Lovers' Cry Lost

This story is co-written, by me and Amura Natia. It briefly (six chapters or so) summarizes key points in Troy and then what happens afterwards. Please keep reading, I promise you'll like it! There are two parts to the Prologue, one by Adromache, one by Briseis.
"In the year 1193 B.C., Paris, a prince of Troy, stole Helen, Queen of Sparta, away from her husband, Menelaus, setting the kingdoms of Mycenaean Greece at war with Troy. The Greeks began a bloody siege at Troy that lasted over ten years. Achilles was the greatest hero among the Greeks, while Hector, the eldest son of Priam, King of Troy, embodied the hopes of the people of his city."
War.
What does that word mean to you? Blood and Gore? Glory? Duty? Honor? Death? I know what it means to me, the loss of the most precious thing in my life.
War.
How I despise Ares. His creation took from me the most precious part of all that I am. He took the other half of me, the other half of my soul, he halved my heart. War is naught but loss. A deep wound, one that will not heal, despite the calming balms that soothe it; it flames as an infected limb, spreading disease and death.
Love.
What does that word mean to you? A flitting passion? One night of joy? Lust? Envy? War? A family? Sweet, soft kisses? Warm embraces? I know what it means to me, my husband, my heart, my child.
Love.
Ah, the blessing; Oh, the curse. Love; it is a pain that pierces me. A scar that will not heal. My husband, my only love. Hector.
Oh, how I long for him. How I miss him. How I breathe his name everynight as I turn to the empty half of the bed beside me, feeling fresh tears spring to my eyes as I realize he is gone. I feel him, feel his heartbeat, hear his breathing, and watch his face as I did for hours, lying in his arms, content. Watch the rising and falling of his chest. Stroke the soft curls of his dark hair. Whisper to him as he sleeps. But he is gone. I know he is there, but I will never again touch him. He is gone, a ghost of my other half. My grief consumes me. The most tragic of all feelings is when the thing you want most is there, but you know you can never have it.
I will never love another. Never. No man could ever take his place. My heart is torn and bloodied beyond repair. It died as Achilles' sword pierced Hector's armor.
My son, my dear child, reminds me more and more of his father everyday, he is the anchor that keeps me in this world, my stronghold. I cling to him as a drowning man grasps a straw in the heaving waves of loss and chaos. He alone is the reason that I am brought from the suicidal brink of my insanity and loss.
He is only an infant; yet the burning present in his eyes is that of his father as he beholds a weapon. A careful and knowing glance. One of a hunter.
Hector once told me a sword will save or take lives as easily as we breathe. May the gods grant a sword will never take my son's life. As it did his father's.
Troy. There was never a more mournful story.
My home. Or, at least it was my home. It is gone, now. Burned to the ground, razed and plundered. But a part of my heart still lives where the ashes and crumbling ruins now stand. A part of me, a ghost of my mind, walks the halls as I used to as a young woman, meeting Hector, and falling in love.
Troy is nothing more than a story now, a myth. But it was a true story. Not the version told by a poet, one who was gifted with words, but the version told by one such as me, a brutal realist.
I am Andromache, Princess of Troy, wife of Hector, eldest Prince of Troy. This is my story, the story I will tell with my dear cousin.
Troy.
It is our story, for it was our hearts that broke, our tears that were shed, our blood that was spilt, our children that cried, and our loves that fell and bled.
Troy. There was never a sadder tale, never a darker grief.
I do not understand myself, for in my darkest hour, my grief is hopeful. I may see Hector again. If not in this world, in the next.
But I now weep dry tears onto a pillow that has felt countless nights of sobbing; as I look beside me, knowing Hector is there, yet unable to touch him.

Achilles… His name makes my body shiver. I can still feel the powerful way his body rode against mine. I can picture the way he moves his hand hungrily down my back, pinning his body to mine. Passion consumes us every time we are together. The blood rushes through my body so fast that I might pass out. When He kisses me, I begin to drown in erotic sensations. I love him.

My mother died of a broken heart. I was always terrified to fall in love. I did not want to end up like my mother. Every night I would listen to her weep for my father. Scared, and alone, I prayed I would never fall in love. I have spent my whole life running from love.

But there was one person who always had faith in me. Her name is Andromache. She is the wife of my dear cousin Hector. Andromache would hold me at times and say that there will be someone. She said that I can not run from love my whole life for it is a wonderful thing. She was not only a cousin, but a sister and a best friend.

Now….......Hector is gone. I am the one who holds Andromache at nights when there is no hope. I am the one who wipes away all the tears and sorrow. Sometimes we cry together, both with nothing left…......no strength….........no joy…........no love.

This war has torn us all apart. I have not slept in days because of my nightmares. All I do is pray….........Pray for peace, a peace that will never come.

But that's what life it, isn't it? It is an eternal war within out souls….....Every day we battle with ourselves and it is the driving will within us to fight. But not all of us….....Once in a while, when I weep for no reason, I hold Andromache's child. So innocent….............so pure. He sooths my soul and gives me hope.

I look to the sky and I see the moon. It gives off glorious light. I close my eyes and picture a world of peace….....A world where I can live with Achilles…........A world of love.