a c h i l l e s

He is brighter up close. More than you could ever imagine. He is half-god, half-dream. When the war comes–and the war will come–his eyes will turn to ichor. His skin will harden, harshen. The tragedy is that he will love you still. He will return, blink away the grandeur of godhood, come to you human and bare and seeking. He will be his brightest when you see his smile.

He will be the sharpest when he shapes a different smile of his spear.

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