[ There it is. An excuse. Roy's hands almost shake from it, and he grabs the blankets with them, almost tearing the cloth apart as he squeezes his eyes shut.

He wants to refuse. Wants to agree. Wants to do both and neither at the same time. He doesn't know what he wants anymore, and he's resentful about that. Because it's so damned easy if he just wants to die.

Then things are simple. Then there's something that he can reach for. But now life threatens to spread out in front of him, full of its complications and uncertainties and twists.

He wants to hate her for bringing it back. Like a blind man suddenly seeing light for the first time, he's blinded and in pain and he cannot breathe.

Roy tries to not sob. ]

It's in the tablet. The story of the Iliad. [ That's not what he wants to say at all. (And it's a good thing she can't see him, isn't near him, because he doesn't want her to hear.) ]

You can read it for yourself if you want to know so badly. [ A pause, and, wistfully, helplessly: ]

There are so many stories in the world.