[Upon the breaking of this news, the weight of which fractures the ordinariness of their languid morning routine, he awakens by degrees all the more rapidly. His eyes remain open, rather than fluttering shut to allow him to drift back into the dregs of sleep, and he peers at her where she curls against his chest. His golden curls too are a tousled mess, unbound and spilling over his shoulders and the pillow. The bristles of his beard defy the grain to lie every which way where his cheek had been pressed against the pillow during his slumber.]

What mean you by this - another gift like that of your healing hands? What manner of gift is this that leaves you so tired of heart, dear Olivia?

[Where there might have been awe, for he knows the pride she takes in her healing arts, he hears only her hesitation, and he aches to know why. Among his people, a rare few are gifted with sight by Apollo, and such seers are revered for having so profound a connection to the gods. Yet in the years he has passed upon the Dardanian shore, he has heard rumor of Cassandra, daughter of Priam, who was granted the gift of Apollo yet cursed in the same breath. He has heard of how she is mad, how no sane man should take heed of the prophecies which bubble from her lips. Achilles wonders if Olivia's gift too must come with the burden of a curse.]