The Myrmidon’s Heart

Sing, O Muse, of the bond unyielding, of the two who walked in bronze and blood, whose names were carried on the salt wind of Troy. One, swift-footed as the storm, terrible in wrath — Achilles, son of Thetis, breaker of men, whose spear shone like lightning against the walls of Ilios. The other, gentle in counsel, steady in hand — Patroclus, heart of the Myrmidons, whose touch calmed the fury of heroes, whose voice turned aside the madness of war. Not fate, not the will of gods, nor the ruin of kingdoms could sever the thread that bound them. In darkness they would know each other. In silence they would speak. In a thousand lives, a thousand bodies, still they would find one another. Sing, O Muse, of love that outlasts the clash of spears, of grief that bends even the proudest neck, of hearts twined tighter than death — sing of The Myrmidon’s Heart.