The games were over now. The gathered armies scattered, each man to his fast ship, and fighters turned their minds to thoughts of food and the sweet warm grip of sleep.
But Achilles kept on grieving for his friend, the memory burning on . . . and all-subduing sleep could not take him, not now, he turned and twisted, side to side, he longed for Patroclus' manhood, his gallant heart.
What rough campaigns they'd fought to an end together, what hardships they had suffered, cleaving their way through wars of men and pounding waves at sea.
The memories flooded over him, live tears flowing, and now he'd lie on his side, now flat on his back, now facedown again. At last he'd leap to his feet, wander in anguish, aimless along the surf,
until dawn appeared with her rosy finger flaming over the sea and shore
would find him pacing.
from Homer’s Iliad Book XXIV
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