”Bring him back!” he wept, cradling the body of Patroclus, still warm but even that was steadily fading. Achilles kissed his eyelids, light, feathery kisses and stroked his face with his thumb. “You promised me… you swore it,” his voice was no longer as buoyant and carefree as when they were boys. It was grasped by grief and despair. “I’m going to be the first, remember,” Achilles choked as the tears fell, slow with every syllable rolling off his tongue as smooth as the notes of his lyre.