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The arrow rips through his back like fire, sliding through muscle like butter, his bones fragmenting and yielding- yielding so that the arrow might rip through vulnerable organs and soft lung.
Achilles does not curse his bones, nor his limbs for failing to deliver him from danger; he merely turns his head to the side so that he might gaze up at the sky, calmly blue above a world of red. He doesn’t want his last sight to be one of death and destruction.
All is well in the afterlife. (It's a feel good, well overdue afterlife reunion)
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