Work Text:
I have seen light in its many forms, cast onto different things and various features on Earth. When my mother played the lyre on the shore, she was beautiful when illuminated by the sun and water. Thetis, alluring and powerful when the moon shone on her.
But it’s different with Achilles. None of it can compare to when Achilles smiles, when his face lifts up and elicits a laugh, or when he acts with tumultuous pride.
Light was Achilles’s hair when the sun reflected on his blond locks and wreath-crown. Light was Achilles himself, light to me even in battle.