Discalimer: Actually, the film-makers don't own Troy and its characters but let's just pretend. I certainly don't. More's the pity.
People are already dying as I land lithely on the ground, springing from the dark underbelly of the great death trap they though to be a gift. I spare it a glance; ironic, really. But you cannot purge a people of arrogance. A wall that has held for centuries has crumbled under the delusion and self-praise of its own people, betrayed by the sons of Troy who fought so long and hard to protect it. Amusing. A poor way to die.
I move off through the streets. Fires leap up as the soldiers crawl like a plague of glittering ants, bringing destruction in their silent wake. Troy sleeps, oblivious. I care little. The outcome of the war is not why I am here. Immortality is the faint idea I was chasing, the scent of that which drew me here like a dog slavishly running to the smell of the kill. It is that scent, that pulse, that awareness that throngs through my body now, coursing along my being. But not what I am looking for. There is one Trojan who will not be dying tonight.
They stand no chance. The Greeks move among them; a swarm. They wake to die, without breath to scream. It whistles from the yawning throats, spilling lifeblood onto the stones of Troy. Men die, houses burn. The sky is black with smoke, red with the promise of death. People are screaming now. Doesn't matter. Men die at my feet – they don't matter. Without the strength to hold onto life, they are worthless. Their fault if they were not born with the gift of killing. This is your fault, Priam. You have yourself to blame, brave old fool that you are, or that you were. You believed us beaten, believed yourself the victorious youth of too many years ago. True, you had no knowledge of Odysseus' cunning… yet I thought you had grown familiar at least with the petty greed of the man who opposes you. The dog who calls himself a king. Agamemnon wouldn't flee from you like a whipped mongrel. Too afraid to lose face. He would rather have you laugh at his men who fought you covered in the marks of the plague; at least his resolve could not be faulted. There was no plague – and you have grown too old under your crown to sense the deceit. So blame rests on your head. Not your niece's.
Plain featured, mild mannered Briseis – nothing about her to strike a man down. But I grew to know her, and she grew so damnably attractive the more I saw into her, and the world grew strangely sweeter the more I saw through her eyes. As I pace the streets, I think of her, I miss her, I resolve to find her. I ask the Gods – the Gods! – to let me know she lives and will live before they take me. For I am to die – and let it be tonight, in hot blooded battle, not shamefully perishing on the return voyage. Let me die Achilles, the man crafted for death, and let them remember me. Let Briseis remember me.
Two guards, Trojans, are in the way. One dies before he can look around. The second stumbles clumsily over his body, falls against him, my blade at his throat. He has time – and he shouldn't have – to gasp, "Please…" Amusing. "I have a son!"
And I let him go. "Then get him out of Troy." It saves me no time – an act of mercy. Your influence, Briseis? It makes me smile as I pass through the streets, the screams, the sobbing flames where women and children burn within. I was made for the sword, and would lay it down for a girl. So perhaps I am a dumb brute. Satirical amusement twists my gut, painful. Painful because I know it to be the truth, know I cannot have the night, cannot have the release I crave, cannot have her.
Her – there. On the grass, before the altar. I see her.
She is not alone. I run, swift footed, silent. My sword meets them like a strike from the Gods. The Greeks die in scant strokes of the blade, dropping around me. Fools of men; if they recognised me, I doubt they would even bother to raise their swords, lacking the strength of mind to believe they have a chance in Hades of resisting my strength. But they do not have the seconds of time left in this world to recognise me. Why should I allow them that? I need no satisfaction from their realisation, when now I stand alone but for the woman I have sought. And she recognises me sure enough.
There is a body slumped by the altar. Blood seeps wetly over the steps. Agamemnon makes a poor offering. Yet, more importantly, Briseis killed him. The realisation brings mirth to my smile as I take her in my arms. The hind was sightless in his vanity. The arrogance… very fitting. You underestimated them all, poor king, because you overestimated yourself. Fool.
I ease her down onto the grass. I lay down my sword, happy never to touch the coarse metal again, happy never to feel the iron taste of blood in my mouth as it drifts to me on the air, happy never to let another blow fall… if this moment could last. If I could hold my hands here cupping her chin forever, if I could say softly these words of comfort over and over, if her hair would brush against my sun-bronzed skin and her body lean against me, arms clasp around me, my presence lending strength to her for the rest of eternity.
The sky is close. The noise of Troy, the pain of Troy, all become lost in the air. Alone in the gardens of the burning Troy… there is something poetic about it; something I, Achilles, have come to appreciate. I no longer find that odd. Years of killing men, toppling giants, turning the tide of a battle and I did not know the extent of my strength. Here, I find it. Holding the fragile Briseis, the small sobs of breath growing calmer against my prickling skin, raising the hairs on my arms, I feel more powerful than any warlord, more victorious than any man who holds an expressionless sword in his callused hand. Gods, you never knew this. In Olympus you envy me, envy me the touch of her hand, the pleasant weight of her against me, entwined like your silvery, ethereal forms can never be. Sit in your high places, cold amidst the heavy clouds that promise nothing but tears. Look on me if you will. I am Achilles, and they say you favoured me. Yet, you who brought me into the world to kill, I defy you now. Look on this woman; you are spectres of your people's aspirations – she is living, breathing, warm. You cannot equal this… I am more than you can be, and you cannot take this from me now.
I knew only war. Precious creature, who brought me peace.
Pain. And bare moments later, I realise the noise of Briseis' scream. My hands grip her in an instinctive reaction, but she tears herself away, sobbing pleas to that figure… that silhouette, the archer… her cousin.
The bitter taste in my mouth; metallic irony. The second arrow strikes me in the chest; I reel.
Briseis screaming… Achilles – immortality – the Gods – killer – lover… these names, ideals… what are they, and what can they do? A name? Remember Achilles?
A third arrow… blood fills my mouth.
Remember Achilles the fighter, who brought death to his foes, who fought for no flag, who turned the tides of battles by the edge of his sword, the steel of his mettle. Remember the love of Queen Helen and of Paris, who stands before me now, that slight boy who runs sightless in the steps the Gods direct him to… and so, lives.
And this man I was close to discovering – the man she almost unearthed – is the man who defied the Gods, who grew too arrogant to battle men alone, and turned his will on that of those they worship. Fools. Who will sing tales of him? Suddenly, he is the one that matters. Immortality laughs in my face. And the half light falls over Briseis softly as she weeps; her image flickering in my sad, creased eyes. Briseis… bless her for shedding these tears.
Drained of blood, hollow in my convictions, it seems ironic in its lucidity. Amusing. Ah, the arrogance. You cannot purge a man of that. A man who asks for immortality and sneers at the Gods who grant it to him; a man who defies his destiny. A poor way to die? No…
She falls over me, the soft words falling from softer lips; I touch them a last time to silence her pain. And the touch erases mine. I knew I was to die… I had not known of this bittersweet twist; I had not known fate to be so viciously humorous. This last embrace is what will warm my soul in Hades, what will keep me smiling until I sail over the river of forgetfulness and become a husk… losing my illusions, my memories, myself, in all that it was. Whatever it was.
But go, now Briseis… go, lest the Gods grow irate that we linger here to spite them, or I reach up to hold you and cannot let go, and even in death my arms freeze about your gentle form… Go. Leave me to my bitter smiles. You need not worry for the strong Achilles… he has no fear of dying alone. He met the fate that was intended for him… for the Gods always knew of his vanity… But flee now… for I cannot look at you this long even with the haze over my eyes and hold from touching that soft skin, craving its warmth to soothe me… Live, love another man and find the peace you brought to me… But above all just get out of here. Leave me…
And she leans over; won't obey even so. She kisses my drawn face. My eyes close in that moment. The pain of the wounds diminishes in the face of this sweet torment. She withdraws, looks upon me with eyes spilling fragile tears.
Not the Achilles of old… Not the lion, the man who treated himself like a God.
"Go…"
Damn you, Briseis – you bring me my fate… my death… my humanity. And I love you for it – the downy brush of your hair, the desperate clutch of your hands over my chest, the curve of that angel face, fading…
She goes... melts from sight under the arm of her cousin, looking behind.
I let myself fall.