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“He stares into the flames that devour his beloved, hoping that they will curl into a spinning fireball from which she will speak. Or even that her voice will whistle from what is left of Patroclus' lips. Nothing. She has never failed him before. Has she turned from him forever for his disobedience and sacrilege? Is he eternally alone? Terror swiftly transmutes into fury, and he rises from his crouch, hands curled, ready to throttle the old man whose son has been the cause of his lover's death and now his mother's abandonment. He takes a step forward. Priam does not move, stooped under his impossible, invisible burden. Achilles does not advance further. His hands slowly relax. Though there are no words in his head, in an inarticulable moment he sees the old man's grief as one with his own.” — Terence Hawkins