Sympathy shapes his countenance. Often has Achilles been on the other end of the spear, capturing horse-breaking Trojans for ransom, haling men away from freedom and family — and on the other end of the worry that love plants deep in one's breast, awaited by a father whom he shall never again see, draped in the prayers of a deathless mother who wished that she had never been forced to share a mortal king's bed and thus been doomed to bear a son who must die. He understands all too well the burden of loving one bound to win glory in war.

"How it gladdens my heart to hear that tales of my deeds shall live long after I have passed through death's hated gates. If there is any comfort to be found in what remains of my life's lease, then it must be this," says the son of Peleus, clasping Claire's hand in a sign of respect.

"Just as my Neoptolemus may know me through the stories I leave behind, wrought by dint of my spear, so too may your daughter know your husband."