Daughter of War 11/07/2011
She was Achimna and she had a world of bitterness stored in her heart. She had watched her people driven into the hills. She had heard stories of the deaths of her father, uncle, grandfather, and countless others. She had watched her mother struggle to smile. She had felt the sting of hatred and the pain of neglect. And she had no one to hate. She could not hate the Greeks, though they had slaughtered the Trojans, because she was Greek. She could not hate the Trojans, though they had killed her father, because she was a Trojan. She could not hate Paris, though he had started the war, because he had raised her. She could not hate Achilles, though he killed her Uncle Hector, because he was her father. With no one to hate and an ocean of hatred inside of her, Achimna grew to become a cold, ruthless woman. At fifteen she lost her mother and any trace of love or compassion inside of her died. The small tribe of Trojans, all that was left of the great empire, whispered about her. They had never welcomed her. The bastard daughter of Achilles, slaughterer, destroyer of Troy, murderer of Hector, would never be welcome among them. But she was tolerated on Paris's orders. Perhaps he looked to appease a guilty conscience; after all, he had killed her father.
Still, his loyalty did not extend beyond protection. He gave her shelter, food, an education, but he could not bring himself to love her. There was too much of Achilles stamped upon her face. His straight, proud nose. His stubborn chin. And his eyes. His piercing blue eyes shone from the face of his daughter. There simply wasn't enough of Briseis for anyone to look upon her and see a Trojan. She had the high cheekbones and the thick, dark hair but it was ought when paired with so much of Achilles. Paris had loved his cousin and felt constant guilt over her orphaned daughter, but he saw his brother's murderer every time he looked upon Achimna's face. He could never find love for her.
They lived like mice – constantly scurrying from one hole to the next: always wary of predators. They were nomads. Hunting what they could, living off the land. They, who had once known naught but luxury, learned the taste of sweat and the smell of dirt. They grew strong and lean. Soft palms became callused, pale skin became bronzed, and they survived. Achimna grew ever more surly and frustrated with her lot. She was the daughter of Achilles and Briseis. She had the heart of a warrior and the pride of a princess. It wounded both to ever run and hide, to live in the dirt and scrape to get by. She had so much talent! She could have built herself a kingdom on wit and strength of arm - yet ever her uncle warned of the need for stealth. They could not reveal themselves to the Greeks. They had to remain invisible. And though she often thought of telling her uncle what a coward he was, of unleashing her years of frustration upon him and storming off with all the fury and grace of the gods, uncertainty ever held her back. This was the only life she had ever known. She had no notion of the outside world and, though it shamed her to admit, she was afraid.