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Madeline Miller

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“Achilles nodded and bent over the lyre. I did not have time to wonder about his intervention. His fingers touched the strings, and all my thought were displaced. The sound was pure and sweet as water, bright as lemons. It was like no music I had ever heard before. It had warmth as a fire does, a texture and weight like polished ivory. It buoyed and soothed at once. A few hairs slipped forward to hang over his eyes as he played. They were fine as lyre strings themselves, and shone. He stopped, pushed back his hair, and turned to me. "Now you." I shook my head, full to spilling. I could not play now. Not ever, if I could listen to him instead.”

“Achilles hears the faint hum of its passage a second before it strikes. He turns his head a little, as if to watch it come. He closes his eyes and feels its point push through his skin, parting thick muscle, worming its way past the interlacing fingers of his ribs. There, at last, is his heart. Blood spills between shoulder blades, dark and slick as oil. Achilles smiles as his face strikes the earth.”

“If he was nervous, even I could not tell. I watched as he greeted them, spoke ringing words that made them stand up straighter. They grinned, loving every inch of their miraculous prince: his gleaming hair, his deadly hands, his nimble feet. They leaned toward him, like flowers to the sun, drinking in his luster. It was as Odysseus had said: he had light enough to make heroes of them all.”

“»Wie lustig, « fuhr sie fort, »dass du selbst nach so langer Zeit immer noch erwartest, dass man dich belohnt, nur weil du gehorsam warst. Ich dachte, du hättest diese Lektion im Palast unseres Vaters gelernt. Niemand war so unterwürfig und ein-faltig wie du, und trotzdem trat der mächtige Helios dich umso rascher mit Füßen, denn du kauertest ja bereits da unten.«”