[When at first he looks up, the reverie brought upon by his dear companion lingers in his countenance as do morning mists before they are dispelled by dawn's rosy fingers. Then brilliant Achilles straightens up, although one hand holds steady upon the glass encasing the son of Menoetius.]

Yes, gone through the hated gates of death was Menoetius' gallant son... I myself bore him unto his pyre, that great funeral pyre that blazed like a beacon over the Hellespont - others bore his handsome body, sturdy fighters of the Myrmidons, but I bore his head, cradled him neath his curls. Off I sent my dear companion with jars of fine honey and wine, heads of cattle and goats, their rich blood and good white fat drenching the timbers. All of this I offered to the gods...and now it seems some god or another heard my pleas and breathed life back into his limbs!

[You wanted all these funerary details, right?]