Work Text:
Dreadful, you withdraw from dream-misted fog;
torn is your flesh, infirm on faméd feet not so fleet.
With hand steady still, you turn the iron brand earthwards
in spite of my intent to plunge it clean in bride's life-blood.
That accursed flow contained in her gashless living corpse
should shame me – who breathes yet – while you must go without.
Would you grant her leave to return home, our Trojan women in chains trailing after?
I'd rather wash this temple royally red – never mind Minerva!
But for the burdens you thrust upon my avenging arms
and swathe with sacred bands on battle-weary brow…
Truly, Ilium has become a realm tumbled-down.