I.
He stays. His mother's eyes speak more than her words, and he sees his doom clear as glass. Phthia is home even though his mother never called it thus, and he feels sorry that she who has lost so much, should also lose her son, so he stays. And his pride, for he has it in plenty, cannot stand the idea of going to war again under the banner of Agamemnon. So he finds a bride, sweet and supple and they have many children. It's a simple life but filled with running feet and laughter and daily business. But when he has finished sparring with the boys, with the light wooden sword resting in his calloused hand he cannot help but look across the ocean, blue eyes just a bit restless, wondering if he was truly meant for other shores than this? And though he was once in his youth granted a choice, in honor of Thetis, he cannot undo this decision. What the gods mete out to mortal men cannot be changed. Then his daughters run up and demand that they shall find shells together and he cannot but smile and follow them, restlessness temporarily subdued.
It's a long life, and filled with happiness, but as he lies on his death bed, towards the end, once strong limbs withered, he cannot help but think that perhaps there was another path that he ought to have taken.
Without the Myrmidons, the assault on the the Trojan shore takes longer, giving a chance for alarm to be raised at the temple. Hector arrives on a snorting steed, leading the servants of Apollo into safety behind Troy's walls. Briseis sits in front of her cousin, his arm a steady support when they ride past the distant battles and she tries not to think of the dying, and the sea foam which has turned red.
The siege lasts ten years. But this is was Troy was built for and under Hectors watchful gaze, she and it's children prevail against the rage of the Achaeans. Briseis marvels at the arrogance of Agamemnon, how he has the energy to send wave after wave only to repelled every single time. From a safe distance of course. Over the years her only glimpse of him is a distant bearded figure on a chariot gesticulating and she is glad she never had to encounter this beastly king.
After these ten years, when Astyanax stands as high as her shoulder the Greeks finally capitulate. A plague spread through their ranks and disgruntled kings eager to return home, break the alliance that Agamemnon has forged. The comparative worth of returning an errant wife and to sate one mans pride no longer compels them and the ships leave one by one, leaving Paris and Helen free in their love and Troy radiant in her victory.
The years that follow are prosperous, children are born and the olive gardens are once more tended and then as beloved Priam crosses the eternal river in peace, Hector rules with a steady hand and Briseis wears her virginal garb, never yielding her devotion to Apollo's immortal shrines. She burns the incense and becomes high priestess, revered by Andromache and Hector's children and then their children's children long afterwards. And though their respect and affection is gratifying she sometimes wonders that this devotion, this fiery passion of her youth was perhaps sown in barren land. She is happy but she cannot help but think there ought have been more.
II.
All he can feel when the arrow lances his left eye is surprise. Surprise that he, the greatest warrior alive, renowned Achilles, assured of his own might should be felled by such a small arrow. How could he not have seen it? He who had dodged thousands before! As swift-footed Achilles topples over in the sand the last thought flitting to his mind is indignant If one is indeed fated to die, why not at least by the sword? As a man! The wound seeps red into the golden sand, and he never learns peace.
Briseis sees the descent of the bronze blade coming towards her. It is as if her existence has been has slowed down, condensed in the sweep of that sword hand. She sees the stubble on the warriors face, and the battle madness clouding his eyes. The eyes are those of an animal. In the crazed rage and grief from the loss of a beloved lord, the Myrmidons show no mercy in their show of vengeance. Apollo save me! She instinctively raises her left hand in front of her but the sword slices through her index finger as if flesh and bone was made from butter and continues on in its smooth devastation, breaking her skull. She falls to the floor, brown locks mingling with sticky fluids in the dark gloom of the temple.
The Greeks win that day, but it's only the start of a protracted siege. In later years, when Trojans sing of the war, several stanzas describe the how Apollo intervened, aiding the arrow which brought on the fall of Achilles and then elaborate descriptions of the glorious outcome of war. Priam nods and lauds the righteousness of the gods and their mercy. And though Hector sometimes ponders over the impossibility, the sheer luck of that pivotal shot from a common foot soldier he remembers the shattered bodies of the priests and sweet, young Briseis. The others, Andromache and Paris wept and Priam lamented that she had been plucked before her years. However Hector seethes with a silent fury at the murder of his cousin. It renders him unable to believe that the gods mediate the deeds of mortals out of any sense of justice.
III.
"It's an ill thing to be at odds with one's family."
"Patroclus is being a child, and a silly one!"
"He's young, but you should be kinder to him. He is so devoted to you. They all are, your men. They would do anything for you and showing some gentleness would not hurt."
"And you?"
"What?"
"Are you devoted to me?"
She remains silent. He runs a hand over her arm, tracing it up to her shoulder, thumb stroking her soft neck. She quivers under his touch but answers steadily.
"Yes."
He smiles.
"More than to Apollo?"
She swats his hand away, regal despite her affronted huff. He laughs, a deep humming in his chest. His hands find a way around her waist, pulling her towards him.
"It's not every day one finds oneself ousting a god in a priestess' affections. I am very flattered."
She does not deign to reply but as he brushes his lips on her cheek she pulls herself into his embrace.
"I would like to think that any devotion to me, would be returned tenfold."
She slips her arms around his neck, turning her gaze upon him and suddenly he is all atremble with this hunger, this burning for her which he cannot express through speech. His voice is rough "You're mine." but his hands trace softly over her back and she smiles.
"Will you be kind?"
"Always."
"Then I'm yours."
Later, placated and guided into a sweeter mood, he goes out in a search for his young cousin. After some earnest discussion, feathers are unruffled and hearty slaps are exchanged. There is no final charge that following dawn. Instead a ships crosses the Aegean, carrying away a woman who has exchanged the devotion to a god for the gentleness of a man.
IV.
Troy falls. And she with it. War is no place for women of peace. The sacking of a city brings out the worst kind of brutality in men. He avenges her by killing the soldiers avenging their king, but it is too late. Her face is already going pale, freckles stark despite life seeping away. And he is not even allowed to weep before an arrow pierces his ankle.
V.
"I will die."
"All mortals do."
"I mean, I will die here. In Troy. Whether it be on her shores or streets or perhaps below her walls with my brains shattered all over the place" she grimaces at his descriptions but he simply smirks and adjusts his embrace around her. "Either way, I will die here. It is my fate. Or as my mother foresaw it."
"Do you believe her?"
"She believes it. And she is wise. She has never been wrong before."
She remains silent.
He peeks down, trying to find her eyes, hidden in the shadow of his shoulder. He prods her further "I cannot be sorry."
"But you'll die."
"But the same fate brought me to you. Therefore I cannot grieve that this should be the outcome."
"Unfortunately I cannot take on an equally pragmatic stance!"
He grins "No, you're a priestess, what use of pragmatism would you have?"
She rolls away from him, the jest did not strike right and she becomes a soft form outlined in the dark. He sighs and she feels him leaning over and moving some tresses aside to expose her ear. A sudden, heavy, warm weight on her upper arm, he is resting his head and watching the flicker of her eyelashes. Shadow upon shadow. Her cheek is downy smooth and almost silvery in the night.
"To place your love with a warrior is a poor choice…" He is almost hesitant in breaking the silence. "I would not have you grieve me, to be widowed in your youth. "
She finally turns her head, neck creasing into one beautiful line.
"It is a bit late for that now, isn't it?"
"Then I am sorry."
She traces his face in the dark, following the ridge of his brow "No don't be. For this I can never repent."
He suddenly feels a thickness in his throat which he has not felt ever since he was a child, but he remains quiet. She turns over, nestling once more along his body and continues "If it is your fate, then so be it. But know this, for you I no longer wear the virginal garb of Apollo and when Ἄτροπος choses to take you, for you I shall wear the widow's veil."
Her eyes glitter and he can only hold her tightly, shielding them from the night air.
