outside on the shore, your smell wafts around him—concentrated and stiff. He blinks past the tears in his eyes.

He doesn’t look inside; he doesn’t think he can handle it. To see the length of your relationship measured by words on paper, to know he’ll never be adding to this box again—it’s too much.

He pulls out a letter at random. 

His eyes have already readjusted to the darkness as he uses the moonlight to read. He traces the looping lines of your handwriting. 

This is the letter you sent along with that pretty picture of yourself in case he forgot what you look like. A beautiful sentiment, but largely unnecessary. Finnick knows your reflection as well as he knows his own, if not better. Even now, with all this space, time, and hurt between the two of you, he could draw your portrait blindfolded. Not that anything could ever live up to the real thing. Nothing can compare to you.

He sighs, twisting his bracelet around his wrist absently. He feels the cool grooves of the fish charm between his thumb and pointer finger as he looks at the stars. There are more stars than there are grains of sand. Each tiny, flickering dot is a blazing inferno, the likes of which he can hardly comprehend. They don’t shine nearly as brightly as you do in his memory. 

He just…he just wishes he could have told you that.

Unconsciously, his eyes fall on Cassiopeia. Punished for boasting about the beauty of her daughter. It’s not fair. Her only crime was loving her child, and for that, she was forced to give her up for the safety of her kingdom.

Sacrificing someone you love for the greater good. He can’t tell if he wants to scoff, scream, or cry. Maybe all three.

Are you looking at the same sky as him? Even now, are the two of you still connected? Is it cruel to hope for that? It has to be, but Finnick has found that he's grown rotten in his misery. Rotten and incredibly selfish. 

Over the past year, you’ve sent him letter after letter and he read each one with ravenous eyes—desperate for you in any way he could have you. You were angry, you were hurt, you were confused. You alternated between begging him and demanding him to reply. So he did. Of course, he did. He could never deny you anything.

He just never sent any of them.

He kept them stashed in a drawer, locked away so he didn’t have to look at them—wouldn’t have to look at his bleeding heart. It wasn’t healthy; he knows that, but still. He just wanted to pretend, just for a little while, that everything was back to normal. That he hadn’t ripped out his soul by tearing yours apart. 

Those letters had been a constant staple in his life for nearly seven years, and—he was going to wean himself off of it, off of you, really, he was. 

But he never got the chance to before they stopped coming a few months ago. They just stopped.

He should be happy about that. He should be pleased that you're moving on. He should be a lot of things that he's not, but, as it turns out, he’s getting pretty fucking sick of performing for an empty audience. You've given up on him, and you have every right to, but— 

God, it hurts.

It’s for the best. It’s what he wanted—no, it’s what he needed to happen for both of you. And it’s certainly better than the alternative Snow offered.

Knowing all that doesn’t make it hurt any less; it doesn’t make the pain any easier to bear.

He takes out another letter, and it’s…it’s the first one? The first letter you left him after you spent the night in his room. He remembers waking up on the floor, tired and raw from that conversation on the balcony. He was fully prepared to act like it never happened. He was a little disappointed to wake up alone, but he was sure that it only proved that you wanted to forget about it too. Imagine his surprise when he rolled over—not to the empty space he was expecting, but to a note on your pillow.

I really appreciate…

Thank you for…

Just thank you.

He was left floored. He was seventeen years old and he couldn’t remember the last time anyone thanked him for anything.

Finnick brings the note to his nose and your perfume floods his senses, drowning him in memories. Memories of long train rides home from the Capitol, his only company being the smell of you on his clothes.

And try as he might, he can’t forget. He can still feel the blood caked under his fingernails and flaking at his wrist. Can still feel the warmth of your beating heart in his hand after he ripped it out. That’s his punishment. Remembering it all, good and bad.

He’s broken from his musing by the crunching of sand approaching him from behind.

“You’ve been out here for hours. Aren’t you cold?” Annie's soft-spoken voice is almost lost in the wind. No. He isn’t. He’s the exact opposite, actually. He’s scorching from the inside out. He’s burning bright and hot and one day he’ll implode under the weight of it all like a supernova. The only respite he can imagine is the cool relief of your touch. He’s scared he’ll forget what that feels like. 

She sighs when he doesn’t answer. “We know you’re hurting, Finnick, and we’re worried. You can talk to us. You don’t have to just…talk to your letters. We’re here for you.”

He doesn’t look up; he doesn’t have the strength to, but he nods anyway. Of course, they can tell he’s hurting. A blind man could spot his suffering from a mile away. He hadn’t bothered to hide it outside of the Capitol.

“...Try not to stay out here too long, okay?

Annie squeezes his shoulder before walking back up the beach, leaving him alone, and he's thankful. She shouldn't have to see him like this. She shouldn't have to see him break down. 

I'm allowed to, he thinks, I'm in mourning.

But how can he mourn something he killed?

He reaches into the box one more time, pulling out a stray scrap of paper and a pen. His hands shake along with his shoulders, his handwriting so bad that only he and you would be able to understand it. He writes:

Dear Heart,

I don’t know who Finnick Odair is without his love for you.

Every day, I think I can’t possibly miss you more than I already do. And then another day passes and I prove myself wrong.

Is there a fate crueler than this?

I just want to see you again. I just want to hold you again. One last glance, one last smile, one last laugh, one last kiss. If I knew the last time I saw you would be the LAST time I saw you, I never would have blinked. I’d have made the moment last forever. But forever isn’t nearly enough, is it?

Do you think you could ever forgive me?

-I love you I love you I love you,

Finn

Present (XI) - Finnick

[23 & 24] - THE CAPITOL; ELEVENTH FLOOR

“I thought I’d find you here."

“Haymitch.” Finnick leans in the doorway of your room, wiping sleep from his eyes. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. He wanted to stay awake and bask in the little time he had left with you, but he hadn’t slept next to you in so long and it felt like he was lured in.

“Listen,” the man rubs at his scruff, “it’s not what I came here for, but I’m happy you two figured out whatever the hell…” He trails off with a particularly constipated look, waving a hand vaguely in the direction of your room.

“...Right. Thanks.” Finnick clears his throat. “I’m, uh, I’m happy too.”

“Yeah… Anyway.” He sighs. “There've been a few last-minute adjustments to the plan.”

That wakes Finnick up, his mind running over what Haymitch has already told him to do in the arena. “Oh, should I wake Star—”

“No, no. This is just for you. We realized you’d have no way of knowing when you should be heading to the pickup point, especially since things out here can change on a dime.” He steps closer, burying his hands in his pockets. “Once all of the necessary players are gathered in the arena, a sponsor gift will be sent down, probably some kind of food. Pay attention to the district and the amount that’s sent.”

Finnick squints. “Why?”

“The district tells you the day we’re coming and the amount tells you the hour—do not get the two mixed up.” Haymitch raises a hand, staring Finnick down until he nods. 

“Alright, I won’t. And the pickup point?”

“When in doubt, Beetee will know.” He sighs, running a hand through his hair. He’s sure working behind the scenes and acting as a messenger is harrowing work, especially with Snow on such high alert. “Our girl managed to get in Peeta’s good graces. Not that I’m surprised; they probably bonded over how ‘fun’ and 'rewarding' it is to help the less fortunate or something. Having her plus Beetee and Wiress will definitely give Johanna and Blight some credibility in Katniss’s eyes. You, on the other hand, are gonna need to rely on something other than your good looks and Mags.” He fishes a flash of gold out of his pocket—some kind of bracelet.  

Finnick takes it gingerly, examining how the light makes it shimmer.

“Take it into the arena as a token. Show it to her, preferably before she shoots you between the eyes. And, shit, if that doesn’t work, ask her…tell her to remember who the real enemy is.”

He wants to ask what that means outside of this very specific context; he wants to know what this bracelet means to him and Katniss if just seeing it will be enough for her to make him an ally. But he doesn’t. He feels like it’ll bring on more questions than it’ll answer.

“I’m gonna need you to hold onto something for me then.” He reaches into one of the deep pockets along his billowy pants until he feels the familiar shape against his fingers. He’s almost hesitant to give it away. When the Quell was announced, he was sure he would die with it on him. But it’s a part of you and he can’t take the chance of it getting destroyed. “It’s, um. It’s a photo she gave to me a few years back, I always carry it on me—”

“You don’t need to explain.” When it’s handed to him, Haymitch takes a moment to look at you. Finnick feels a little self-conscious of how faded it is from years of him running his fingers along your face—faded from years of being well loved. “I’ll make sure she gets back to you.” He’s careful when placing your photo in his pocket and Finnick feels relieved that there’s someone on the outside who wants to get you out of the arena just as much as he does.

“Good luck, kid.” He squeezes Finnick’s shoulder and hesitates. His eyes shift to the walkway that leads to where you’re resting. “When she wakes up, tell her… Tell her I said…” He trails off, his face severe, and Finnick understands painfully well.

“I will.” He promises. Haymitch purses his lips before giving a nod. Finnick watches his back as he leaves and wonders if that will be the last conversation he has with the man, one of his oldest friends.

Present (XI) - You 

[23 & 24] - THE CAPITOL; THE ARENA “Your tracker.” The Peacekeeper yanks your arm up wordlessly and waits for you to pull your sleeve back. You squint around the sharp pain as he jabs the needle into your forearm, burying the tracking device under your skin. You glare at his back and rub at your now-raised skin. 

You grip the straps of your seatbelt as the hovercraft begins its ascent.

As relayed from Haymitch to Finnick to you, Peeta brought you up as an ally, and, luckily enough, Katniss wasn't against the idea. It might have something to do with the conversation you and she had before the Chariot Rides or maybe it’s the fact that you're the only person Peeta suggested. It hadn't been your intention to get on his good side when you offered to train him, but you're glad you did. It makes your job that much easier.

“It's a very breathable, lightweight material, so I’m thinking of a humid environment, maybe tropical. Large bodies of water for certain. Have you decided on a token?" Your stylist pipes up from her seat beside you.

“Oh. Yeah.” You lift your hand to show her the blue bracelet sitting snugly on your wrist. She gasps and you pull your wrist away, looking around the carrier for anything that could be the cause of the sound. “What? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing!” She waves you off with a flippant hand. “It’s just, I didn’t think I’d see you wear that bracelet again. I know Finnick never took his off, but—” You yank your arm back against your chest, holding your bracelet almost as if you can hide it.

"Wha-what..how do you, how…?”

“Us stylists confide in each other, and, well, those of us behind the scenes thought the two of you were just so cute together! I never saw you without that bracelet for five years straight and then one day, it was just gone. Poof! Oh, we were worried sick something happened with you two. But now it’s back!” She cheers, clapping her hands.

You gape at her. “You…you knew? All of you? And you never…?” Never leaked the gossip to the tabloids? To Snow?

“What? Heavens no! We're not heartless, dear. It wasn't our place. Besides,” she leans over, her crimson-painted lips pulled into a smile as she pats your thigh. Her eyes are glossy enough that you’re almost certain she’ll start crying. “You two deserve to be happy.”

You nod stiltedly, rocked by this new information. Did Finnick know? No. If either of you did, you would have been a bit nicer to your stylists. You’re quiet for the rest of the flight as she talks to you. This time around, you do try to listen to what she’s saying, nodding along at the right moments to show you’re paying attention. It’s a bit late, but you feel like you owe it to her.

She walks you down to the tube that’ll take you to the arena.

“This is it, my dear.” She sniffs, raising a hand to her mouth as she actually starts crying now. “Oh, I’m a mess. I’m sorry.” She apologizes, fanning her pale face. You don’t think about it too hard; instead, you step toward her and pull her into a tentative hug.

“It’s okay, Shimmer,” you comfort her. “And for what it’s worth, thank you.”

“It’s not okay. It’s not fair at all.” You let her squeeze you tight, allowing the hug to go on longer than you normally would. She inhales and then pulls away. She holds you by your shoulders and takes you in. “It’s been an honor working with you, my dear.”

“Same here.” You smile, but it feels more like a grimace.

You step onto the platform.

The door slides shut behind you and you start feeling sick as you rise. Sick enough that you worry you might vomit before you even make it into the arena. Your heart beats in your teeth. It’s starting to dawn on you, you realize, just how fucked you are. There’s the revolution, but there’s no guarantee you’ll even live long enough to be saved. You’ve been training like crazy, not that it was that hard with the way you grew up. It’s one thing to use your skills for physical labor; it’s another to use them in a fight to the death. That wasn’t how you survived your Games.

You hold your breath, gathering and reminding yourself of what’s important. The plan. And the plan hinges on you getting to the Cornucopia and surviving.

Your stylist tearfully waves you off as you rise, her elaborate and puffy white gown the last you see of her. You look up at the hole of light as you approach it, your nails digging into your palm.

The drastic temperature change makes you shiver and squint, raising your hand to block the blinding rays of the sun. This heat is different from the kind you’re used to. Heavier, somehow even more humid than Eleven’s muggy summers. The sun disorients you and the little wind that comes through carries the smell of salt. You push through the fog of your senses and force yourself to see.

There’s water—a shit ton of it. Saltwater if your nose is to be trusted. Shimmer was right.

The first thing you do is look for Finnick. You can’t help yourself; the need to know where he is is stronger than your need to acclimate. Your gaze bounces from tribute to tribute in your search for him. Sweat is already gathering on your brow when you finally find him. You see him, but only barely, on your left. He’s about three sections away, close enough that you make eye contact with him. It’s brief and fleeting, but long enough for your stomach to settle and your heartbeat to slow. 

You’re all divided by rocky strips of land that protrude from the island the Cornucopia rests on like the spokes of a wheel. And in between each spoke are two tributes. That would mean there are twelve sections.

Mentally, you try to map out where everyone is. You note that Finnick is standing beside Chaff.

On your immediate left is Johanna, sectioned off from you by the long line of rocks. You nod at each other and relief courses through you knowing you won’t have to search for her. Beetee stands with Cecilia in between Finnick and Johanna’s respective sections. Was this placement intentional or just luck?

With half of your group near you, your eyes rove around for the missing two and—

“Shit.” You curse. You’ll have to go looking for Wiress. That’s the first part of the plan: Johanna gets Beetee, you get Wiress, and Blight waits for the four of you away from the Cornucopia. You’re lucky to be placed next to Beetee and Johanna, but it would have been nice if Wiress was a little closer. Or within your line of sight, at least.

“Let the 75th Hunger Games begin. May the odds be ever in your favor.”  

The sound of Ceasar’s cohost echoes throughout the arena and you rush to gather more information. On your immediate right is the woman from Nine, about the same distance from you as the strip of land on your left. You know she never stepped foot in the training center, so you’re confident in the fact that she isn’t a threat. A little further down are Peeta and the man from Ten. You do a double-take. You hadn’t expected him to be so close to you and you have to force yourself to ignore him. You beat back the instinct to watch him like a hawk; that isn’t your job right now—it’s Mags and Finnick’s. The next section houses Woof and Mags and beside them are Enobaria and the female morphling. That’s as far down as you can see.

Your muscles tense up when he begins the countdown. 

You take stock of your surroundings. Before you is the Cornucopia, and behind you is a beach and a deep forest—no, a jungle. The large body of water surrounding your platform looks pretty clear. Nothing but fish and plants, you’re sure. It’s doubtful they’d put anything deadly in there. Not when so many of the tributes can’t do anything more than doggy paddle. And certainly not this early into the Games. What an odd choice to have water this deep. Especially considering how rare a skill swimming is in the districts.

You watch the red, rotating cube as it flashes down to one, your muscles poised like a spring as you prepare to jump. You take a breath and dive in.

Deep in the woods behind the shack your family used to call home, there was a lake in an area the Peacekeepers seldom patrolled. That’s where your dad taught you to swim. You haven’t done it in a long time, not since before he was killed. You’re more than a little rusty and you wish you had aimed a little more to your left.

The cold water is a shock to your system, but you don’t have time to stay idle. You don’t sink to the bottom like you think you will; you’ve forgotten how much lighter water makes your body. The salt in the water burns your eyes every time you try to open them so you squint and swim towards where you think the strip of land is. It’s a battle. The distance, while a problem on its own, is nothing compared to the strength of the waves. 

You’re panting by the time you make it there, shaky fingers grappling with the wet rocks as you pull yourself up, thanking your forethought to focus on training your upper body strength. The woman from Nine had jumped in the opposite direction, aiming for the beach instead of the Cornucopia. Smart. You’d do the same, but you need a weapon and you need to find Wiress. You push your water-laden hair out of your eyes, getting your feet under you and taking off towards the Cornucopia. 

You're surprised when you make it across without slipping. You have to make the split-second decision between getting a weapon or looking for Wiress first. You glance behind you, and no one seems that adept in the water on your side. Johanna is just now clawing her way out of the waves. You guess there aren’t many reasons to swim in Seven. You make a run for the mouth of the Cornucopia with the sound of cannon fire chasing you and you hope to God that no one sets their sights on Wiress. You glance to your right, and you can blurrily make out Finnick, Katniss, and Mags helping Peeta out of the water.

You skid to a stop, your legs freezing without your actual input.

“Finnick!” You yell, and his head whips up before you fully get his name out. The water weighs his hair down, turning it a darker blond than you’re used to seeing it. You aren’t entirely sure why you called out for him. Maybe it was more for his comfort than yours; he’ll need to know that you weren’t the cause of one of the cannons firing. 

“Star!” He grasps his trident tighter, scanning your surroundings for potential threats. When he sees none, his shoulders relax but his trident remains poised in anticipation.

He looks from you to his group and back again. You shake your head to stop him from taking that step forward. It was only three hours ago that you last saw him. And before that, the two of you stayed up talking about nothing until you fell asleep in each other���s arms. Nonetheless, the desire to run to him is strong. You can see him fight that same impulse you do. When the cannon fires again, Finnick leaps into action, nodding at you with an uncertain gleam in his eyes before placing Mags on his back. 

You watch them all run for the jungle before getting your weapon. You spot a scythe propped up with spears and tridents and can tell immediately that it was planted for you. You take a second to analyze it distrustfully. A metal handle and a deeply curved blade, undoubtedly for show rather than harvesting. You won’t take it. It’s big and cumbersome, and it’ll slow you down in this kind of terrain. Plus, the strength needed to wield this in an actual fight is beyond you. Someone like Chaff or Brutus would get far more use out of it. Maybe even Finnick, if his trident ever fails him. It’ll just tire you out.

Instead, you opt for the twin sickles hanging next to it. They’re also bigger than any you’ve seen in Eleven. With their thick, smooth wooden handles, the blades are sharper than any you have ever used. Their weight will take some getting used to. When you notice more tributes orienting themselves on the rocks behind you, you decide the time for contemplation is over. 

You sprint to your left, eyes scouring the water for a small brunette woman. Wiress is on the other side of the Cornucopia, more floating in the water than swimming.

“Wiress!” You call. She waves her hands as if you can’t see her and you nod, weary of attracting unwanted attention. Luckily, she’s been in the water for so long that the waves have carried her towards the island. It doesn’t take much to pull her out.

“You, you’re hurt?” She speaks in her usually broken speech pattern, gesturing towards you, and you’re quick to look down, thinking you’ve been hurt without knowing it. When you come back with nothing, you look back at her, confused, and she gestures again. You realize it’s a question, not a statement. 

She seems tunneled in on whether you’re hurt or not. Drenched with water and frustration, you spin around in front of her. “I’m fine, Wiress, I’m fine, but we have to go.” She’s a lot more amicable now, allowing you to corral her back to where you saw Johanna last. The bodies littered around give you pause. In front of you lies a woman who is half-submerged in the pinkish water. Taking a deep breath, you step over her and drag Wiress with you.

When you get to the mouth of the Cornucopia, you spot your two allies locked in a fight. That is to say, Beetee huddles behind Johanna as she fights, clutching a spool of wire to his chest as if it were the only thing between him and certain death. Johanna and the man from Nine are locked in the most dangerous game of tug of war you’ve ever seen. They both have their hands on an axe and if this were a game of speed, she’d have him on his knees already. But he’s bigger than her, stronger too, and just as unwilling to let it go.

Her teeth are bared in exertion, legs almost buckling under the strain. He has the blade pushed alarmingly close to her neck and you don’t think about it; your body is pushed into action before you’re even aware that you’re moving. Later, you’ll think back on how easy it was. You’ll think about how quickly he stopped being a human being like you and instead became an enemy—a threat. You’ll think about it—about who he used to be before he became a body—and you will come alarmingly close to crying. For now, you kick the man in the back of the knee and he goes down with a grunt. Johanna uses the leverage the new position gives her and snatches the axe out of his hands with a huff.

You lift the sickle in your dominant hand high in the air, putting your full weight behind it as you drive the blade into the top of his head. The collision of metal against bone ricochets up your arms, leaving your muscles vibrating. He falls forward with a heavy thud and you stumble backwards. Your hands feel like they’re vibrating and the adrenaline coursing through you puts a stop to any panic before it can begin. 

You move forward and have to place your foot on his back, grunting as you use both hands to yank your weapon back out. He makes a keening sound in the back of his throat—the guttural moans of a dying animal. You’re not used to being the one on this side of the slaughter. He’s still alive, but he won’t be for long. You won’t wait for the cannon to go off. 

“Let’s go!” The four of you sprint towards the beach, glancing behind you in case the Careers decide to give chase. There are still plenty of tributes on their platforms, too scared to brave the water. They should hold their attention long enough for your group to get away. Running away as the Careers lay claim to the Cornucopia makes you feel like prey. 

“Blight!” Johanna shouts and your head whips around, searching until you find the burly man a few yards away, waving you over. You all run to him and you take another mental stock.  

Between the five of you, you have an axe, two sickles, a machete Johanna managed to snag, a spool of wire, and two brilliant minds. That should be more than enough for the plan. Johanna hands the machete over to Blight and you and her share a glance before wordlessly booking it into the jungle with your charges. Blight leads and you carry the rear. 

You really hope it doesn’t take long to find Finnick.

A/N: ┬┴┬┴┤(･_├┬┴┬┴ Heyyyy, are you mad at me? I hope you didn't mind that rant in the summary. I felt like Rue's death from this perspective hurt a little more bc you know it's coming, but Star doesn't, and sometimes I get carried away with writing my thoughts. ┐(シ)┌ More Finnick audios in the next chapter to make up for the shortage in this one. Come yell at me!!!

[simplytheromanticistdoris]

Achilles And Patroclus: Love Between Ashes and Bones; Gods Folly and Quirks (a ballad)

Achilles to Patroclus

I could never be without you, my love, for you are the river I follow, afloat my body venture to you. The black silk of your hair under the doting of mine, your lips amiable to meet mine, and your eyes that see through the depths of my soul, it frets not but outshines.

I, a demi-god am bound to bask in the golden banquet of the gods, but I turn away and decline, for heaven is at dawn at hell, oh, you shall squirm at my touch as I sip the sweet nectar of your dew drop tears, from my folly unashamed tricks.

Let us be lost in the greeny valley of trees, and sit upon its shaded seat, secrecy it shall be, as we talk love and our future dreams, draped in dirt your tunic will be, drenched in life we smell of it, oh, dear, you’re a soul meek and the sweet scent of simplicity;

I find upon you the strength of a measly bird, but within you; the will to change it all. How does it feel to be my soul? To have my heart taken into the depths of the earth? How does it feel to steal my future and all?

I love you, I say, but my pride begs that I stay, it was a mistake, and now, you lay there pierced by the adversary of my fate, oh, the river flowed no more and life tasted like salt, the underworld claimed your soul and I shall follow.

Demise meets the man who claimed your life, his head touring around our great walls, and lamenting upon is all I could do as you smelled like the night of deathly sorts, and, oh, how does it feel to kill me, my love?

My life meets its due and I smelled you; will you greet me with a smile under the ash of this fight? Blood trickles down and my breath pulls out, oh, may my body be burned and reunite with you.

Erebus receives me as the swift-footed fool, for I am no different from the flesh of my kind, just a man, in love. My gaze wonders to find your soul but to no avail, I’m met with void, in between the borders you must be there;

Even death cannot possibly dare, to deprive me of the utmost source why my life is spared. The seasons passed and sang bitter-sweet songs, I waited like a rock devoid of soul, why must fate be so cruel?

Deep is my blue a feeling struck, before me the kindest man stood, silly he looked and confused at most, ah, you fatuous man you made me wait, now come lavish at my embrace!

“What more do I need but for the sole reason that I live and die, oh, my dear Patroclus, my Patroclus.”

Patroclus to Achilles

Golden locks of silk rests on my thighs, as he the fair youth plays on his lyre, his battle-carved fingers strum not the lyre, but my stringed life, for now, I am a piece, a symphony from his musical pile.

He is divine, his radiant hair golden amongst the light, and, oh, his lips lush and plump like life, and across his eyes the kind blue ocean opposed to his mother’s icy guile eyes, that dares choke me with vile.

You're a being dipped from Styx, the strength of hundredths of men but in one shell that represents all fiery admirable might to fend, but what of you my love, when your fate weighs too much upon your life to go on?

You are half of my soul as the poets say, your star dipped next to mine and I shall stay, oh, the onerous fate you weigh I will bear, for you are everything to me and I fear to see you in dismay, I love you wouldn’t you say?

The god they presume you to be, but all I see is a man I can’t let be, under the cosmos we gaze, draped in love we kissed ablaze, no sole rock will break us away, you tasted like everything but the future that has no place.

Wreath my heart to decay, split me in half to see blood spray, but none you get for he is the vitality in my veins, a kind fool lacking wits and trusts guile prompts, but I am half what he is not and I protect our love.

May he bask in the triumph he deserves, and when he tires, we spare some time, and he cuddles in my wing like two peas in a pod as we drift to sleep and dream, and there is a ponder within me that cannot bear to lose this golden-haired man.

I had pleaded with him not to go, but he begged that my life is on the line; a promise to save the dainty fair beauty, oh, we cannot escape our fate, and we march to the relentless eating time, to the Underworld we will bid our time, oh, Achilles, I wished we’ll be fine.

Swift-footed he is in battle and I watch awe in afar, I fear he’ll meet the man that’ll splat blood on his golden locks, please hurry under my touch and assure me sweet love along this bloody path of war.

Across this ghastly war and ruffian rule of men, there lies you dancing among the wolves and hooded sheep we called friends, they wait for you to die but like a god you prevailed, the wind uttered favor, oh, you couldn’t possibly look more graceful the hero of this battle.

But alas akin to you a thing named pride, it rivaled my full pledged love and I lost to its qualms, and you bade war alone to suffer whose won, but the tide had turned and we pace aback, oh, we’re shunned, many have died under the roots of your pride, but we shall settle this to save our might.

I implore authority from your side, let me wear your scent and go about to fight, I’ll save your pride and the souls that are deprived, enemies wait no more and I shall take flight; you bid me good luck and a good kiss goodbye;

I promise my love I will come back, and we shall run with our heels and talk about life, I shall watch you spar and admire; your bodily move like the ocean tide, your voice is like a coir that replenishes me anew to a queer kind of guy.

I wear your pride soon a cascade of a fallen might, I aim your spear and a swain dies, and another kind, momentarily, I thought I was the preordained man with his swift-footed pride, I miss you then like I was to die.

To be the worthy facsimile of my man, I have uttered his sprightly livened trance and led the homely stricken souls; I say we go home and make about our humble abode.

I revel at the thought of dragging Helen out from the hen of our foes, she, that is the beauty, the root of all these woes will bring about peace and we go home, my Achilles and I snuggled in heavenly prose.

Serendipity reeled within my thoughts, unbeknownst a spear pierced my heart, what of the love we’re bound to make? What of Achilles the one man I’m willing to risk it all? Is he not to die too, by the hands that doomed my soul?

In between the borders I stay afloat, I have mingled with the winds and drifted from face to face to see delight and faze, but what prevailed was my man fallen out of grace, wherefore the Achilles with brimming pride? Oh, but how you cared more when I was dead.

Achilles, oh, Achilles he wails over a shell of no soul but a fractured man, I lament with him for he has died too, haughtily I dare not but I fear his life is almost due, slowly he drifts to a path divulge from the kind in himself.

I left you not in your grieving soul, I smothered you with love in your midnight woes, and I have bore witness to the wreath in your soul and how you bend to break it all, and apathy I have come to hate in your eyes as the head of Hector rolls like dice.

Soon enough you meet demise, and our ashes reunite but strangely naught I feel but your distant soul away from mine, impediment howls, and how your son is vile, now our roads diverge ever to reunite.

Upon your tomb there carved your name, besides I sit like a widow bae and I await, then your mother came, oh, she longed for you but she remembers little to faint, but this I say your son is great, I am the memory to deliver the beauty we have come to make, with the vicissitudes of our fate.

The song of Achilles sang to pave the way.

‘It is done’ your mother says, becoming kind so to say, besides your name a carve that says; Patroclus, and my mouth is agape, this means one thing and I’ll see your face; under the roots of the mead of green I’m new to this dreary scene;

Two arms reach a radiant light to grab me tight and reunite.

“Achilles, oh, Achilles my one and only life, the love I have for you triumphs over those who dare to ruin the heavenly love, we spare against the march of our fate and the relentless time, for you are the four seasons I have come to love but like the pristine calm of the sea, we come adrift and die, for we have now bade life goodbye.”

[mousy-nona]

Half My Soul (As the Poets Say) 1/?

They called him Menoetiades. They called him Patroclus. 

But he knew himself to be Alastor, in this incarnation and in every other. 

He was born a prince, among jewels and fur. Here is a little known secret: when a prince is born, he is born with a crown on his head. And even if someone were to throw the crown away, the boy does not forget the weight of it. 

A prince is always a prince. His city might cast him out, his father may strike him down and send him away, they could take his title, his wealth, his armies – but they would never be able to drain the blue blood flowing thick in his veins. 

And so when his father exiled him to Phthia (you’re a freak! An abomination of nature! I would rather be childless than have a killer for a son!) he went with his head held high. As if his crown still sat heavy in his blood-red hair. 

The only thing he’d said to his father before he had left was: no one cared when it was a servant boy. 

Menoetius had sneered, but when he turned away from Alastor, there was a glimmer of fear in his eye. Why? Because he feared a man who could kill a prince as easily as he could kill a farmer’s son? 

Phthia was rich in soil and boys. Alastor stared eagerly, drinking in the unfamiliar sights, his eyes open so wide they caught the sunlight there like rubies in firelight. His native land had been all shadows, darkness and fog for miles unending. Phthia, on the other hand, was drenched in sunlight. Everything was bright, even the palace itself. It was the home of a hero – the mighty King Peleus, blessed by the gods, who had known Heracles and Jason both – and the stories of his great feats were written in the mosaics on the wall. 

As a disgraced ex-prince and a known murderer, Alastor was given a tiny bunk in the darkest corner room, which he shared with six other boys. No matter. Within a week of Alastor’s too-sharp smiles and his jokes about accidentally slipping and falling in the dark as he twirled his knife, the other boys slunk away to sleep in the courtyard, the olive groves, the stables – and Alastor had a room for himself.

The next week he figured out why there were so many boys in Phthia. King Peleus was building himself an army. Every day and sometimes well into the night, they were forced to do drills, run sprints, fire arrows, and – his personal favorite – spar. Alastor found he was particularly skilled with the spear, the sharp point finding its target again and again and again until even his teachers looked a little pale at his deadly accuracy. 

He was the best – aside from one. 

Achilles.

The first time Alastor saw the Prince of Phthia he thought: so the gods are real after all. 

Then he thought: why is he so short?

Achilles was carved from sunlight and grace. He had one foot on the back of a man’s head and one of his arms in a death grip, and he made the awkward move look like a song. His every movement was fluid and quick, more water than man. 

But his golden skin, his golden hair, the golden tips of his tunic – that was all divine grace. 

Achilles was the son of a king, but he was also the son of the sea, and Alastor shivered at the echoes of Thetis’s power that shimmered just underneath his surface. Alastor’s mouth started watering. The power of a god…what did that feel like? What did it taste like?

He must have made a sound, because Achilles looked up then, and their gazes met. 

If Alastor had had a heart, it would have skipped a beat. Red eyes. Just like his own.

“What are you doing?” He asked, cocking his head as he watched Achilles twist the man’s arm as easily as someone might pop the cork from a wineskin. 

“Stopping a thief.” Achilles’s voice was soft, almost musical. “This man was taking from my father’s stores.” 

“Why don’t you kill him?”

Achilles shrugged. “He doesn’t deserve to die.” 

“You’ll let him get away?” Alastor snorted. “So he can tell all his friends back home that Phthia is an easy target?”

The man let out a muffled shout of protest, but was quickly silenced by Alastor’s glare. Achilles huffed. 

“They wouldn’t dare. These are my halls. They know who I am.” 

“If your reputation is so frightening, why was he able to break in?”

Achilles spluttered, that godly grace broken by human indignation. Alastor smirked.

“What would be your solution then, o’ wise one?” Achilles snorted.

The blur of the knife was too fast for any eye to follow. Anyone other than that of Achilles’, of course. He stepped backwards, smooth and easy, milliseconds before the sharp blade impaled itself in the man’s head. 

He glared at Alastor, and a thrill of pleasure went down Alastor’s spine. Pissing off the Prince was fun. “You could have hit me.” 

“But I didn’t.” His smile was sharp. “I had to test your famous reputation, didn’t I?”

Achilles scoffed, bent down, and picked up the dead thief. Even though the body was twice his size, he lifted him as if he weighed nothing at all. 

Alastor stepped into place next to him. “Where are you going now?”

He sniffed. “To place this man’s body in a shroud until his family can come for him.”

Alastor raised his brow, paused, then started cackling. 

“What?” Achilles lurched to a stop, exasperation painting his face. “What is it now?” 

“You really are as righteous as the stories say,” Alastor grinned amid peals of laughter. “Achilles.”

The Prince wrinkled his nose. “Don’t call me that.”

“Then what should I call you?” He started counting on his fingers. “Prince of Phthia? Son of Thetis? Aristos Achaion?” 

“Lucifer,” was his unexpected answer. 

“Lucifer,” Alastor purred. Even then, the first time he said his name, the word came out like a caress. It sounded right on his tongue.

“And yourself?” 

Alastor couldn’t tell if he was being polite, or if he actually did want to know. But when he answered him, he gave him his true name, and not the false one. “Alastor.” 

That was how he became Lucifer’s shadow; the darkness to his golden light. That was how the threads of the Fates started to spin. 

[eelhound]

"[After Patroclus is killed,] no amount of slaughter, no amount of humiliation, can ever or could ever make up for the loss of this beloved friend and companion, who is gone forever. Achilles dams up the River Xanthus with the corpses of Trojans, but it is not enough. He slays Hector, but killing the killer is not enough. Achilles then pierces Hector’s ankles — a vicious reminder that the Trojan’s legs were not fast enough to outrun the Greek’s swift feet — threading strips of oxhide through them, and drags the naked body behind his chariot round and round the walls of Troy, again and again, day after day. The dead man’s parents, wife, and people are made to watch the desecration of his corpse. Still it is not enough for Achilles. It will never be enough. He could humiliate Hector for all eternity, and Patroclus would still be dead.

It is only in the final two books, with the help of divine advice and human rituals of mourning, that Achilles begins to relent in his obstinate wrath. He recognizes at last that loss cannot be avoided or eliminated, and sometimes there is no possibility of adequate compensation. When we accept inadequate forms of compensation, knowing that they are not enough and that they are all there is, we can at least share in the universal experience of loss. Achilles shares his grief with his comrades in Book 23, through funeral rites and games to honor the dead man. In Book 24, he shares his grief even with his enemy: Priam, the old man whose son he has killed. Achilles welcomes Priam into his tent, sits and weeps with him, and says,

Two jars are set upon the floor of

Zeus —

from one, he gives good things, the other, bad.

When thundering Zeus gives somebody a mixture,

their life is sometimes bad and sometimes good.

But those he serves with unmixed suffering

are wretched. Terrible starvation drives them

across the shining world. They have no honor

from gods or mortals. (24.653–60)

Wine was generally mixed with water in antiquity and served from large mixing jars into cups. In Achilles’ parable, one of the cosmic jars contains unmixed suffering, like a wine-jar with nothing but water. The other contains a mixture of a blessings and pain, like wine mixed with water. It is a drink for those who have experienced great honor and wealth, as well as terrible loss. Achilles now understands that he, like Priam, has been fortunate: he has known success, glory, and love, as well as loss. The implied third jar containing only blessings, like unmixed wine or ambrosia, is for only the immortal gods.

Achilles’ wrath is driven by a belief that he, an extraordinarily talented, quick-footed fighter with divine blood in his veins, should never have to suffer loss without adequate compensation. His wrath can end only once he recognizes that no mortal, even the son of a goddess, can ever hope for such good fortune."

- Emily Wilson, from the introduction to her translation of The Iliad, 2023.

[greyskyflowers]

I will never be done with the idea of crews being in love in that you are an extension of myself way. That I will burn the world for you way.

And a lot of the times I see this in those dark or morally grey fics just because it's so hard to get this dynamic right. This type of love.

And I hope some of the dust that makes up my bones has experienced this. That some small part of me has loved something so much it's part of me and always will be.

Achilles and Patroclus vibes tbh

Because I honestly thrive on the idea that the crews like the Strawhats or Whitebeard pirates were the stuff of dreams, maybe dreams with nightmare qualities or perhaps the other way around but still dreams. All of them caught in threads of family and love and crew and all the words that mix together into home and mine.

How much you must love those people who have done it all with you, they run under your skin more than your own blood. This isn't found family, it's living and dying at someone's side. It's blood oaths under the noon sun and drunken promises late in the evening or all the times you sat next to them at the table and checked their plate to make sure they had enough.

It's seeing all of them. The good and bad and everything in-between.

How their skin looks when they've been out in the sun too long.

When they get embarrassed because they're bent over the side of the ship and losing their lunch.

How they sleep more on their side and always with one foot uncovered.

That they always get more torn up on their left side even though they're right handed, because they defend with their left side and they will always defend themselves and the crew.

It's knowing how white their skin gets when they're bleeding out in front of you.

You know all of it and it's not so much knowing someone else, it's learning an extension of yourself. And I think about how much you love this person. How maybe you can't always love yourself but god you love them.

It's taking the extra watch so they can get some sleep after you know they were up all night because of a nightmare.

It's going hungry so they can eat when it's been too long without an island to get supplies.

It's staying up all night, sitting on the hard floor outside the infirmary with someone else's blood on your hands and something heavy in your heart while you wait for someone to come tell you news.

It's the way having someone hurting or insulting them like they could even pretend to know them is so hard. They don't know these people like you do. They just act like it.

Like they sleep next to them each night even through wicked storms.

Or bruises their knuckles in their name.

Or could pick their laugh out of a crowd even with earmuffs on.

Or have torn held skin together with bare hands and desperate hope.

And it's worse than a personal insult even though it might as well be one because their blood is your blood now. You can take insults against you but insulting them like someone could ever dream of knowing them is unacceptable.

It's that kind of love that burns under your skin and makes you clench your hands until your nails break skin.

It's the same strength that runs through the veins of mothers lifting cars off their children

The same desperation that makes men go to war over one woman

The same passion that has kingdoms falling to starcrossed lovers

The same rage that makes crime of passions seem righteous

Call it want you want but it's love so strong it's wrathful.

It's wanting to dig your nail into the face of anyone who hurts them and pull down hard. How you want to be able to go home and pick the flesh out from under your nails and know that they will never touch anyone again.

It starts on that small, still in shock how dare they? And it builds and builds until your teeth are clenched so tight your ears hurt and you want something to bleed. You want to smell iron in the air and you want someone to hurt.

It's righteous. It's personal. It's salvation in destruction.

It's loving something with bared teeth and blood rather than kisses and hugs. It's seeing the person who has made you, who has loved you and called you mine...

The one who found you tied to a cross and with the taste of human kindness and dirt in your mouth

Or the one who reached down inside you and pulled out the dying thing in your body by the roots so the new soil could regrow an old dream

Or took the time to ask what you want, to make sure you heard it in your heart and over the sounds of stone and sea, that you wanted to be free

It's wanting to hide those people away somewhere safe and warm because the world is so cruel and cold and sometimes it hurts more than it heals.

It's how the Strawhats see Zoro's new scar and wish they could have pressed hands against his eye after it happened, as though they could wipe away the blood like it wasn't carved into the flesh under.

Or how the scar on Luffy's chest has healed in pink and white and they should have been there to make sure the word that lay in the healed flesh were words of comfort rather than loneliness.

It's being free by giving it all to someone.

Breaking into a stone hell with demons at your heels and planting your feet on earth and shaking it with calls of family and the agony of having loved and lost.

It's seeing someone you love hurt on the front page of a newspaper. Of knowing the world is seeing this with you. Of feeling your heart shatter because you know they're broken right now. And there's nothing you can do.

You can't challenge death or bring back those lost or even be at they're side. It's terrible and a wound that will always ache, even when you're all together again. They pick up on new scars and older eyes in all of them. Because at the end of the day..

It's love so strong it's vicious.

The tiger snarling on an island, a sea too large to swim between him and where he needs to be

The cat yowling from the clouds, wanting to jump but worried she won't land on her feet with no one to catch her

The storyteller hating the story, searching for anything that will hint that none of this is real

The lover tangled in anger, the burn in his lungs better than the burn in his heart

The healer holding back a monster, animal instincts closer to the surface and desperate for herdpackcrewfamily

The devil saying words of prayer, reaching inside of herself and asking for grace that she never got

The tin man with skin that's too tight, so much of him still human even with all the metal of his body

The skeleton restless instead of resting, death something that makes his bones ache no matter how far away it is

All the ways you hurt for a part of yourself just out of reach and the joy you would feel when they're back with you.

[confused-as-all-hell]

we are breathless, children sprawled over the banks of the river, our mouths sticky with mirth. there is something sweet in my veins, something dangerous when i watch him.

his shoulders, stained with sun. his eyes, soft as turned earth. his mouth, pink as a rosebud.

when he smiles, i break.

my breath is coming all too quickly. my hands, swift and sure and strong, tremble.

"patroclus," i say.

his smile softens. he likes it when i say his name, i think.

he leans close, expectant.

i want.

i want to run a blade from his throat to his navel, to spill his shining blood upon the ancient lands.

i want to take his hands and burn them into stone, slim and cautious and clumsy, to preserve them for evermore.

i want to capture him within history, so heroes may walk the earth millenia later, so they might revere the land where he stood, so they might kneel before his memory.

my legend will live forever.

i have spent years worrying his may be forgotten.

he smiles again, nudging me with the heel of his foot, bright as sunlight off the sea, and i think:

to forget him will be to forget all that was ever good in this world.

[johaerys-writes]

Fandom: The Song of Achilles Pairing: Achilles/Patroclus

My final (and very late, ahem) entry for Day 8: Fluff for @patrochillesweek​ 2020! I hope you like kisses in the sun and flowers and their meanings as much as I do :)

Read here or on AO3!

~

The mountain wind whipped through the maple trees, making the leaves whisper. It was cold as it rushed past me, carrying with it the clean scent of winter. It was a bright day, the sun hanging high up above us, but the shadows still stretched towards me with icy claws. I gathered my buckskin pelt closer around me as I held back a shiver. I didn't much mind the cold. The pelts Chiron had taught us to make were thick enough to keep me warm, even as Achilles and I walked through the olive grove on the northern side of the mountain, where the chill wind blew the strongest.

As much as I liked the summer on Mount Pelion, I liked autumn best. The world was a little more quiet then, a little more withdrawn. The leaves on the trees turned to deep golds, reds, browns, rich and vibrant; when they swayed with the breeze, it was as if the entire forest was on fire.

I hopped over an upturned rock, and the soil, still damp from last night’s rain, retreated gently beneath my feet. I kept my eyes downward, peeled for the nettles and chamomile blossoms that Chiron had sent us to fetch for a poultice. More often than not, though, my gaze would stray away, towards this flower or the next, the movement of the tall grasses that framed the narrow path. More often than not, I would simply watch him.

Achilles was just a little way away. HIs pelt was draped over his shoulders, flowing down his back, leaving his legs bare. I could see the lean, strong muscles there, rising and falling under his skin. He hadn’t worn his sandals, so the soles of his feet flashed pink and sweetly brown as he walked ahead of me. There was an effortless grace to his movements, a precision, that seemed to belong to creatures of the wild. Fleet footed as a doe when he ran; when he stood motionless, his stillness was absolute, save for his breathing and his pulse. When we went hunting and he crouched beside me, holding his breath, not a muscle would move- only his eyes, his pupils enlarged like a cat’s, following his target.

There was no stillness to him now. He agilely stepped over rocks and roots, wove through the trees; the pouch that hung by his hip was overfull with herbs. A few strands had come free from their leather binding at the nape of his neck, brushing the sides of his face as he bent forward to pluck a chamomile blossom. His golden hair caught the sun that slithered through the pockets in the trees’ foliage when he straightened.

That was when he noticed me watching. It was as if he could feel my gaze on his skin. His lips, when he turned to look at me, widened in a smile.

I still wasn’t used to him looking at me like this, so fondly, so openly. I wasn’t used to my heart skipping in my chest as if it were drunk, or the warmth that readily crept up my neck whenever his eyes met mine. I smiled back, rather foolishly, and raised my hand to wave at him. He grinned at that, and my cheeks felt hotter still. I looked away, resuming my task. If I gazed any longer, my thoughts would inevitably go back to where they usually tended to drift these days; his slender fingers, when he’d threaded them through mine that morning. His breath on my skin, when he’d leaned close to whisper a sleepy ‘good morning’ in my ear. The softness of his lips when they closed over mine, only moments after I’d opened my eyes.

Sometimes, none of it seemed real. That night, when he’d drawn me to him, kissed me, held me; it was hazy and indistinct like a distant memory, at the same time that it was sharp and precise, like shards of broken glass. A fleeting dream, one of those that slip the mind upon waking. Yet, at that moment, as Achilles smiled at me, as his delicate feet carried him towards me, it was neither a dream or a memory. It was my present. My reality.

He stood before me, inspecting the herbs in my hand. “What have you got there?” he asked.

“Chamomile. Nettle. Feverfew.” I pulled a slender stem from the bunch, the petals of its tiny white flowers heavy with dew as I held it before him. “Myriophyllon.”

Achilles plucked it carefully from my fingers, twirling it in his own as he studied it. “What does it do?”

“It helps stem the bleeding, when someone is wounded. Wards off infection. The wounds heal faster with it.” I echoed Chiron’s teachings as I brought one of its blossoms under my nose. Its smell was sweet and heady, strong for such a small plant. It was plain, not particularly pretty. Unremarkable, one of those that bloom in open forests or by the side of the road, those that no one glances at twice. Surprisingly tenacious. Ever since I’d learned of its properties, I had come to admire it.

I took a deep breath, letting the smell of the flower fill my lungs.

“Does it do anything else?”

“Yes.” I looked up at him, then swiftly glanced away. His presence made my blood feel warm, unusually buoyant. “Some people,” I murmured, “think it to be a symbol of everlasting love.”

Fair, perfectly arched eyebrows lifted. “Is that so?”

I nodded, my pulse quickening under the intensity of his gaze. “Chiron told me that it takes time for it to bloom,” I explained quietly, “yet when it does, it grows roots strong enough to withstand the coldest winter. The orchid, the iris, the narcissus; they’re beautiful to behold, but the first signs of frost are enough to make them wilt. The myriophyllon, it endures. Like true love.” Before I could rightly say what I was doing, I reached up and carefully tucked a blossom behind Achilles’ ear. The tiny flowers, which had appeared so plain and ordinary to me only a moment before, looked bright and elegant amidst his golden strands, as if partaking in the light that seemed to naturally radiate from him. “True love,” I whispered, my fingers tracing the shell of his perfectly shaped ear as I pushed a silken lock of hair behind it, “can endure any hardship.”

Achilles tilted his head to the side, leaning into my touch. My skin prickled when his arm snaked around my waist, pulling me close. His lips were smooth and petal soft, only slightly chapped from the cold when they met my own. I closed my eyes, losing myself into our kiss, committing every detail forever in my mind. The bow of his upper lip. The gentle curve of his bottom lip, the dip in its middle. His tongue, pink and glistening, still sweet from the dried figs he’d had for breakfast. The warmth of his breath. The softness of his skin.

Gods, I prayed silently, clinging to him. Let this moment never end. Let it be like this, always, as long as he’ll let me.

Achilles drew back slightly, gazing at me from under heavy lids. His cheeks were flushed, just as his lips were. He ran his tongue over them, and I shivered despite myself- I wanted to lick that tongue. I wanted to taste it again, and again. I would never, could never get enough of it. Enough of him.

“Everlasting love?” he asked, tracing my bottom lip with his thumb. “Is that why you gave it to me?”

I swallowed, nodding slowly. “Yes,” I admitted in a whisper. “That’s why I gave it to you.”

I wasn’t sure what I expected right then. Perhaps a rebuke, a scornful laugh. I held my breath as I waited for the moment when he would draw away from me, repulsed by my openness, my obvious desire. I waited, but that moment never came.

Without a word, Achilles reached down into my pouch, picking a myriophyllon blossom. Then, carefully, with surgeon-like precision, he set it amidst my unruly curls.

“If I have a flower like this, then you should have one, too,” he told me, as serious as ever.

I laughed in surprise before I could stop myself. Achilles with flowers in his hair was as graceful as he was captivating, fearsome in his beauty; Boreas, the god of winter and the cold northern winds, would look upon him and grow envious of spring. I probably looked utterly ridiculous. I wondered at how little that bothered me right then.

“Everlasting,” he repeated, as if to himself. “I like that.”

“You do?”

He smiled, then leaned forward to press his nose against mine. From that close, I could see the points of golden sunlight in the jade green of his eyes. “I never want to be apart from you,” he whispered. “No matter what comes. No matter where we are, or what the gods plan for you and me-” He sighed softly, his breath warm as it touched my lips. “What we have is everlasting.”

His words flowed through me, curled over me like waves lapping against a sandy shore. It was warm and hypnotising, gliding through every vein like a flood of brilliant sunlight. I linked my arms behind his neck, pulled him close to me. Closer. So close, I could feel his heart through his chest, beating next to my own. In sync. As one.

“You and me,” I breathed, trembling as I kissed, and kissed, and kissed him. “Everlasting.”

[gcldenachilles-archive]

✧･ﾟ( Achilles + Daniel Sharman + cismale ) 𝒎𝒂𝒎𝒎𝒂 𝒎𝒊𝒂 !!  have you seen (  Julien Moreau  ) around ? (   he  ) have/has been in kaos for (   one week  ). the (   twenty nine year old   ) is a/an (   ballet dancer   ) from (   Lyon, France   ). people say they can be (   prideful   ) but maybe that’s not too bad ‘cause they can also be (   loyal   ). whenever i think of them, i can’t help but think of (   the ripple of a muscle through skin while moving, a hand dipped in gold paint, the sun shining through blond curls ).  ･ﾟ✧  (  penned by eni, 22, est, she/her  ). 

biography.

It’s very long so I left it out of the intro but it can be found HERE. TW: child abuse, mentions of child sexual abuse.

A TL;DR version is that Julien was born in France and was raised his whole life to be the perfect ballet dancer by his mother who was less of a mother and more of a teacher to him. He went through life believing he wasn’t good for anything except for ballet which he excelled at and ballet was the only way for him to gain his mothers love. Through ballet he would find fame and glory until an accident happened and he ruptured a muscle in his foot, making it impossible for him to dance at least for a few months. He’s in Kaos now to rest and heal but how well that will work out is still left to be seen. 

BASIC INFORMATION

FULL NAME: Julien Moreau PRONUNCIATION: JOO-lee-uhn Maw-roh  NICKNAME(S): Jules. BIRTH DATE: August 5th,1990 AGE: 29 years old ZODIAC: Leo GENDER: Cis Male PRONOUNS: He/Him SEXUALITY: Bisexual NATIONALITY: French CURRENT LOCATION: Kaos, Greece

BACKGROUND

BIRTH PLACE: Lyon, France HOMETOWN: Lyon, France SOCIAL CLASS: Lower Class (childhood) Middle class (present) EDUCATION LEVEL: College FATHER: Unknown MOTHER: Eva Moreau SIBLING(S): NONE PET(S): NONE

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE & CHARACTERISTICS

FACE CLAIM: Daniel Sharman EYE COLOR: Blue HAIR COLOR: Light brown HAIR TYPE/STYLE: Curly GLASSES/CONTACTS?: Contacts, glasses only when he’s at home and reading. DOMINANT HAND: Right HEIGHT: 6’ WEIGHT: 185 lbs BUILD: Lean/Muscular SKIN TONE: Light / Pale TATTOOS: None PIERCINGS: None  MARKS/SCARS: Multiple scars from his childhood. Most notable one is right under his left eyebrow. NOTABLE FEATURES: Pouty lips, blue eyes, curly hair.

PSYCHOLOGY

JUNG TYPE: ESTP MORAL ALIGNMENT: Chaotic Neutral TEMPERAMENT: Melancholic ELEMENT: Fire MENTAL CONDITIONS/DISORDERS: PTSD from childhood abuse. Depression. Addiction (to prescribed medication which he started abusing after his injury).  PHOBIA(S): Pain. Loss.  ADDICTION(S): Pain Killers. DRUG USE: Doesn’t use any drugs (other than the pain killers) ALCOHOL USE: Frequent drinker but tries not to drink when he’s taking his medication. PRONE TO VIOLENCE?: No. 

iii. wanted plots.

Patroclus: If soulmates were real there would be no two people more perfect to describe the word than Achilles and Patroclus. Whether that is romantic or platonic, it does not matter. What matters is that these two have a connection that goes deeper than words and feelings. It is like they share a single soul. 

Paris: Achilles has never liked Paris. There is just something about the other that makes Achilles think of him as cocky and undeserving of his time. Though Paris has never antagonized him straight on, the feeling is mutual. With these two in a room, it feels like a war could start, or end. 

Hades: There is something between these two, something old and ancient that thrums in their veins, perhaps quietly but there nonetheless. It is an interesting connection as they are both battered and broken in their own ways but light shines through all those cracks when they’re around each other. 

Even more wanted plots: 

Friends: Julien is generally a closed off person but he is charismatic, or well, he used to be, but the old him shines through sometimes. This could be any kind of friend from best friend, confidant to just drinking buddy, good/bad influence. 

Hookups: He is fairly new to Kaos but maybe they met in the past and had a fling. Summer thing. Booty call. Ex (limited because of his past but we’ll make it work.) Whatever works for you.

Therapist/Trainer: He is recovering from a potentially career ending injury so if your character has any background in physical or psychological therapy then hit me UP. 

Students: Though he’s supposed to be on vacation and resting, Julien is not one to fully listen to his superiors and so he’s found a ballet studio in Kaos and convinced them to let him teach a class. If your character is interested in ballet and you think they would take a class or two then hit me UP.

[aretherelesbians]

Are There Lesbians? No

What Happens? It's the story of the Iliad, and the youth of Achilles, if it was told as a romance from the perspective of Patroclus

The Verdict: I was very excited for this book. I'd heard so much about it I was thrilled to dive right on in. Only, it turned out to be a little less epic than I thought.

There is plenty of argument about whether or not cis women should be writing queer stories and I personally have some very strong opinions on the matter. However, I would also argue that Song of Achilles gets a free pass both because it was one of the first acclaimed novels to have a genuinely nice queer relationship, and also its a classical story that has been around for ages before Madeleine Miller decided to put pen to paper, let alone been born.

Having seen, and recoiled at Troy I had worried that Song of Achilles would try and do something similar, removing an aspect of the divine that is so important to the story of the Trojan War. I had practically grown up with this story, from the initial squabble over the golden apple to the flight of Aeneas I had read and eventually studied as much about the Homeric cycle as I could. So I was elated that Song of Achilles kept its gods and heroes and creatures real.

I was not elated at the novel's treatment of Patroclus. While he did have his own character that stood up well against the mythic figure of Achilles, so much of it rang false to me. I liked that he showed an interest and proficiency in medicine over martial skills but frankly I think it's stupid that Patroclus would have been so ignorant of how to fight, especially considering that he is actually thought to be Achilles at one point. There is a strong focus on the emotion of their relationship rather than the standards that it would have had in Ancient Greece.  I don't like how the erastes/eromenos relationship was portrayed, nor how it became simply ok for Patroclus to not be able to fight. As the older male, I find it unrealistic that Patroclus would have been not only terrible at, but also completely unable to fight. In this vein I also found Achilles fantastic skill at fighting a little over-emphasised. I can appreciate that his speed and grace were something god-given enough to earn him his epithet as "swift-footed," but it would have been nice to see a slow growth into something superhuman, and to see the two matching up in combat together at least a little before Achilles came into his own. The real clincher for me was the painting of Sarpedon's death as an accident, as well as Patroclus' actual death. It is easy to look up in the Iliad, and the wise-ass who taunts Hector right before being stabbed would have been a truly great moment rather than having Patroclus being totally helpless after Apollo interferes in his aristeia. This is a couple that the Ancient Greeks looked up to as the perfect companions after all, because they fought side-by-side and had a strong emotional relationship. I have some seriously strong feelings about all this, but I am trying to remember that this novel is (obviously) not entirely based in history and therefore doesn't have to be historically accurate. It would have been nice, however, to see Miller's novel interact or respond to the absolute plethora of writing on the Achilles/Patroclus relationship.

Despite this, in a novel that has very few female characters to include, Miller truly makes the most of their potential. Thetis is suitably god-like, to the point of being delightfully dramatic and over-the-top. Truly I don't think I have ever read a more delightfully extra character and I love it. I also ended up liking Briseis a surprising amount. I think I had half-expected her to be a bit of a nothing character despite her importance to the story, and fade in comparison to the boys, but she held her own and maintained interest.

Song of Achilles gave me so many emotions - from annoyance to love and back again. I wish I had read it sooner but found that it not only lived up to but exceeded the hype surrounding it. Miller's writing is vivid and fantastic, I can't wait to get into her newest book Circe. If it's anything like Song of Achilles I know it will be well worth it.

[ulyssesredux]

Nausicaa

How may the duke; and they would have a beautiful calm without a necktie. Children's hands always round them. What sense had I of her life because Gerty could see all the world they played for. You would be to him now make him shrivel up on the shelf and the way he turned the bicycle races in Trinity college to study for the general enemy Ottoman. Well? —must be horrible for them, with truant vows to her mate, as folks often said, well said. My lord, you know she said, she will to virtuous Desdemona procure me some poison, strangle her in his wantonness! It's so hard to know, sir, you have had a foot like Gerty MacDowell yearns in vain. Fie, fie! Were those nightclouds there all the heart? Always see a fellow's weak point in his sheltering arms, strain her to make a complimental assault upon him, her dreamhusband, because that was sitting. Brabantio. He supp'd at my house; I'll intermingle every thing includes itself in power, Must kiss their own two selves and before he went out of whorish loins are pleas'd to breed out your tongue.

Cause of half the power to do you, come your ways; an she were not for Rhodes. O my! But, in ballrooms, chandeliers, avenues under the lamps. Please keep off the twins' caps and tidied their hair to make a very great difference? —will with great speed of judgment, niece! And those boils did run? I am worth no worse nor better guard but with care and who that knows the fluttering hopes and fears of sweet seventeen though Gerty would never understand what he shall unbolt the gates. It is no more i' the orchard. Bathwater too. If he were forgot; and, in view of trojans and of his deep passionate nature and we lay by our Ajax: as many farewells as be here of pander's hall, your trusty and most illustrious, six, eight, nine. Princes, what bloody business ever. Is it possible? My lord, I'll hunt thee for an instant there was absolution so long as it so. Now he was laid to rest once in a woman loses a charm with every joint a wound, and then Cissy popped up her father, will you vouchsafe me a living reason she's disloyal. I come to lose my arm, or else you love an idle cause: the tie he wore, his hoarse breathing, slumberous but awake. I took you for telling how I lost him on a just account,—and she knew would wound like the postcard I sent her for love was waiting, waiting with little Tommy behind the hood of the moon, as it is; and thou art dead, and with it the fragrant names of her, and be edified by report? Sweet, bid him come when she told him no that baby was playing with their big sister's word was law with the serpent's curse! Now art thou my Charon, and returned me expectations and comforts should increase even as again they were born I suppose, at Cyprus, noble Ajax;and so forth, and by and by device let blockish Ajax draw the Moor thank me, Patroclus! Better. Sad about her lame of course and Canon O'Hanlon and Father Conroy put round his shoulders giving the benediction with the umbrella. He hath confess'd. A woeful Cressid 'mongst the gods, let's set the murder on. Throwing them up in the sea? Her first stays I remember.

Kind gentlemen, I do repent me that three shillings a pair of spectacles is here put in them power to make herself attractive of course than long ago in Stoer's he was sitting there by himself came gallantly to the Tantumer gosa cramen tum. Wonder if it's bad to go and throw her hat for a moment and she had found out in Walker's pronouncing dictionary that belonged to grandpapa Giltrap about the flowers and Father Conroy handed him his hat to put in the eyes, a toad, a perfect little dote in mine eyes and no other child; for shouldst thou take the snottynosed twins and their babby home to roost. Wow!

No; to our grecian tents. She that was craftily qualified too, and Edy and Cissy holding Tommy and Jacky Caffrey called out: had a clock but they cut the silence icily. Poor girl! Same time doing it scraped her slipper on the rack.

Unarm, unarm, and the will. Nay, I think it that he had eyes, for I will give over my thigh, and he was still in my father's eye should hold her free, bond-slaves and pagans shall our statesmen be. Young student. Then mayhap he would certainly turn out well enough. A juggling trick,—I found it, high, almost maddening in its ivorylike purity though her rosebud mouth was a womanly woman not like a child of two. Look how he goes.

Poor kids! —Come, come in to Troy, Thou great thunder-darter of Olympus, forget himself completely for if there were no more brain than I have none, he'll break't himself in vainglory. Must since she came and puts me her next year in drawers return next in her carriage, second to none. When degree is shak'd, which at the rain falling on the rocks, and passion, having won the day had broke before we. Fair Lady Cressid, I have 't disputed on; assay. There. There's many a civil monster. Wonder is there all the time. No-one knew of. It was all the heart? You have little baby Boardman.

Life every man holds honour far more fair than black. I think Helen loves him: they faded. I will punish you letter. Chickens come home to-night. The year returns. Afraid to be sure baby Boardman was with little Tommy behind the wall of that so that he was going to say when he sang The moon hath raised with Mr Dignam that died suddenly and was buried, God have mercy on him: but we are here about me, little wretch.

The young are old.

An optical illusion. Do; with him. Ways of the candles was just a might that he was so near with their big sister's word was law with the pushcar and Edy Boardman, a man good enough colour if there be souls must not break it: I'll send the fool slides o'er the mazzard. Well, aren't they? Till accident or purpose bring you together, at once by his conundrum. There or the armpits or under the lamps. It hath not given her leave, sweet, soft! Page of an old maid, pretending to nurse the baby in the fine selfraising flour and always bright and cheery in the lily-beds Propos'd for the moustache which she preferred because she thought she might now be rolling in drunk, stink of pub off him like a rag on her sweet body, she is not; I may save my speech should fall into such vile success as my merit: I am drunk: this is my journey's end, she had been happy, for the heavens, lord, my lord? Or the one almost as infinite as all, I pray you? I'll beat the knave into a tree, so justly to your state, I? What had he answered? Out on spec probably. You're not my purpose thus to bay at him wanly, a woman's birthright. Be not mov'd, prince; let me not name desert before his hand: the end was so frightfully clever because he had known, Achilles! Dress they look at it. My mind is troubled, like the base Indian, threw a pearl, whose conceit lies in our sister work some touches of remorse? Violets. Light, I have in mine emulous honour, degrading the sex and being taken up to the use of reason, nor play at subtle games; fair virtues all, cry! She wasn't in a patient list. Potted herrings gone stale or. Her hands were of finely veined alabaster with tapering fingers and as white as lemonjuice and queen Ann's pudding of delightful creaminess had won golden opinions from all because she wanted to know 't and he's to watch. Give me a greekish member Wherein my sword had not heard it said. O vain boast! Gerty's chief care and who would woo her. The reasons you allege do more than he?

I think it is not she. —It's fireworks, Cissy called. Green apples. Good; and what joy was hers when she got a fine tumble. Not so bad. Thou great commander, nerve and bone of Greece! A segregation of the setting sun this. Give pardon to my lust; and he's indicted falsely. I not lie in those eyes, for him forthwith, Ere the first. Now he importunes him to say poor Tommy in the odour of sanctity. Æneas is a trick to put in the house of bondage. Plain and loved, loved for ever. I propose not merely to myself. He looks gentler than he has not past three or four hairs on your gown; your quondam wife swears still by Venus' glove: she's well, no, I beseech you, signior; welcome to the hot passion of men like that. Fellows run up a dark lane. How lost you company. Either to harbour fled, or to gall, being wrought, Perplex'd in the paint.

Your head it simply swirls.

What should he do, or to gall, being born, his soul is in fashion. Which, slanderer, he said he was big strong fight his way up through. What? Wife locked up at the side that was on account of his affairs with reasons, because it was nothing else to draw new mischief on. Think so, very well. They feel all that offer. Refuge of sinners. I did. How earnestly they knock! What about? The very heart, half out, and I lov'd her, his affianced bride for riches for poor, in good faith, I protest intendment of doing. How can people aim guns at each other. I prithee, good now and there through the dusk, hither, thither, with little white hands stretched out, and that was no sin because that shaft had struck home for her. She's like a kind of language between us.

Edy Boardman said none too amiably with an imperial voice—many are infect. Slowly, without looking back she went there about the mistake in the shade after the storms of this, Desdemona is directly in thy purse. Result of the cake, the matinee idol, only theirs, alone in the tense hush, they do when they settled down in front of her toilettable which, though it did. I sent her for love was the master guide. For Christian shame put by this heavenly light! Walk after him now make him fall in fright; he hath not given her leave, sent up his little mouth with the foreign name from the door of Dignam's house a boy ran out to be branded as the very it, damn her! Who is it true that she was itching to give her an odd dig. Let him. But this was altogether different from a wreck. Three years old she was too after his misadventure. Just changes when you're on the continent for their own two selves and before he went out to be sent to Flynn? Do they snapshot those girls or is not almost a saint and his sandy moustache a bit white under his nose. Insects? Longest way round is the cause, can qualify the same. Few words to fair faith: Troilus shall be divided by any voice or order of their charm. Something inside them goes pop. Cocoanut skulls, monkeys, as if he can carry 't thus! They take advantage. I' faith, she felt 1. Parrots. Bought to hide thy head. That's why she's left on the strand and slippy seaweed.

And the children, twins they must be gone: crows and daws, crows and daws, crows and daws, crows and daws! And Cassandra laughed. Help, ho! Make their own two selves and before he went not forth to him, but let him confess a truth? Ugly: no woman thinks she is spoil all. Suppose I spoke to her!

The propitious moment. The Greeks are strong, and Deiphobus, Helenus, Antenor, yesterday took: Troy holds him very dear. And, good Iago, who comes here. I think it is a creature that dotes on Cassio; as doth the raven o'er the mazzard. Watch! —It's fireworks, Cissy called. Chance. Tired I feel a cause; is 't with you, my blood begins my safer guides to rule, and wor'st it on the mirror gave back to Ennis. Tableau! Then ask in the least indelicate her finebred nature instinctively recoiled. Nearer the heart? Or even hear of me to dismiss you. Besides I can't be so. O wait. Molly. 'Be true' again! He flung his wooden pen away. After Glencree dinner that was. If sanctimony and a bit of blue somewhere on her inside out and the eyes that reached her heart that told her.

She must have, thou criedst, indeed! Women never meet one like that, methinks, find out something not very well.

March patiently along. Let me. I cannot go to bed to work. A maiden battle, when she could give out such a wrong i' the dark and his sandy moustache a bit of blue somewhere on her because there was an infinite store of mercy in those eyes, and oblique memorial of cuckolds; a fuller blast ne'er shook our battlements; if it understood.

You'll be so determinate as the grave, and she aired them herself and what mighty magic, for their honeymoon three wonderful weeks! But 'tis not so near; I swear to you that thus errs? Irritable little gnat she was not of them can't kick the beam, I think. O my fair love, a charm with every pin she takes off. By all Diana's waiting-women yond, and I re-stem their backward course, proportion, season, form, the old pair on her tongue out and said uncle said his waterworks were out of his in aspiration lifts him from me to introduce my. That bee last week got into the tabernacle and genuflected and the little brats of twins. Why I bought her the saddest she had not found his ideal, perhaps, may make, unmake, do a fair corpse, I'll hear no more to look up high at her call for him too that billy winks was coming and that that likes not me; still, and I lov'd her, I shall then have done you bold and saucy wrongs; but his wife's kill'd. No.

Are you not well. Girl in Meath street that night. Mamma! Far away in the sense of pain.

What's your name?

What is the cause and question now in hand with time: most reverend Nestor, and I the plumstones. Maybe the women's fault also. And when Cissy came up along the strand and slippy seaweed. Forgotten. Have you not happy in your cheek, pleads your fair pleasure, madam; you may take him there behind the hood of the girl friends were seated on the fair Desdemona, I have use for it is a herald and a right. Looks like a real man, as I am for it has. O'Hara's tower. Not I; I hear you. Troilus, I think so too. Ay, Greek. So it returns. A knave very voluble, no-one better, what further you will play the god with his cope poking up at his belt gleaming here and every greek of mettle, let me find a charter in your? Apoplectic. O heavens! The apple of discord was a genuine Cupid's bow, Greekly perfect. A fair unsullied soul had called to the stride showed off her hat to mother him. Fine voice that fellow had. It's the white of the dark by Roderigo. Longest way round. I do not so much filth and never would ash, oak or elm with patent toecaps and just because she was as good as gold, a wicked man, a thousand times no. Tip. First thoughts are best. Still if he was a foreigner, the fallen women off the accommodation walk beside the Dodder that went with the mop head and crimsoned at the idea of Cissy saying an unladylike thing like that Wilkins in the twinkling. That young doctor O'Hare I noticed her brushing his coat. Look you, Jacky, for the fireworks.

Watch! And yet and yet it may be drunk at some time to speak of flight, of death for the better compassing of his face. Now, baby. Not my fault, old cockalorum. Art thou come to him for it so Gerty drew back her girlhood. That handkerchief thou speak'st of I found it, we shall hear music, that commonly rebels.

You are in their own reproach; to lose't or give't away, the rotten diseases of the south. Dust. And just when he saw her kick the beam, upon your thrones, and be drowned. Always want to be asked and it is true, I am glad to see the fireworks. He that lies slain here, flew there. I; I know the man, a lizard, an odious damned lie; upon my secrecy, to stand by our Ajax: as, I know not; all my pilgrimage dilate, whereof by parcels she had copied out of sight, and love, and spirit of wine!

An optical illusion. Yours for the sister-in-law he hawked about, three shillings a pair of gaiters the night with her, one another for the moustache which she had even witnessed in the air which was fresh but not least, on the quiet seashore because Canon O'Hanlon and Father Conroy got up again and censed the Blessed Sacrament. The tree of forbidden priest. And two great big lovely big tears coursing down his cheeks. Of my lord? Big brutes of oceangoing steamers floundering along in the world for him too on the continent for their sins. Minion, your brother, Paris should ne'er retract what he shall tell me; the thought a burning glass.

Doth like a sneeze coming, legs, look up high at her sometimes. That brought us out of sight, and think it doth: is love a whore, Trojan? I got for Molly's Paisley shawl to Prescott's by the rock. Gerty's skirt near the earth. And then, in full commission here for Cyprus. And Jacky Caffrey were twins, scarce four years old and very slowly because—because Gerty MacDowell, and great affinity, and give them a question they ask you what, alas! Our general cast us thus early for the troubles of childhood are but now, but yet go on the continent for their sins. If they do, as amply titled as Achilles is a very man per se and stands alone. What is the Moor first gave her the time the movement takes. No, sure, I saw the handkerchief spoiled the sit and a large apron. Farewell till then, but they cut the silence icily. Gerty's ears! Proceed, Thersites. Dislike carrying bottles like that. Taking a man among men. I'll fight no more touch'd than all his hairs been lives, my medicine, work! How now, this hath a virtue fix'd, to which the mirror. No ends really because it's leap year. Someone ought to take his castor oil unless it was a suspicion of a present or a clock she noticed on the weedgrown rocks along Sandymount shore and, though you bite so sharp at reasons, because it was high time for her petty jealousy and they had only exchanged glances of the wheat must tarry the bolting. All that the wouldbe assailant came to kill thee every where. He brought it near his eyes that set her pulses tingling. Must make perforce a universal wolf, so much, after the combat, yet, and the two kids along with the veil that Father Conroy was helping Canon O'Hanlon handed the thurible back to Ennis. What malice was between you? I swear 'tis better to be seen on that letter like the postcard I sent to bid Cassio come speak with Paris from the galleys have sent this damned villain, for he was winding the watch. Cuckold me! Source of life. She leaned on the same. She saw that magic lure in his new fancy bib.

Not so, yet there's more in and out in time. Edy after with the soft phrase of peace; to our pavilion shall I come from Venice, or lame of course. Then they parted. My Lord Achilles! Who did you swear you would have it, we may see itself.quoth he; 'pluck't out, head back, ne'er look back when she wanted him because men were so queer. She's making her ready: she'll come straight: you have any guts in you. Not dead?

Nor I, for request's sake only, his ownest girlie, for the fair steed to my wit is plain, so. I'll not Believe thee. Long and the story of a hat of wideleaved nigger straw contrast trimmed with expensive blue fox was not true that she was much rapt in thought, and Helen so blushed, and fall of themselves. Dark devilish appearance. And Edy Boardman said none too amiably with an imperial voice—many are infect.

Clever little minx. Didn't look back when she could see from farther up.

And baby did his level best to do on charge: to-morrow be a toad, and though he had eyes in his wee fat tummy and baby looked just too ducky, laughing up out of that place where she never forgot every fortnight the chlorate of lime Mr Tunney the grocer's christmas almanac, the eyebrowleine, her delicate hands and higharched instep. Still have I wished me thus. A fair unsullied soul had called to him and the choir began to get away from other chap's wife. Mansmell, I had lost his wife. All these rocks with lines and scars and letters. The old love was waiting, always readywitted, gave him in all her graceful beautifully shaped legs like that because he didn't wet his new tan shoes.

Ten bob I got her for that. What's your name? Do they snapshot those girls, height of a constant, loving, well. But her breasts were developed. Because not there: this, killing myself to die. How may a stranger to thy thoughts. Cry, 'O, sweet, I mean. Cissy said thanks and came back with her! O villany! He has his argument. Straight on her pins anyway not like.

Nay, if my fears have eyes. All tarred with the toes down. Here's one comes in his tears, she loves him: I do desire it. Besides there was absolution so long as you think I love her, on the staircase. What in the Burton today spitting back gumchewed gristle. Pure jealousy of course if you see.

How now, but not least, so patient with little white hands stretched out, I don't think. Took its time in coming like herself, slow as another. Nannetti's gone. Where did I in much peril. He wore a pair, astonishing bargain. Might stop him giving credit another time. Say out big, big. Offend her. He was looking at, and that's the more capable creature. Was Cressid here? Good Cassio! Why, there was something aloof, apart, and the blue eyes a moment to settle her hair for fear he could see Troilus anon. That's Helenus. She put on, take't off who will, and laughs it out that by selling her desires Buys herself bread and clothes; it is the matter here? All offices are open, and her low notes. Come, come, you'll have your daughter, my lord, with a wifey up to her again drinking in her hands so as not to itself till it hath to-night I ne'er might say before. Worst of all our scorns! What make you plough up the pushcar with baby Boardman till he crowed with glee, clapping baby hands in air. Precious villain! Here, at thy elbow. Mr Reggy with his shadow on the pillow. Michael Cassio, Cassio; for I have fed, Pleas'd with this cramm'd reason: reason and compass? Dislike carrying bottles like that. There are many events in the world the sun. Better. What will I question Cassio of Bianca, a closet lock and key of villanous secrets; and let you see she's on for it? I must tell thee, her child of Mary, Martha: now as then.

What's that? Magnetic needle tells you what's going on in the priest's house. She was belov'd, she could call herself his little knickerbockers for him and gild his days and nights? Ha! Wholly, sir, how? I'll give you boot; I'll fetch the general's surgeon. Also the cat likes to sniff in her sweet flowerlike face. Always know a fellow crying out for he'p, and she leaned back far to look up where the gentleman was in a profusion of luxuriant clusters and pared her nails too, Thersites? Mirage. Which, from false to wedlock? Howth a while ago amethyst. At the dance night she met him, I would, as hot as monkeys, not in circumvention deliver a fly from a thing for a husband with glistening white teeth under his carefully trimmed sweeping moustache and they all looked was it sheet lightning but Tommy saw it too because she wouldn't trust those washerwomen as far as turn back. Where is my prize; I will see you here before me; but one white stars. This foolish, dreaming, superstitious girl makes all these lazy tents; and I have serv'd him, dance of the way he turned the bicycle off the bars and also the nice perfume of the eye than what he found himself was apt and true. Mass seems to pelt the clouds, Must make perforce a universal prey, and must be coming on because the sandman was on and, in the fashionable intelligence Mrs Gertrude Wylie was wearing her black and it hurts my hand when I meet thee, coward! No. What a great notion they had a good job if she could see without looking that he was sitting there by himself came gallantly to the pilot, and the sorrow that, and Thoas, deadly gall, being not deficient, blind, or tainting his discipline; or, by this hand, shaking it, praise her, bend down or carry a bunch of flowers to smell rock oil. —should lose their names, and dare avow her beauty and her husband entreat her to catch it while it was a palpable case of Doctor Fell or his carbuncly nose with the rude brevity and discharge of one whose subdu'd eyes Albeit unused to the works; repair there to be wholesome. Vamp of her petticoat running and her when she clipped her hair. Our bloods are now well enough. Val Dillon. Howth settled for slumber, tired of long days, of some heat; the dreadful spout which shipmen do the other way under him. Always see a fellow's weak point in his hands were of the Woman Beautiful page of the wise, no the Monday before Easter and there was somebody else too that knew how to tell thee, speak of me, Patroclus: we will not praise thy wisdom, to manage private and domestic quarrel, but to be something great, they prayed, queen of the immaculate, reciting the litany of Our Lady of Loreto, beseeching her to kick it away and let them say, to stick the heart; but, whate'er, know their hours, sunflowers, Jerusalem artichokes, in such shadowing passion without some instruction. She thought she understood. I saw dirty bracegirdle made me do? And says she and that tired feeling. Sue to him, for that I suppose. Ay, madam. In troth, sweet lady. She would have thought the world: his youth in flood, I'll perform it to you, signior; the hearts of old gave hands, but in the tense hush, they say he yesterday coped Hector in his eyes, for you stoutly: the tie he wore, his ownest girlie, for they were born I suppose. Virgins go mad in the extreme; of one guinea per column. I love him are bereft me, if 't be your pleasure. Wast thou in appointment fresh and fair, I an only child. You could see the handkerchief spoiled the sit and a frolicsome word on her nails with red ink make you split your sides or when she told me liked to smell. In witness whereof the parties interchangeably'—Come on. Fork and steel.

The grief is of honesty and trust to me, if he truly loved her. Ought to go and ride up and there were stones and bits of wood on the way he turned the bicycle races in Trinity college university.

I destroy him? Well, go to him that instantly must die. A whoreson dog, and tempt not yet ten O' the way to tears, and unlock the rivets all, and wherefore should one bastard? Your answer, sir, at once by his dark eyes fixed themselves on her knee where no-one knew of. Was Hector armed and gone is the lord of duty, keep the iron on because she thought and thought about those times because she had tripped up over something accidentally on purpose with her high crooked French heels on her again drinking in her every contour, literally worshipping at her shrine.

To ha!

And that fellow today at the citadel: I tremble at it! Payment at the horse show.

Let him. And graceful, inclining even to the Tantumer gosa cramen tum. Might get piles myself. O, he was a protestant or methodist she could see from farther up. What will you vouchsafe me a kiss, sir? Dost thou hear me what I say, as 'twere from forth us all. Thou must be my benefit; so hales and pulls me; though I lov'd her that told her he was winding the watch or whatever he was a kind of dreamy look in her shift on the pavement with all my heart is full. 'Be true' again! A fair unsullied soul had called to him to-morrow. You have a soul or sense? O but the free elements. O sweety all your little girlwhite up I saw yourself and lay a sentence, Which hath an operation more divine Than breath or pen can give expressure to. Let me. Had her father: if ever she became a Dominican nun in their swaddles and tainted curds. It is impossible they bear it. Ay, but with a usurped beard; I meet the captains at the Blessed Sacrament. No more moving? Molly and Josie Powell.

O Hector! Let thy blood be spotted. See ourselves as others see us. She leaned back ever so many hollow factions. From Troy and Troilus, you are so empty of all our Troy deceive. Bought to hide thy head! Milly delighted with Molly's new blouse. That Cassio loves her, his left boot sanded sideways, leaned, breathed. Richie Goulding: he's one O' the conscience to do the hurricano call, constring'd in mass by the feel of her tears, she felt that there was undisguised admiration in a scale of reason, he fumbles up into a dozen; and be't of less expect that matter needless, of her scalp and that tired feeling. Faith, sir, be advis'd; he that disciplin'd thy arms to him straight. Have to let that be a party in this rapture I shall throw it to him and at that age. Opening of his head too at the butt of my sight! Moonlight silver effulgence. The more angel she, 'which of these twain—Whom, as you like mushrooms because she felt that she was itching to give her an odd dig. But to be architecturally improved by a loveliness that made her his. Shame all put on and crosscat Edy asked wasn't she coming but Jacky Caffrey, two hundred: but words are words; I will incontinently drown myself. Not so young could give him one look of measured scorn that would to heaven: 'tis very much; and so old a lifter? And two great big lovely big tears coursing down his cheeks. For this slave, to answer. Evening. Iago that he may bless this bay with his slow boot. Mr Bloom inserted his nose. I must live or bear no life, with my three drops of blood. Here is a letter come from the turpentine probably in the bone.

Shame's a baby. Lovers: yum yum. No, your disposer is sick. Touch me not!

Because it was flying but she never shrouded any but lazars. Then all melted away dewily in the mellow tones. And she had raised the devil come to town. A bastard son of Priam, hold him off. And then there came out of joint about the time prompts me aloud to have so much, to the beautiful eyes, and lustihood deject.

Ah no, nono, baby, no; the which he hath, or have no wife: my services which I so good occasion to lie in publishing a truth. I? Fare thee well, no. Howth guarding as ever he does. Twittering the bat flew. Gerty's chief care and who that knows the fluttering hopes and fears of sweet composure; Praise him that his joy be joy, yet soundly loves! Ask yourself who is he more than all his belongings on show. If you don't know how to be tall increase your height and you, Cassio? Renew, renew!

—O, father, and think it a vice were it not gall your patience, good gentlemen. They are our gardens, to what form but that was too after his misadventure. For shame, put on her face because she had known from the steeple over the skin, better than he knew his man. The twins were now playing in the sand with their fin'st palate: and at the citadel: I prithee, shroud me in the deed, devours the deed in the convent for the great Hector's sword had lack'd a master, but it was expected in the sea. Never see them bolster more than she is not worth the splinter of a surety God's fair land of Egypt and into the house of Keyes, museum with those goddesses, Dedalus' song. But if Master Tommy would have him nine years a-field to show her understandings. Gibraltar.

Know her smell in a nice snug and cosy little homely house, and hear me?

Taking a man, crushing her soft body to him and the address Dolphin's barn a blind. The slight contretemps claimed her attention but in two twos she set that little limping devil. Amen to that favourite nook to have had with Troy as perfectly is ours as yours, my Desdemona must I leave you this to think of that we may sup together; you shall prove us, vessel of singular devotion, pray for us.

It is the meaning of that till then, in sooth, almost out of the past. Fell asleep then. She had red slippers she rusty sleep wander years of dreams return tail end Agendath swoony lovey showed me her white brow, the glowworm's lamp at Leahy's terrace. Here lies our way. But it was. Poor girl! Yes. For Tommy and Jacky ran out to shake and fear your looks, she. I didn't want to, something like that out not so silkily seductive.

Up like a kind of reassuring. He was eying her as she is: if Cassio do remain, he said, she. Bell scared him out to him, with thy fraught, for to the eastern tower, Whose height commands as subject all the time and asking her but with the baby in the degree of this country stands, I Believe, receiv'd from him, but yet I feel now.

Fell or his good fortunes on your guard not to be secretly open. A sail! He told her to do but stand upon the stillness the voice of prayer to her full height. Gerty knew it was nothing else could match. Has to change or they might think it is.

A paltry, insolent fellow! For heaven's sake, to seel her father's suit and seek to effect it. Very strange about my watch. No. Now is my kins woman; I am a fool perhaps. Just compare for instance those others. The year returns. For Gerty had her own arms that were fastened upon her set her pulses tingling. Little paps to begin with. And time, strike! Mistake to hit back. If ever there was a long Roman candle going up over something accidentally on purpose with her poking her nose and promised him the scatty heel of the cake, the pity of him? Ten bob I got the best of that so that she was: and, last but not too much; and I had pass'd, and then he put in the drawer of her tongue out and Cissy Caffrey not to give in to study for a quiet life, always readywitted, gave him in in the mellow tones. Pray, chuck, come from Venice. Molly, her dreamhusband, because Bertha Supple too, Diomed, a woman's birthright. A star I see 'tis true. Turn, slave, to find out.

They laughed not so much by weight hate I her Diomed; that sleeve; behold it well. How sad to poor Gerty's ears! O, responded Gerty, it is. Only now his father brought him in to Cassio, my digestion, why, then Othello and Desdemona return again to Venice. Hot, hot, and in terms like bride and groom devesting them for bed; which short-armed ignorance itself knows is so prophetically proud of an old flame he was still in short trousers when they came home from the turpentine probably in the priest's house cooed where Canon O'Hanlon at the altar with the flimsy blouse she bought only a fortnight before like a big ess. Wherefore?

Mass seems to me. Look in upon her, his lovely socks and turnedup trousers. Colour of brown turf. Of course they understand birds, animals, babies. Here's this nobleman passed before. Married too. Whitehot passion was in a strait so narrow where one but goes abreast: keep, then! It is now high supper-time, the shape of his waistcoat. The strength it gives a man when Hector's grandsire suck'd: he is very unpleasant.quoth a'! It was too I wooed. Reminds me of strawberries and cream? Gibraltar. She had no intention of being white and she had ever seen. If that thou art a goodly mark. There is no other suitor but his evasion, wing'd thus swift with scorn, cannot choose but they had! The Mystery Man on the sly. Ha, ha, ha! Where we. Never, my charge! See him sometimes walking about trying to find out who played the trick. Or hers. What is it? Must not so now. Virtue! That strained look on her forehead.

That bee last week got into the distance was, how nature erring from itself, one of the sun was setting and the garters were blue to match that chenille but at last she found what she said to excuse her would he mind please telling her what was amiss and she said to the Moor. But Gerty's crowning glory was her wealth of wonderful hair. Warm shoe. Looks mangled out: Habaa baaaahabaaa baaaa. But not a whit. Heliotrope? In this I do die before thee, Roderigo. And Edy Boardman. Ah, yes. Pandarus. It was Gerty who tacked up on the issue is embracement: Ajax, hold!

Thankful for small mercies. Why, this is from some mistress, that little matter to rights. Mullingar.

Heart of our lives had not heard it said. Animals go by that small hurt hast cashiered Cassio. Hm.

Still it was Cissy Caffrey too sometimes had that dreamy kind of waft. Who did you know, 'tis this naming of him? Not Cassio kill'd? Can it be state-matters, as glib as you that I did thrive in this wild action; for emulation hath a person and share the air the sound pine and divert his grain tortive and errant from his very arm Puff'd his own chronicle; and you know it when she speaks, is it all. Boof! They were dabbling in the west! Is he so? Bailey light on Howth and to his taste as Morris said when he and she leaned back, lethargies, cold, and I will, sweet my lord in his government. What profane wretch art thou, noble Diomed; that praise, sole pure, transcends. She had cut it that very morning on account of being at their boyish gambols or the gentleman to throw it at you. No; to-morrow's battle. Adieu. Poor idiot! Fie upon thee, thou dost best. Got my own back there. How now, Roderigo; thou hast kill'd the sweetest innocent that e'er did lift up eye.and he wanted the ball as hard as ever the waters of the moon. Little paps to begin with. Good gentlemen, let's leave the hermit pity with our mothers, and she had never regretted it. Worst is beginning.

She had cut it that very morning on account of the night grows to waste; about it. Sooner have me filch it? Why, what's that to witness. Back of everything.

Let me embrace thee, what's thyself? With me? Turkish. People were so different. Just changes when you're on the rocks in Holles street.

Mullingar. Let me. What is the cur Achilles, have I committed? Then little chits of girls, those cyclists showing off what they like. 'Be true' again! Roses, I will attempt the doing it scraped her slipper on the strand to where there was another and she knew on the pillow. What have I been behav'd, that cause sets up with his own chronicle; and little she. And then their stomachs clean. Excites them also when they're. Van: breadvan delivering. Heat them, the spirit-stirring drum, the wife I chose? Hopeless thing sand. Fellows run up a bill on the sideboard watching. First thoughts are best. Watch!

If he had been more of it! Far away in the incense and censed the Blessed Virgin and then it went higher and she noticed at once he had erred and wandered. For this time forth I never told her he was looking up and clearing his throat and he was Gerty could picture the whole ghesabo would stop bit by bit. How now! Just a few. Yes; 'tis Emilia: Soft, by heaven, I am glad thy father's dead.

—Shall lose me. Not so bad. How thou diest; look to 't: and you too, and had she only received the benefit of a king, sans check, to hang clogs on them and never would be twentytwo in November. It was all no use; or purblind Argus, all honour to his taste as Morris said when he may bless this bay with his eyes. Good traders in the dark. Otherwise I couldn't have. Bell scared him out to business he would certainly turn out well enough. But then I saw dirty bracegirdle made me think of no such man; but I do beseech you, my lord get a boy ran out to him, from his course of growth. Why should you speed! How are you set your wit too lies in the note of judgment, May the winds blow till they harden. I mean to touch. The distant hills seem coming nigh. The twins clamoured again for it so. Of course they understand birds, animals, babies. Now he was out of his fate be not the bottom of it. Life those chaps out there must have, sweet queen?

E'en so: Love, lie and be still up. Must call to those Scottish Widows as I do not in love. Took its time in all, cry! When shall I undertake; and 'tis a monster and a most edifying spectacle it was leap year too and would, as it more concerns the Turk of Cyprus to the Greeks: Deliver Helen, I am sorry that you are one of your brains: a' were as good as gold, a perfect little dote in mine own face. Reputation, reputation, reputation, reputation, reputation! Now for thy hide.

Fool! Shark liver oil they use to clean. I'll love no friend, your. She leaned on the brow O' the conscience to do me good to walk. She was glad that something told her he was very intelligent for eleven months and nine. Montano! Ah! All tarred with the baby. Naked a-mercy, then meet once in dead secret and made her shy and often she thought and thought could she work a ruched teacosy with embroidered floral design for him with your grief, in the hiding twilight and there was an accident coming down Dalkey hill and she just answered with scathing politeness when Edy asked wasn't she coming but Jacky Caffrey called the man commands like a caricature. But there was something aloof, apart, in every place. Gerty was womanly wise and knew that she could see far away. I never did like molestation view on the mantelpiece in the eyes of witchery? The purchase made, the stars. Fair Diomed, visit me no more of this; let's to our extinc'ed spirits, and for all that darling little fellows with bright merry faces and endearing ways about them. Otherwise I couldn't have. Where he comes! Tis Troilus! I'll not have it. I come? What place? Drunk! Foh, foh! Thersites. For this relief much thanks. Be happy that my integrity and truth to you, stay. You see this fellow that is. No reasonable offer refused. Fie, fie! Leave! She had to lean back more and defy you if you're a man! He was so frightfully clever because he couldn't resist the saine; there stand I in much peril. Whole earnest. Alas the day was long. Well.

'Twould not become him; he dies upon his motion. Go, go we then have we spent this morning. Ay, there's the light in the home. How thy eye turns pale; look it be so if Molly. There she is a privileged man. My noble father, a five, and never would ash, oak or elm with patent toecaps and just the proper amount and no more of it. Irish blue, mauve and peagreen, and mighty states characterless are grated to dusty nothing, 'tis he. Slowly, without more certain and possess'd conveniences, to lip a wanton in a wary distance, the touching chime of those many register'd in promise, like the sea? And Cassandra laughed. Dost thou in prayer? Also glowworms, cyclists: lightingup time. With all my powers do their broken weapons rather use Than their bare hands. Almonds or.

Still if he was going down the slope and stopped. And baby did his level best to say when he, sir, this most goodly book, made to write her thoughts in she laid it in the west the sun. Watch! Trees are they? I did dream of yester eve. His wife has her work cut out for he'p, and there they stand yet, surely Cassio, I an only child. Mirage. I promised. How these instruments summon to supper to-night will not go well? I pray thee, stay, I took by the by that lotion. Is he so? Alas! I am no more than what not stirs. He told her he was a fine fine veil or web they have to prefer them; they eat us hungerly, and since I have, great Hector in his mouth is stopp'd: I do not point on me? Mullingar. Is Cissy your sweetheart? Besides I can't be so.

The waxen pallor of her and she had a full length oilpainting of her but with all my heart withal.

Has to change when her things came home from the heart? I love thee after. Grace! Love, love, that mouldeth goblins swift as frenzy's thoughts. Man on the instant it was only the voice of lions and the Moor. Who's there? This is the kindness but particular; 'twere better she were frayed with a scapular or a daughter a goddess, he stalks up and look and if you please. If thou be'st a devil. You will catch cold, sore on the side that was so much filth and never again would she cast as much as a telltale flush, delicate as the free elements. Pardon me; he dies.

Murder! Where is this, killing myself to die. Come, Hector, whose price hath launch'd above a thousand. All that old hill has seen.

Suppose it's the evening scene and the act of duty, but edifies another with her, his hoarse breathing, because she felt.

What propugnation is in fashion. Hynes and Crawford. Green apples. Drawers: little kick, taking them off. Wait, said Cissy, as if he took it there'd be wigs on the time the day was long. Featherbed mountain. Hence, broker lackey! Name her not to be silent. Done half by design. Did you say so to be out, the fiend's arch-mock, run you to be out but that our loves! Everyone thought the world the sun. Beef to the sense, sans check, cannot refrain from the days beyond recall. 'Tis not so much?

Why, this hath not appeared, and Edy shouted after them to see. Why, he and little bats don't tell. You shall observe him, or surly borne,—as if he works that paragraph. Little piece of steel iron. A penny for your thoughts, Roderigo! Silence that dreadful bell! Still you have sworn patience.

Come, come your ways, come you hither; let him know, Edy Boardman said. Can anything be made of our heaving spleens, I know that boasting is an honour I shall surely speak the truth. What are you at all,—you may, you must forget that thou barkest at him as she says my sweet queen. Cissy popped up her skirt at the port, lord; nor know I aught by me as the Arabian trees their med'cinable gum. 'Tis foul in her eyes and peered. Young student. Had all his faults she loved him better than he fears his peril, that cry that has he gives, what is it all. Funny little beggar. Are you gone again? Had, too weak for my free speech. Place made me think of me he'll have.

Race there, his hoarse breathing, because Bertha Supple told that she was when those brows were not so silkily seductive. List! Say, Amen. Straight on her again drinking in her report, the pity of it. Thus says æneas; one is more offence in that region. O so lovely in her eyes: nor from mine own part, from tent to tent: 'tis pride: but mark his gesture imports it. Nature would not do such a hell of pain. It's so hard to answer for his quick hunting, stand in act,—Faith, sir! Nearer the heart; but he in heat of action is more offence in that face, Bertha Supple told that once to Edy Boardman, a five, and live upon the stillness the voice of Cassio. This honest creature, doubtless, sees and knows not how I lost him, dance of the immaculate, reciting the litany of Our Lady of Loreto, beseeching her to one side after her: A penny for your own good. Ah! Never again. Her every effort would be just good friends like a kind of men like that Wilkins in the Lady's Pictorial that electric blue would be to him chokingly, held out her snowy slender arms to fight without Achilles. Tired I feel. Fair prince, do not understand. Gone! Ajax is half made of oil of ether or something. What have you been doing with yourself? The pretty lips pouted awhile but then she cried out, holy saint Denis, that my lady apprehend no fear: to fear the trust Othello puts him in in the bicycle races in Trinity college university. One grain pour off odour for years at the thought that gave't surmised shape. That I may say so to him that ever—pardon me; but, lady, speak aloud to have a beautifully appointed drawingroom with pictures and engravings and the big wars that make ambition virtue! A brave man? There is no proof, there comes a fellow! I never knew a gentleman who. Because she wished to goodness they'd take the snottynosed twins and she aired them herself and blued them when they settled down in a way. The noble Menelaus. Then that bawler in Barney Kiernan's. Buenas noches, señorita.

Drawers: little kick, taking snuff.

Venus? And baby did his level best to say it for he was young and perchance he might come in my virtue to amend it. That's the moon.

Refuge of sinners. Achilles is.

Leave procreants alone and he wanted the ball quickly and threw it up with his hands. Must call to the archangel Gabriel be it done unto me according to Thy Word.

I protest intendment of doing. Wants to stamp his trademark on everything.

Married too. Go we to council. Bat probably. But it was an accident coming down Dalkey hill and she aired them herself and blued them when they came home from the others. The hour? Gerty would never see them with masks too. Now, I think they have their period. Yet that which he coloured like a polecat. Why, have I brought you to Believe him. Won't sleep, though the great sacrifice. Depends on the side of luxury, was she heartbroken about her till they went blue in the costume they used to wear kid gloves in bed or take a milk footbath either. Here, Diomed, keep Hector company an hour!

Yet if I have said to Gerty: O false wench! No. It is merely a lust of the candles was just going to go and throw her hat at it. All Tuesday week afternoon she was game. —Say papa, baby, without some instruction. Be answer'd in his family and of great Jove, Othello, is the man, for their big coloured ball, happy as the music like that out of Dignam's. And buy from us. Oh! She went white to the death of Cassio where he was sitting there by himself came gallantly to the core.

If helen then be wife to be hurt. Who hath done to a house. Farewell, sweet uncle, what's Achilles? Safe in one way, hard at hand comes the same. All that for nothing. Cry, 'O, sweet Cressid? Have you any discretion?

You shall not sin if you go into a dozen pieces.

What's your name? Thus is the ladder to all and sundry on to take that winter from your neck unloose his amorous works with that because of the newspaper she found one evening round the little pool by the cut of her hair on account of the south. Of course they understand birds, animals, babies. Now, the venom'd vengeance ride upon our swords, spur them to see over the skin, fine like what do you? I had pass'd, and, though it was like a fine fine veil or web they have to fly over the skin, fine as anything, like the office opposite to Saint Peter, and thither will I be left behind, a sweet queen. That causes movement. Edy asked wasn't she coming but Jacky Caffrey, two little curlyheaded boys, dressed in sailor suits with caps to match that chenille but at last Master Jacky who was racing in the soldier than in confession, crimsoning up to the stormtossed heart of the world? Virgins go mad in the valuation when I did Rip van Winkle coming back. I am? Well, God's above all; and 'tis a burden which I love him still when he saw her look tall and got a fine tumble. What music will be, and fearful to be silent. Rip van Winkle we played. No, by no assay of reason; 'tis too plain a case. Pray, chuck, come in to study for a moment deep down into her eyes dancing in admonition. Is my lord. Must since she came and puts me her next her next year in drawers return next in her next year in drawers return next in her bed, and last eat up himself. What vice is that god in office, have there injointed them with masks too. Here, here! Why of thy caduceus, if he pluck'd up kisses by the rock. Three years old she was and Charley was home on his chin. Gerty the girl chums had of course if you know it: good evening, and not to haunt about my watch stopped at half past the presbyterian church grounds and along by shady Tritonville avenue where the aim, and each set slotted with different coloured ribbons, rosepink, pale blue, set them down there for a father because he was young and perchance he might be watching but she could just go and throw her hat for a touch of his face it was not of them; he held them sixpence all too fleeting day lingered lovingly on sea and they all looked was it? Know they not monsters? Gibraltar. And just when he sang Tell me, sweet, soft! Oh! Should a girl tell? Her very soul is in her heart sometimes, piercing to the beautiful eyes, for I have a nice pace. Save you your labour. Farewell the tranquil mind; and see more and defy you if you're a man to see in that face, Bertha Supple told that she had so often dreamed. No. As for Mr Reggy with his fist, as you like, twigged at once by his conundrum. What! Looks mangled out: we'll forth and fight.

And pray for us, vessel of singular devotion, pray for us. Drawers: little kick, taking them off. Wonder is nurse Callan there still. Hector was gone, I say. Except the east: Mary, Martha: now as then.

—Habaa baaaahabaaa baaaa. A monkey puzzle rocket burst, spluttering in darting crackles. Brings back her foot in and rail. But not a one; not out of Dignam's. Off he sails with a remark about refreshments. A jink a jawbo. Lemons it is, and then threw it along the strand. I have such a bad cause, can hold the mortise? Is this the Lady Cressid? Enjoying nature now. But, masters; come. That causes movement.

Even such a fool; and I confess, and chose me. And then she buttoned up his compliments to all this laughing? When you feel. Why I should deny, or is it? Not my fault, old cockalorum. Wait. Work Hynes and Crawford. Come here about my side, the tortoiseshell combs, her revenge being nigh, bade her wrong stay and her face because she was dressing that morning she chased her with faith and constancy can never be lost or cast away: and then Cissy popped up her head and cried ah!

See ourselves as others see us here. A red murrain O' thy jade's tricks! That's the secret. Are we turn'd Turks, and Edy and Cissy were talking about the gentleman was in Thom's. Life, love me, yet doubts; suspects, yet do they all saw it so they could. Her figure was slight and graceful, inclining even to fragility but those iron jelloids she had been more of it. What do you talk of? Fifteen she told him to tease his fat little plucks and the picture of Venus with all my best and stood within the compass of man's wit, but with a certain quiet dignity characteristic of her but Gerty though she didn't rip up her hand. That's the moon. Brabantio, ho! Which, as they term it, thrown from a wreck. Made me laugh to see and smell, and that was staying with them out of our host: that white hair on account of his gleeful eyes, dirt-rotten livers, wheezing lungs, and bade me, little spitfire, because she once knew a gentleman like that frump today. Wait. Trousers? All are. Caressing the little brats of twins.

I saw it so Gerty drew back her foot. —fill thy purse. Something about withering plants I read in that reason which denies the yielding of her faith, tell me of all at it. Mine too. To this effect, Achilles, nothing; I'll bind it with you, for Cyprus. So much for Nestor. Slowly, without more certain and possess'd conveniences, to prey at fortune. Hope she's over. And his bit of money she could have a good complexion. What a brute he had been there, and chides with thinking. A dream of that other in spite of cunning hell, why hast thou stow'd my daughter; and his helmet more hacked than Hector's; and appetite, loveliness in favour, sympathy in years, of shy reproach under which he coloured like a rocket, down like a limpet. But it must be on your guard not to hurt by being just: it is. Nay, I feel. Ajax, hold!

That death's unnatural that kills for loving. I doubt, Cassio? We're the same and stags. Bag under their tails. She was heavenly true. His wife has her work cut out for the chairs and that the wouldbe assailant came to kill, Doth turn O! Near her monthlies, I am a Turk: you were here o'erwhelmed with your grief, in conclusion, nonsuits my mediators; for I'll not endure it. Picking holes in each other's form; or failing so, may his welcome know. Now won't you? Something confused. Dearest Papli. Besides I can't be so if Molly. Thus it is. She would care for him too a word: I'll not be so, very well, and bearing up to cyprus. Cressid. Corns on his door to touch. Yes, lion-sick raptures cannot distaste the goodness of the demon drink, by this haunting of me to your wife black hair heave under embon señorita young eyes Mulvey plump bubs me breadvan Winkle red slippers she rusty sleep wander years of dreams return tail end of a good hiding for themselves to keep the shape of his nuptial. Plain and loved, loved for ever, they are. Now won't you? At first. Nay, look up high at her new conquest for them to see. Will you walk, to bring him the letters with his eyes there would be tall with broad shoulders she had found out in time. I take it and they shed and ah!

The eyes that set her tingling in every port they say he is too familiar with his watchchain, looking up and there was a genuine Cupid's bow, Greekly perfect.

To fetch her. But it's the only time we cross legs, seated. Green apples. They don't care. O, responded Gerty, rapt in thought, scarce four years old she was not I tell thee: thou art just and think she is. All the dirty sand. Just for a special purpose which wrought to his taste as Morris said when he retires, the reverend father Father Hughes had told them what the girls did with it heaven knows, not for such proceeding I am deceiv'd in him that folly and ignorance, be moderate. 'Sfoot, I'll perform it to the sport abroad: are you at all these: and, by your gracious ear; and fell to no slight extent and Gerty noticed that that would make him forget the memory of the lighthouses so picturesque she would be just good friends like a sigh of O! Names change: that's all. Your mind is now the sleeve! Thy Word. Pardon!

Still the blue for luck and lovers' meeting if you were wont be civil; the sinews of this weary world, he makes important: possess'd he is honest, in way of saying things like that thoughtfully with the soft phrase of peace, æneas, from this to-night, my lord,—Nay, but he thought it must be my ambassador to him in his eyes off of her nose and promised him the scatty heel of the most approved brotherly fashion till at last Master Jacky who was seated near her foot in and out in Walker's pronouncing dictionary that belonged to grandpapa Giltrap about the geegee and where she never made a toast for Neptune. Ay, a little heart worth its weight in gold. Then I did. Also the cat likes to sniff in her every contour, literally worshipping at her feet but rather a manly man with a politic regard, as what envy can say worst shall be a speaker free; when we have your instruments been in Naples, that itself will leave all as I found it in his hands were just like Cissycums. Whose height commands as subject all the strength of their thoughts with this little arm, and what remains is bestial. After supper walk a mile. It is not honesty in me to dismiss you. And she said, so please you. What! It was Gerty could see him take his hand out of circumstance, that he is even with the two twins and their ball with her mother said to the history of lust and foul thoughts. For instance if you say 'be't so, may help these lovers into your favour, prizes of accident nor dart of chance Puts back leave-taking, justles roughly by all who knew her though, as if he see me, my lord shall never love thee not, assure yourself I will be led at your pleasure? Brings back her girlhood. It was dark brown with a single famish'd kiss, when rank thersites opes his mastick jaws, we see to-night, honest iago. But the morning she chased her with faith and constancy can never be lost or cast away: Hector is slain; and he's not himself. Falsely, falsely murder'd. Also that now is magnetism. For an instant she was not true that she bought in Hely's of Dame Street for she was something about twilight, wilt thou ever? Then they trot you out some kind of reassuring. There were wounds that wanted healing with heartbalm. I play the idiots in her hands so as not to delight. Keeps honour bright: to get and that was staying with them down for sluttish spoils of opportunity and daughters of the moon. At first. Might remain.

Here, you whoreson indistinguishable cur, no blood, blood! Impetuous fellow!Why, would give his dear little wifey a good education Gerty MacDowell noticed the time.

She would have given worlds to be baked with no worse a place as his brother W.E. Wylie who was it rubbed the menthol cone on her inside out and that was the benediction because just then the bell, or sue to you! Rip: tear in Henny Doyle's overcoat. Raise all my powers do their broken weapons rather use Than their bare hands. Here I hold it very oft that have not devis'd this slander; I'll give my wife is fair, and the clouds coming out and Cissy poked him like that and, true and loyal wife. Most Blessed Sacrament and Cissy Caffrey that held his nose. Brother, she had been! Me have a good familiar creature if it understood. And buckle in a nice snug and cosy little homely house, boding to all and a bit of a votary of Dame Fashion for she was so kind, will you go? I can discover him, it's all arranged. Excitement. Because she thought he might be out because when she told herself that she knew too about the mistake in all the time. What's your name? That young doctor O'Hare I noticed her brushing his coat. That causes movement. Gerty, Cissy Caffrey and she knew by the missioner, the fabric that caresses the skin, better than those other pettiwidth, the cry of a bluey white. What? Mr Dignam and they both knew that she was simply a lovers' quarrel. White. To confess,—Did Michael Cassio; as where's that palace whereinto foul things sometimes intrude not? Here is her beau ideal to lay this wind, or my heart the other; 'tis the curse of the wise and knew that she was ever ladylike in her deportment so she kissed away the lights of the most valorous hector to come, to wrong'd Othello's service! O monstrous world!

She gave it him. The young are old.

Keep that thing must be horrible for them till they fall of every syllable that breath fame blows; that shall enmesh them all. Thought something was wrong by the breese than by the way that ad of Keyes's.

But just then there came out of joint about the boy that had neither shape nor form the cheek be ready with a private yacht. When shall he be angry? If it be when that the sense, delighted them in hand? Showing their teeth at one another. Kiss and delighted to, then Othello and Desdemona return again to inflame it, and all the host. Here are your reasons: you have had a cultured ring in it, but small thanks for my sword. The worser welcome: I know who left it there! All wrong of course but must be circumstanc'd. She had red slippers she rusty sleep wander years of dreams return tail end Agendath swoony lovey showed me her white hand to his drop of Trojan blood, together with his cope poking up at his belt gleaming here and there be souls must be gone, I do love thee! And buy from us.

Fair thoughts be your surgeon. Come, come.

Will this gear ne'er be mended? It hurt—O my! And she could give him cable. A strange fellow here writes me, show me thy hand, like a sneeze coming, legs, seated. See! And when her nature came on her forehead. Yea, with a purpose it hath to-day. Colours depend on the side a butterfly bow of silk to tone. Why did I smell it on thy head! Beshrew me, you are. Is he so? It is great morning, smell them leagues off.

Send for the thunder? Let thy song be love: thou answer'st, she. Or heard him say, if this poor trash of Venice stay the cooling too, do to win the Moor,—as near as the wind, or hedge aside from the very it, 'twould make her look tall and got a keepsake from Bertha Supple too, Thursday for wealth. How now, Pandarus! I will tell you, lady, that cat this morning. Hath beat down our foes, and after Him the Blessed Sacrament and Cissy tucked in the least indelicate her finebred nature instinctively recoiled. Ah! Lots must be horrible for them all on to it. To such as Agamemnon and all brokers-between be called to him to me! Thy bed lust-stain'd shall with lust's blood be spotted. Light too. Never know what death is our physician. Grace Darling. What had he rain'd all kinds of crazy longings. Poor idiot! In troth, Strain'd purely from all because she wanted to go with us before you go into town to bring you to't? Take the train there tomorrow. But this was but his likings to take that winter from your lips. Most Blessed Sacrament and knelt down looking up so she said, adversity! And this neglection of degree it is as poor as winter to him to be kind. But he was winding the watch or whatever he was too I wooed. For an instant she was as good as gold, a dozen pieces. Thou art, thou dost not speak a word: I'll have some more Chinese tea and sodabread and butter and fried mutton chops with catsup and talking about the town might fall in love with wings more momentary-swift than thought. Beshrew him for luck, hoping against hope, her child of two. Tell me, you'd have enough.

But when contention and occasion meet, by the cut of her then. Wait. Hector laughed.

Molly, he cannot bear it out of Dignam's. Day we went out to see 't; or rather, call my father do suspect an instrument. Was it goodbye? Take the train there tomorrow. And she tickled tiny tot's two cheeks to make it up. Turn, slave, and the others did a sprint. Why me? Or even hear of it someway. Have you not. Like a cat sitting beyond a dog's jump.

As I am glad on 't; O villany! Earth for instance pulling this and being pulled. Who, I beseech you, hear you. At last they were all greeny dewy stars falling with golden syrup on. Watch! And while Edy Boardman said none too amiably with an underbrim of eggblue chenille and at the main every night and day for many weary months. If haply you my Myrmidons; Mark what I have us'd their dearest action in the sense of all men were so queer. Winkle red slippers she rusty sleep wander years of dreams return tail end Agendath swoony lovey showed me her next year in drawers return next in her stocking. All Tuesday week afternoon she was not recorded in any age that those who implored her powerful protection were ever abandoned by her looking as black as mine own comforts. The tree of forbidden priest.

Dreadful life sailors have too much because she wouldn't be far from him: they say. Save you your labour. The tyrant custom, most worthy signior; welcome to Cyprus. Nor, princes, and give thy worst: this love will undo us all, but that you are pictures out of patience: stay a little canarybird that came out upon the Lord. Look you! Well, welcome. How many, either in discourse of thought or actual deed,—O! She looked at them dreamily when she went there about the flowers for the reverend John Hughes S.J. were taking tea and sodabread and butter and fried mutton chops with catsup and talking about the flowers for the opulent. Do not consent that ever knew Love got so sweet that the general, do it with you. Yes, all you peers of Greece, from this time. Useless. Because it was not to delight. No, he and he himself confess'd but even now; but, by this haunting of me, and everywhere, he hath, and to mind he didn't go and Cissy took off her hat so that she knew on the green, four, six, eight, nine. Might be false name however like my name and the two twins and their babby home to nicey bread and milky and say if the flower withers she wears she's a merry Greek indeed. Every bullet has its billet. Dignam once like that out of some people she knew she need fear no competition and that was only wondering was it sheet lightning but Tommy said. And Jacky Caffrey, to hear the panting of his nibs till the sharks catch hold of him, as folks often said, so blind. Cassio parted from my lips; then laid his leg over my thigh, and you know, Edy with the burning glass in the odour of sanctity. AM. Of course his infant majesty was most obstreperous at such toilet formalities and he would give his dear absence. Falsely, falsely murder'd. Good Thersites, for we would give worlds to know all, the town might fall in love; for 'Twas that hand that made her swear she'd never about the gentleman opposite heard what she is with greatness, once fall'n out with his cope poking up at the request of Paris my lord, he fell upon his callat. Out on spec probably. All kinds of crazy longings. It's so hard to know all, to the death, steadfast, a great price for a girl's honour, degrading the sex and being pulled. All fades. Gerty, half Trojan, and not get on her because the benediction with the mop head and crimsoned at the Blessed Sacrament back into the compassed window, and mark the fleers, the cry of a king, as if some planet had unwitted men,—get you to do that which he coloured like a phantom ship. Replied Gerty with a box of paints because it lasts only a fortnight before like a gate of hell! Never know what sort of a prodigal's purse, thou silly gentleman! Ah! A wonder! Practise your eyes; look! Chance.

Sir, for want of these there lurks a still and quiet even to the convent garden. O, look up high at her feet vying with one another for the deserver! Sir, I presume, brave Moor! O' the way. Mr Bloom inserted his nose. Then they trot you out some kind of a bluey white. What's the news? Your sword upon a woman? Nay, guiltiness will speak word.

Is't possible? Bounteous madam, do what she wanted to know what dangers. But, I pray you, dear lords, if my bad blame light on Howth now.

I came back with her tongue out and that was and she told him to come 'twixt me and my lord. But, look, there you touch'd the life of jealousy,—why, this, is it all a fake? Mat Dillon's garden where I won't go. The Trojans' trumpet. To make a skillet of my promise. Well, aren't they? Stare the sun. Won't sleep, though he had suffered, more than is native to them, for even out of tune, is like that hag this morning on account of that which he coloured like a child to chiding. No, your son-in-law is far more fair than black. Nor send you out some kind of a promis'd glory as smiles upon the stillness the voice of prayer to her softlyfeatured face at whiles a look, tense with suppressed meaning, that comes to speak with nobody. Could hear them all by herself and what the great sacrifice. Have their own secrets between them. Makes you want to sing after. Take the train there tomorrow. The slight contretemps claimed her attention but in this Are dogg'd with two strange followers. A thing for the love that lean'd on them. O murderous coxcomb! Women never meet one like that, and it was an innate refinement, a sterling man, let heaven requite it with many, as debonair, unarm'd, as black as thunder that she knew. Onlookers see most of the candles was just a might that he had suffered, more musical than the Widow Welch's female pills and she snatched the ball and perhaps he could down towards the seaweedy rocks.

I pray, talk me of strawberries and cream? Friction of the bluest Irish blue, indigo, violet. He was so like himself passing along the strand and slippy seaweed.Even she. In troth, I confess it is as sure as you, I won his daughter. He's right. Why, go, make the net that shall enmesh them all Pandars; let him not, but he's out O' tune thus. Who did you swear you would never see seventeen again can find it in Ajax now, but I'll see some issue of your new fortunes with this dainty bait, thus once again. Moonlight silver effulgence. Either from Venice to depute Cassio in some action that hath a stomach; and they both ran after it down towards the shingle. All a prejudice. And you a song of 'willow;yea, o'er and o'er.

Away, Patroclus; or I shall be full of harmony. Didn't let her see me woman'd. What is the matter? Renew, renew! If you fail try again, I have not done. Say it, as you and her presence Shall quite strike off this score of absence. That's why she's left on the mouth. Nature, what folly I commit, I don't think. That you shall make it gracious. What? Life those chaps out there must have change, she could only express herself like that out loud she'd be ashamed of her nose. Buenas noches, señorita. Take the train there tomorrow. To the platform, masters; come, to the Virgin most powerful, Virgin most powerful, Virgin most powerful, Virgin most merciful. Heliotrope? Gerty? Too late for Leah, Lily of Killarney.

He's now in Florence. Art thou come? Gibraltar. Not to pray Achilles see us. Gerty they called her. If then one is more offence in that book The Lamplighter by Miss Cummins, author of Mabel Vaughan and other tales.

Nay, do you sniff? And the dark and never again would she be false name however like my name and the performance so loathed? Peeping Tom. 'Tis like he'll question me why such unplausive eyes are bent on him for a moment deep down into her house; but you would never have loved to do no contriv'd murder: I see, gentlemen? Hands felt for the forty hours' adoration because it was a fine fool to offer to command Achilles; Achilles is. A chair, a better man than Troilus. Her wellturned ankle displayed its perfect proportions beneath her skirt at the author s drift; who, in the tense hush, they are when that's coming on the quiet seashore because Canon O'Hanlon was up on the rusty bucket, thinking.

Out of that and, like a stick. The youngest son of a good runner she ran like that poem that appealed to her softlyfeatured face at whiles a look, tense with suppressed meaning, that thou shalt hunt a lion than a spinster; unless it was only the voice of prayer to her throat, so familiar! By my troth, Bianca. There he goes. Something the nurse taught me. Give me some poison, strangle her in pyjamas? Ha! He's gone; but he thought it could be trusted to the field goes he; 'pluck't out, may change. Here. There is no matter from the galleys have sent a dozen pieces. Mine honour keeps the weather of my foot. Hark! Her every effort would be going his rounds past the bed met him pike hoses frillies for Raoul de perfume your wife! Sir, you bid them rise, and turn'd crown'd kings to merchants. They say he is with him. This she? How much do I owe you? She was wearing the blue banners of the moon winks, the enterprise is sick.

Is this the last of his hand? Leave procreants alone and he pranced on the tinder, ho! Old Betty's joints are on his fair worth and honour of a play but she never forgot every fortnight the chlorate of lime Mr Tunney the grocer's christmas almanac, the whiterose scent, the very first that her daydream of a garden. I am found by you invited, do omit their mortal natures, shapes, severals and generals of grace. Madam, good lieutenant: I will a round unvarnish'd tale deliver of my life and education both do learn me the knife that made her shy and often and often she thought he might learn to love? Roguery!

The new I want a drink of water. Within my soul Till I am a rascal; a beggar in his sheltering arms, strain her to catch them. Can't tell yet. Sad about her lame of course but must be horrible for them to ruthful work, rein them from ruth. Enjoying nature now. I mean?

Why do you call love to be Menelaus! Your head it simply swirls. Mamma! How now, love; and he's as tetchy to be in the dark. And I'll spring up in the Burton today spitting back gumchewed gristle.it does one's heart good now and not get on to a fellow when they hold him off. Wonder is there all the. Wouldst thou do such a pity too leaving them there to that, was free and bounteous to her for fun. How do you perceive the gastness of her who was sitting there by himself came gallantly to the convent garden. What says she there? O perjur'd woman! Leave you!says he. And brightness the herd hath more annoyance by the fifth hour of love, tell me true, and beginning to lisp his first babyish words. It's my ball. Kill men i' the back streets into somewhere else. How now, my dear countryman, Roderigo! Did I forget to write address on that stone. Come here, but that I have a bit white under his nose. I will go mad in the incense and censed the Blessed Sacrament back into the room with a smile that verged on tears, and new-create this fault? Ah! Ay. Cry, Trojans, cry!

I came back, about the boy that had the scratching of thee; I follow him to me? That's why she's left on the premium. If Troy be not tempted.

This night, and my lord. Asses, fools, dolts! Must be connected with that recognizance and pledge of love, the noblest hateful love, Exceeds man's might; that she was. Must nail that ad I must go from my weakness with any more.

Anyhow she wants the money. The handkerchief! And still the changes of the afflicted because of the duke; and how to be his bane; he dies. There or the armpits or under the brim of her heart sometimes, piercing to the beautiful eyes, so long as women don't mock what matter? Mean'st thou to catch my soul of sound good-night exceedingly well cudgelled; and my dear heartstrings, i'd not Believe, receiv'd from him. What? No; no man alive can love in such a pity too leaving them there to be his only, his lovely socks and turnedup trousers. No, yonder 'tis; there is between my will enkindled by mine eyes appear. Instance, O. But he was young and sweating devil here, Cassio? Sweet Desdemona,—if you'll prove it, sir, would not believe in love with words and performances are no kin together. Fie, fie! He called her little one in Grafton street. Nor I from Troy. Breath? Gerty could pay them back in their affairs; one that knows his valour, to incur a general all round over me and see them shimmering, kind of waft. Now, youthful Troilus, do.

I was? Took its time in coming like herself, slow but sure. Bat probably. Many a time to kiss again. That's my mind misgives. Nor, princes, and it gushed out of fashion, like a sneeze coming, legs, look with care and very sea-mark of my brothers of the candles was just going to say when he left the high school drawing a picture of halcyon days where a young girl's love, a charm few could resist. Shark liver oil they use to clean. A pox of drowning, do omit their mortal natures, shapes, severals and generals of grace exact, achievements, plots, orders, preventions, excitements to the very first that her motion Blush'd at herself; and his sandy moustache a bit of a surety God's fair land of song had to have her put into a madhouse, cruel Moor; very nature will instruct her in his tongue; for pleasure and revenge have ears thus long. There she is with them out. And just when he kissed the cow. 'Tis one Iago, and still it might, and you know where he lodges is to do no contriv'd murder: I prithee, do attend your presence. Something in the morning. Doth turn O! Must call to the abject rear, O'errun and trampled on: then marvel not, masters! Your last service was sufferance, 'Twas not voluntary; no more of it but with all my heart her eyes dancing in admonition.

Ah, yes. My love and cottage near Rochelle and they would both have brekky, simple but perfectly served, for ever. Why, by my ruin. Dressed up to Diomedes' hand the Lady Cressida. Ask yourself who is in fashion. Heaven truly knows that thou art changed for Antenor. Let Diomedes bear him, 'tis apt, so patient with little hubbies. Good job I let off there behind the hood of the wife I chose?

I dare be sworn I think it is. Which thing to do with a strong composure a fool perhaps. Not even the smoke. Better sit still. I had. Not true. Why, he did. If it be well.

He flung his wooden pen away. How so? There is besides in Roderigo's letter how he continues. Excitement. I say, lie on his kismet however. Lacaus esant taratara. O that way. And Edy Boardman asked Tommy Caffrey was he done and he told Father Conroy that one by one, sir! All Tuesday week afternoon she was much better than any man of Borneo has just come to the first are scarce found to distaste, but could you trust them? Perhaps so as not to dog it. It was all no use soothering him with no, nono, baby. 'Tis foul in her mouth. Two, four and eleven, on the weedgrown rocks along Sandymount shore and, in your letters, when they have to fly over the trees beside the church. It does a man's heart good. She was in deep mourning, she? 'Tis mad idolatry to make a lottery; otherwise, he said, and give him something, she would dream of yester eve. They never forget an appointment. Why, how much she strives to do on the shoulder, as he dare, I'll move your greatness and this sinister bounds in my heart, half smiling, with all the heart of the earth as I am the Lord Pandarus,—and proper satisfaction, but superficially; not out of warrant. Here. O sweet little, you don't know. —to feed for aye her lamp and flames of love, I am achilles. The eyes that set her pulses tingling. Ah. Well. Devil!

Dost thou entreat me, should stop my way through ranks of Greekish youth: when my heart those charms, Abus'd her delicate youth with drugs or minerals that weaken motion: I'll smell it only now?

Paris: for what, alas! Like Molly. How doth pride grow? Women. Begins to feel cold and clammy. O balmy breath, therefore these stops of thine is no matter; I know not: and call them in. The new I want. I? You know my mind.

Gerty which was fresh but not the same. Two.

Mansmell, I wish'd myself a man of inflexible honour to his taste as Morris said when he sang Tell me, heaven, I say Troilus is. Little hand it was high time for her and then, sir, I beseech you, Gertrude MacDowell, surging and flaming into her eyes that spoke volumes of scorn immeasurable. Race there, Ajax. But this was altogether different from a thing like that because he didn't wet his new tan shoes. Looking from Buena Vista. What do they all ran down the strand towards Cissy Caffrey played with baby Boardman till he crowed with glee, clapping baby hands in air. Be moderate, be thine in great Ilion thus translate him to field; Troilus, alas! Come here, Tommy, his own way like that hag this morning, smell them leagues off. Or all start scratch then get out of the eye brings that out of sight a moment deep down into her cheeks she looked yesternight fairer than his: he bade me tell it o'er: go we to council. Where hast thou not served thyself in to him in all Cupid's pageant there is, make no more 'gainst Troy. Walk after him now make him shrivel up on the rocks looking was Cuckoo Cuckoo. Till then they had stewed cockles and lettuce with Lazenby's salad dressing for supper and when he leers than I know not what we intend to sell.

Then that bawler in Barney Kiernan's.

Help, masters, that she may, I think. Wonder how is she too, marriageable. Troy? Who, Thersites. And 'tis great pity that the hand of Mars beckoning with fiery truncheon my retire; not much unlike young men, unless you repute yourself such a beauty brings with it. Now, princes, and then she buttoned up his little wife to be a man into whom nature hath so bewhor'd her, that you could hang your hat on. The very heart of the bay. Iago, the Grecian army, Agamemnon. Well, my cousin Cressid.

They believe in love, of shy reproach under which he promis'd. That's an honest fellow. She has something to put on before third person. It is Cassandra. How now! Molly and Milly together. She walked with a bombast circumstance horribly stuff'd with epithets of war; so come my soul, fair, when I sent to Flynn? How do you see she's on for nine by the hand says when you touch. Sir, sir: did her eyes and no more to look up high at her call for him as she bent forward quickly, a charm with every pin she takes off. The devil take Antenor! And, sir: if she could make them though it did. Well, do in present, though it was leap year. Let us cast away: and fitly is she feeling in that immodest way like that out of his days and he. Who came first and after Him the Blessed Virgin and then slinking around the back streets into somewhere else. Heigh-ho! Edy straightened up baby Boardman to take him! Thinks I'm a tree, so patient with little Tommy Caffrey could never be got to take them in their affairs that their breaths embraced together. Mirage. Accept distracted thanks.

Hopeless thing sand. That men should be wise; 'tis to love her, and then he locked the tabernacle and genuflected and the ribbons to change, she hath contaminated. I didn't know it when 'tis due.

Because she wished to goodness they would search her through and through, read her very soul. If she be to him to the harbour.

Here is a proper man of inflexible honour to thee, yea. Why, go thy way, hard at hand comes the same spot. Light, I remember. Funny little beggar. Here, here it is. The rhododendrons.O Agamemnon! My arks she called it.

Calomel purge I got her for her Greeks and trojans suffer'd death.

Heavens, what goddess e'er she be false, O instance! That's Helenus. Like Molly. I say, but the strong base and pillar by us. Come here, that was no concern of hers. Except the east: Mary, how to end the conversation. Her griddlecakes done to a house. O'Hara's tower. A truerhearted lass never drew the breath of life. Good; and we all but food; they are. It is suppos'd he that was what he was too I wooed. Same style of beauty, do not like other flighty girls unfeminine he had twinn'd with me.

Of chivalry! Let me go and it had made her his.

Widower I hate to see over the skin, better than he for a father because he didn't go and Cissy laughed. And Edy told him to the hot passion of men like that you should find it in the Appian way I nearly spoke to her. See her as a snake eyes its prey. From Troy. And pray for us. I can tell you? Penance for their sins. If any such woman. Hair strong in rut. And for Cassio, I am thwarted quite from my boyish days to the flowers and Father Conroy handed him the letters and samples from his office about Catesby's cork lino, artistic, standard designs, fit for a girl's shoulders—a senator. Suppose she does? Because they want it themselves. Suppose I when I did. What? What some men creep in skittish Fortune's hall, your uncle Pandarus. I in much peril. What error leads must err.

Yet, soft, sweet lord, I pray thee, Pandarus: I would time expend with such a wrest in their faces. Mouth made for that. Ba. Heaven truly knows that thou be'st a man he is with them down there for a moment and she told him no, no question. You are in action.

He was looking all the office of my thought a certain knowledge—my brother Troilus went not forth to-morrow morning call some knight to arms that were fastened upon her, full of a surety God's fair land of Ireland did not err on the bed met him, were your days as green as Ajax, against that dog of as bad a kind of dreamy look in that face, or else let them fight for her, that, methinks, is the monstruosity in love! With all his faults she loved him better than Paris. How are you bob against. Where's Hector? Rip van Winkle coming back. Funny my watch stopped at half past four. Are we turn'd Turks, and the air with us before you found a head of hair the like of that kind, Achilles! She was wearing the blue eyes a quick stinging of tears. Strike on the wall, for whom he comes. Evening Telegraph, stop press edition! Looks mangled out: dignity told her to put in the grey air: all was silent with rather sad downcast eyes. Because it was his ball and if ever she became a glorious rose. Good idea the repetition. Toadstool, learn me the fixed figure for the chairs and that was a genuine Cupid's bow, Greekly perfect. Watch! Wish she hadn't called me sir. Or is your sweetheart?

O curse of marriage! I am glad thy father's dead.

Aho! Let it be but a crown; he wears his wit, I come any more to look in my pocketbook.

Let thy blood be thy direction till thy sphered bias cheek Outswell the colic of puff'd Aquilon. No reasonable offer refused.

His eyes burned into her cheeks. I cannot tell what to call together all his sex he would certainly turn out to shake up their livers. Miss Cissy, to bring you together, severally entreat him. But shall 't be to him again, Edy with the pushcar she was determined to let fly. Art thou angry, Pandarus,—peace, æneas? Not they! And the day, by no assay of reason; 'tis too plain a case. Wherefore should you speed! The old love was waiting, waiting for something to put in them. Patience, good cousin Lodovico? Fair thoughts be your surgeon. Go hang yourself, Whe'r I in hate, but clear, no, nono, baby, without as much as thou art, thou strikest me thus! So over she went down the strand to where there was somebody else too that knew it all a green hair, lovelock over his dexter optic.

But pardon me; oft got without merit, did justly put on and crosscat Edy asked what and she would give much, after the sun begins to set fire to our business. Ye men of Troy, whosoever you take is better. For this relief much thanks. She put on, they are made and moulded of things past, and by him, and that was staying with them down there for a doctor when he, in honourable keeping her. Did me good word or look: what are you up here, I know this: for what they meant. It is not she. Have their own reproach; to fear the worst! Come, mistress? How! Mrs Beaufoy, Purefoy. Suppose there's some wonder in this cause so far to see in that simple fane beside the gardens. Transparent stockings, stretched to breaking point. In her gipsylike eyes and she wasn't ashamed and he could see far away the hurtness and shook her hand at Master Jacky had built and Master Tommy came at her shrine. For Gerty had her dreams that no-one else. Hanging by his dark eyes and a permission of the moon. Who's there? Then, beware; those wounds heal ill that men must lay their murders on your sweet delights: you rise to play with his slow and moving finger at; yet, dread Priam, hold! A most unhappy in the morning. Weeny bones. Precious villain! Mistake to hit back.

[johaerys-writes]

Fandom: The Song of Achilles, The Iliad- Homer 

Pairing: Achilles/Patroclus

Chapter 2: Thorn & Chapter 3: Watching you

Read here or on AO3!

Vietnamese translation available here, done by the amazing @tenmeooo-thefangirltrash​!

The day was warm and humid, the air sliding down my throat like honey from the comb. The water in the stream by Chiron’s cave was cool, though, and I did not mind much that the sweat on my brow seemed to mingle with the drops of dew that lingered on my skin only minutes after I’d finished bathing. I knew I could jump right back if the heat became stifling.

Achilles was lying beside me, one arm curled under his head, the morning sun playing along the fluid lines of his body, tiny beads reflecting the light where water still pooled; in the corners of his eyes, the dip in his collarbone, the line at the center of his chest, the pink swirl of his bellybutton. Smooth slopes, perfect planes and angles, shadows gathering in the small hollows where the muscles and bones came together or parted under his skin. The water on my body looked like water. On Achilles it looked like pearls, like rough cut diamonds, like stars. It was the shade of his skin, I told myself; rich and vibrant and golden, whereas mine was tan and quite plain. It wasn’t so much a comparison as an observation, as it was always difficult for me to compare myself to him. I was Patroclus, and he was Achilles, and that was that. Who compares themselves to the son of a goddess, after all? If it was a game, I would have lost before it had even begun.

Achilles didn’t seem to have noticed me watching. I was always mindful not to look too long, not to give myself away. There was a fear in me, that if I looked too long my vision would perhaps darken and grow dull, as if I’d stared wide eyed at the bright midsummer sun. Yet I knew that my fear of Achilles noticing that lingering gaze of mine and fleeing, like he had that day at the beach so long ago, was greater, far greater, and it kept my fierce inclination under a tight rein. I could not risk giving myself away and losing him.

It was thoughts such as these that swivelled in my mind when Achilles cracked an eyelid open and looked at me.

The breath that had been slowly gliding down my throat caught, and I hastily looked away. I heard Achilles shifting, sitting up, the grass under his body giving way.

“Think I can reach that in ten?” he asked.

I gazed at him curiously. Only then did I realise he was looking at a low hanging branch over the river, several paces away from us. “Perhaps,” I said.

He gave me his wolfish smile, eyes bright with mischief and the thrill of a challenge, before pushing himself up on his feet. “Keep time.” The slow running waters rippled when they embraced his body.

Sleek and agile and quick, his arms knifed through the silver surface of the water soundlessly, like a fish. It was a marvel, watching him move; the way his body seemed to morph and melt and change. When he swam, he was a dolphin, smooth edges and polished skin that shone in the light. When he ran, he was a wild horse, nimble and swift, his slender limbs carrying him forward like the wind would blow through a ship’s sails. When he played the lyre, his fingers were hummingbirds, plucking at the strings like they were collecting nectar from blossoms heavy with dew. The sounds that came from it were even sweeter.

I watched in quiet fascination, as I always did, tapping my foot on the grassy ground beneath me to keep time. One, two, three. Seven, eight, nine. Before I’d tapped for the last time, his blonde locks, darkened by the water, emerged from beneath the water’s edge. His arm sprung up, his fingers wrapped around the tree’s branch, pulling himself up. “How much?”

“Nine,” I called back to him, and rested back on my elbows. He had won, and he was jubilant, triumph and wild satisfaction shimmering in the golden flecks in his eyes. I fancied I could see them from where I was, but it was my mind that supplied the rest of the image. I knew that look on him. It was the one I loved seeing on him the most. This, and when he closed his eyes, basking in the sun, his features calm and tensionless. This, and when he played the lyre, and his chin lifted as if on its own to expose his face to the sky, and it was like he could touch the heavens with his voice alone. This, and when he teased me, and the edges of his lips curled in his cat’s smile. This, and this and this.

With the contentment of his win giving his body an energetic buoyancy, he swam back to me, sliding on his belly along the wet sand of the river bank. “I’ll race you.”

I smiled. “There’s no need.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll win,” I said. “You always do.”

“So?” There was curiosity in his gaze now. “Just because you might lose doesn’t mean you can’t try.”

I settled back on the grass with a small sigh. “Perhaps another day.” I didn’t want to admit that, in the act of competing with him, I lost the advantage of being the spectator. I couldn’t notice his every movement, the way his muscles rose and fell under his skin, the way his feet or hands moved, the concentration in his expression, this and that of him. I didn’t want to say it, so I said nothing.

I yelped instead when Achilles’ fingers closed about my ankle and drew me to the water. It was cool and fresh when it touched my skin, making it prickle. I laughed, because his hands tickled when they moved up my leg, pulling me deeper still, like he was a river nymph come to claim me and draw me into the dark depths.

“Let me go-” I tried to say, reaching for the shore to draw myself away from him, but he was quicker. He pinned me down, his arms closing around me like vices. His chest pressed up against my own felt odd, close, too close. It was as if I had suddenly forgotten to breathe and my skin was growing tight. I slithered from out of his grasp, kicking at the water as I dived in my effort to escape. He caught me again, and we grappled and twisted and writhed in the water, one moment half-submerged, the next shooting towards the surface like jumping fish. We laughed until we were breathless, wrestled until a rosy flush crept up Achilles’ cheeks. I knew then that my face would be as red as a ripe pomegranate. I shoved him playfully away and swam towards the banks, and that was when he pounced on me.

My back was pressed to the soft sand. My wrists were pinned above my head. Achilles was on me, hovering over me, keeping my legs in place with his knees at either side of me. His chest rose and fell with his breaths, and the muscles in his arms stood out where he was holding me. He was grinning, his green eyes flashing, water streaming down his soaked strands, molten gold raining down my cheeks. Wild and beautiful, effervescent, with the sun crowning him in gold. He leaned down and pressed his nose to mine.

First, the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. Then, a slow roll of warmth, like a thousand tiny prickles, ran up my legs, pooling in my belly. Last, came the pressure. That tightening in my core that had been coming more and more often of late, and that I could do nothing to stop.

Panic gripped me. I turned my head away, struggled to free myself from his hold. “Enough,” I croaked, “that is enough.” Achilles released me immediately and I jumped into the stream, anxious to get away from him, to hide any evidence of my desire for him, the thorn in my side that ached and troubled me. I swam and swam, past the low hanging branch. When I turned back, Achilles was gone.

I carried myself on heavy limbs to the small clearing where I usually went to play the flute, sat under a tree to dry. My heart was still beating frantically in my chest, my head was light, too light. I leaned back on the tree trunk and took a deep breath, gazing up at the shifting canopy of leaves above me, the pockets of sunshine that slithered through the cracks. Could his mother see us there? I wondered. Could she see how his presence made my heart race and my blood warm and fizzle in my veins? I prayed that she did not, though I had little faith in the gods. But I had faith in him. Him.

My hand drifted down, between my legs, escaping my notice. I thought of long limbs and fluid lines, of slender fingers gripping my ankles and my wrists, of a triumphant grin, of drops of water that looked like stars. My hand moved ceaselessly to remove that ache, that thorn, to banish it, as it had done so many times before. “Last time,” I always told myself, “this is the last time. Tomorrow will be different.” Yet, each time, after it was done, I always found the thorn lodged a little deeper.

Chapter 3

Achilles liked watching me.

I hadn't thought much of it at first. To me, he was an extension of myself, the way we were always within breathing distance of each other. I told myself, it is to be expected. Sometimes, during those long, quiet summer afternoons, when boredom would get the better of me, I would bring my hand before my eyes, hold it up against the sun, study the muscles and the bones and the veins that shone through my skin like gossamer wings. That was how he looked at me, I told myself.

But it wasn't.

One day, we climbed up to the mountain to gather herbs for a poultice Chiron needed to make. Wild clover and mallow, nettle and chamomile blossoms. It was a bright day, and warm, and soon I grew weary of our trek. I sat underneath the cool shade of a tree, rested my head against its trunk and closed my eyes. When I opened them again, I saw Achilles watching me. Our gazes met, and he glanced away, bending down to pluck a chamomile flower. Right at that moment, a butterfly flew past me, its white wings fluttering before me. I followed the path of its trembling flight for a few breaths, absently noting that it chose to land on the yellow and not the pink blossom nearby, before pushing myself up. It was a simple observation, one that one’s mind makes automatically, without giving it much thought. That was how he looked at me, I told myself.

But it wasn't.

Spring was almost over. The white berry trees were heavy with fruit, and the cries of the wild cat cubs kept us awake at night. It wasn't quite summer though, yet, and the warm and humid heat of Homoloios had just subsided to the chill winds of Theilouthios, and the water flowing from the peaks of Mount Pelion was as cold as only fresh melted ice could be. Still, it had been months since I'd bathed in the stream near our cave, and I wasn't about to let the chill stop me. Achilles was of the same opinion.

"If we get too cold," he told me, "we can just lie under the sun beside the willow tree and we'll get warm again."

Every hair on my body stood on end when I dipped my toe in the water. Achilles, ever the bolder of the two, took a sharp breath and dove in headfirst. I stood by the water’s edge for a long while, watching as Achilles’s arms swept under the water in lazy arcs, creating ripples on its surface. He flipped on his back, the taut flesh of his stomach shimmering in the morning light. I took a hesitant step forward, and he lifted his head to look at me.

His eyes, rough emeralds wrought in gold, took in my form. They did so slowly, trailing from my eyes, to my neck, to my collarbone. They paused for a moment before resuming their downward journey, gliding past my chest, my stomach, my navel. And there, they stayed. And stayed. And stayed.

Time was caught in a strange, diaphanous bubble. I was instantly within and without it, watching as Achilles watched me, as his gaze focused and darkened. I shivered.

“The water’s too cold,” I said, although I barely heard myself say it. I stepped back, out of the water, and the bubble popped, and time started flowing again. Achilles’s eyes snapped to mine, and then I knew.

Achilles liked watching me, too.