![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Just Like Dying
In a desperate attempt not to read Greek this morning, I wrote . . .
. . . Achilles slept
in an inner alcove, and by his side
Lay a woman he had brought from Lesbos
With high, lovely cheekbones, Diomede her name,
Phorbas’ daughter. Patroclus lay down
In the opposite corner, and with him lay Iphis,
A silken girl Achilles had given him
When he took steep Scyrus, Enyeus' city.
(Iliad 9, Lombardo trans.)
Achilles was always quiet. If you were very, very close, you might hear his breath in your ear, rough and quick; but he never spoke, nor cried out, nor called on any of the immortal gods. From across the room, certainly, there was no sound.
Sound would have been a waste, anyway. After all these years, they breathed in the same time, Patroclus and Achilles; as he lowered his mouth to the girl’s white shoulder, Patroclus knew that Achilles, too, was bending his head. A girl squeaked. One of the men had bit hard—they were both angry, both tired of greedy kings and lying gifts.
Patroclus slid his hand along the girl's thigh and felt her muscles tighten. So many times he had known that same tightening, that same readiness. He slid inside her. A girl screamed, as a deer screams when the arrow pierces its throat.
He could hear Achilles moving now, the same rhythm, the same count, always. They were closer than if they lay against each other, Achilles' blood burning between his thighs; they were fighting together, shields matched, javelins ready.
Let us die together, Patroclus prayed. Cloud-shaking Zeus, you cannot separate us; and someone's breath caught, and night covered his eyes.
Read at your own peril.
. . . Achilles slept
in an inner alcove, and by his side
Lay a woman he had brought from Lesbos
With high, lovely cheekbones, Diomede her name,
Phorbas’ daughter. Patroclus lay down
In the opposite corner, and with him lay Iphis,
A silken girl Achilles had given him
When he took steep Scyrus, Enyeus' city.
(Iliad 9, Lombardo trans.)
Achilles was always quiet. If you were very, very close, you might hear his breath in your ear, rough and quick; but he never spoke, nor cried out, nor called on any of the immortal gods. From across the room, certainly, there was no sound.
Sound would have been a waste, anyway. After all these years, they breathed in the same time, Patroclus and Achilles; as he lowered his mouth to the girl’s white shoulder, Patroclus knew that Achilles, too, was bending his head. A girl squeaked. One of the men had bit hard—they were both angry, both tired of greedy kings and lying gifts.
Patroclus slid his hand along the girl's thigh and felt her muscles tighten. So many times he had known that same tightening, that same readiness. He slid inside her. A girl screamed, as a deer screams when the arrow pierces its throat.
He could hear Achilles moving now, the same rhythm, the same count, always. They were closer than if they lay against each other, Achilles' blood burning between his thighs; they were fighting together, shields matched, javelins ready.
Let us die together, Patroclus prayed. Cloud-shaking Zeus, you cannot separate us; and someone's breath caught, and night covered his eyes.
Read at your own peril.
Peril?
Re: Peril?
Glad you approve, though.
Re: Peril?
no subject
Congrats on admissions, by the way. I very nearly went to Wisconsin myself, except for a fear of Midwestern bleakness.
no subject