Author's Note: This is written in second person; you are Antilochus. There are some references to Sylvia Plath's work.

You hold the giant, Antilochus, you hold him and feel the world tremble beneath you. The marble slabs fall away like dust in your hands and it pours.

You come to him in the image of Patroclus with the same words on your lips because you know. You have watched them and waited, waited.

"Please," you repeat, in the same way you've heard it through the thin tent flaps and sheets of golden hair when the world trembled.

Achilles nods, but only once.

You think it will be like the time they melted your limbs, the both of them, heroes. You think it will be like the time they seemingly hailed you as king.

It isn't, but perhaps this is because it is only Achilles the hero, now, unaccompanied, but with more bitterness for the loss.

You never lost that day, though, when you held the colossus in your arms and painted a smile on his face. Achilles expects that, now, expects you to be a hero in the eyes of men who have failed. (You paste the shards together with a weak glue that sears your skin.)

You wonder, what could break such a man as this? (Nothing less than a lightning-strike.)

Perhaps it is an answer, when he moans Patroclus's name instead of yours through the thick heat.

If nothing less than a lightning-strike caused it, what can fix it?

(The men are still gluing the pieces of the Colossus of Rhodes back together, and you mirror them.)

Now you are a lake, reflecting Patroclus's actions when Achilles once more goes into battle. You will follow, but not yet, so you dress him and prepare him and stay behind and wait --

When he returns, stricken dead by naught less than an arrow (such a simple thing), you know. Your prayers to give the golden king his Patroclus once more have been answered, in the form of Achilles dead.

You only wonder, now, who shall hold you up?