[Oliver's disquiet reverberates through the silence, so that even Achilles, who for long days has not seen beyond his own darkness, can sense his concern.]

I have reason to live yet. How can I be laid to rest while still my heart is so restless? I know nothing of my dear friend's final minutes; I was left with only the marks of his mutilation, which in their silence spoke little. Moreover, while Menoetius' son lies dead, the madman who has cast this plague of madness over the city, stirring in men hunger for his fellow's flesh, lives still. My heart howls for justice, and my blade thirsts for his blood.