Achilles takes Nanaue's winged words for an invocation to the gods, which in the heart of deadly battle is altogether fitting. As when a fish glides through wine-dark waves, finding by instinct the best path — all its life it has known nothing but the water — so naturally does swift-footed Achilles swim through the heaving sea. The leviathan thrashes its tentacles, churning the water into a raging froth, but Achilles dives and rolls to avoid getting struck.

The son of Peleus — and of Thetis, silver-footed daughter of the sea — then launches himself at one of the beast's mighty arms, where it is thick as the trunk of a tree which has spread its branches over three generations of men. This he grips with arms and knees, that he might climb up the beast's body.

Still the leviathan rages, howling for the spear-point lodged deep in its eye, which it tries to pry out by snaking a tentacle around the shaft — screeching for the pitiless teeth sinking into its limbs. And Teddy's song carries over the water, fluttering like a sea bird, faint in Achilles' ears as he focuses on his fight.