/lit/ - Literature

Neither widow nor son placed on his tongue the coin he paid to Charon. Forever veiled to us are the eyes with which he crossed the Styx and nine times saw reflected in the infernal waters the face we do not now. The shade now wandering the banks of those underworld rivers has no name among us; his name, too, is a shade. He died for his Country, not knowing how or why. His sacrifice had the glory of going unrecognised, he gave his life with his whole soul: out of instinct, not duty; out of love for his country, not as a conscious act. He defended it as we might defend a mother, whose children we are by birth rather than logic. Faithful to the primeval secret, he did not think or want, he died his death as instinctively as he had lived his life. The shade he now wears make him brother to those who fell at Thermopylae, faithful in flesh to the oath to which they were born.

She's perfect and just barely out of reach.