Briseis did not know why she stopped. It was as if suddenly her heart gave up. She let the others pass her by, and they barely glanced. They understood the tears in her eyes-for all that had changed and all that had been lost. They did not know what it was that she had lost, more than any of them, except Andromache, of course. But Andromache had a child at least. She had Hectors child, a real living piece of her one true love. All Briseis had was a memory.
She looked at the others ahead of her, at beautiful Helen staring into the soft brown eyes of her cousin. Paris. It wasn't his fault, he did not know. She would not hate him. She couldn't, at least not forever. It seemed most who came across Paris felt that way. He deserved to be hated by many at this point, and had deserved to be hated by Hector, but he was too loved. Hating Paris was useless. He was young and silly, as she had been when she first stared into the bright eyes of Achilles.
She saw her future before her. She would move on from Achilles in time, but she would never forget. She may find love again, but it would never be as strong. She would never be as alive as she was when he was with her. A part of her died with him in the moment that arrow struck his heel, and as long as he was not with her, that part of her would forever be lost. She did not want that future.
So she looked behind, where she had left him. Troy. It had fallen, yes, but she could still feel it in the wind and see it through the smoke, just like him. Achilles-of sun-darkened skin and light blonde hair and eyes as gentle as water but as powerful as the gods. Her love, who felt so near.
The people would not mourn him, only the ones who knew who he really was. But the world would. Without his light and his fire, Briseis feared, everything including herself would fall into a deep sleep of despair and emptiness and an infinite stillness.
But the world did not look as still as it should have. There was a rustle in the trees and a howl in the breeze. There was still life, too much of it, even in herself. Briseis stared at her open hands. They did not feel empty. They did not feel weak. They felt strong. They felt strong enough to grasp the last dwindling strands of hope. She clenched her fists and held on tight. She didn't know where or how, but she knew.
Achilles was alive.
And she would find him.