Briseis
He smells like dust.
And sweat.
And blood.
His arms are as strong as the steel he holds; yet he is gentle when he holds me. In battle he is a god of rage and complexity; yet he is simple when he is sleeping. There is hardness and no mercy in his eyes; yet he has kindness when he looks at me.
I do not understand this man
I do not understand this god.
This child of a deity.
It has been hours since he has left. A meeting was called and I stay alone at the ship. For hours I have listened in the dark as the waves beat against the wood. The foam sticks to the planks; it pops, and sighs and flees; the sound has become familiar to me. The ship creeks, but I do not mind; it has become my lullaby. It reminds me of the nights when he is quiet, his breath is even. I alone am awake in the dark, the creaking the only witness as I gaze on him. It is the sound of my heart, the aching; my heart sways back and forth like this ship, the waves beckon, but I am tied to the mast – I cannot escape. He has captivated me; my heart is anchored deep in his dust. And so my heart creeks, for I am his, but is not mine.
He belongs to the dust.
He belongs to the sweat.
He belongs to the blood.
The first time I was afraid. His smell consumed me; I smelled the dust, the foreign chalky flecks filled my lungs and stuck to my tears. I smelled the sweat, the hearty musk that represented his pillage in my home. I smelled the blood, the death – my own families' demise. It was not the sent of home; it was the sent of sorrow; it was the sent of change. Then I was his, though he had not my heart. I am not sure he knew my name. Though now he calls it softly in the dark. His smell calls me too; it is ubiquitous.
But now, now I am accustomed to the fragrance. Now this is the smell of home – I cannot remember the smell of my original home. Each day he comes home from the dust, from the sweat, from the blood. And each day I wash the substance away, the sticky red, the chalky sand, and the glistening perspiration. But the smell lingers. It is seeped into his skin. It is seeped into his soul.
Sometimes, he cries. He calls my name, and I hold him softly. Sometimes he rages, he calls my name, and I hide in the shadows. Sometimes he laughs, he calls my name, and I kiss his lips. But no matter the emotion, the smell is the same. Dust, sweat, and blood. I like when he cries best, it makes me feel that, perhaps, he could be mine.
He comes now, and he is crying. He will not say. He calls my name and I sit on his lap as he holds me. I wrap my arms around him and he clings tighter. As he holds me closer, the sent rises, the dust, the sweat, the blood. I am comforted by the smell, though his tears haunt me- even if they mean he could be mine.
I wash him once more, the water pink and yellow from the dusty blood, his brow clear from the sweat. The smell remains.
It is not until later that I realize the cause of his tears. They came and he beckoned them in – no fight was made. He did not stir the dust, he did not sweat, he did not draw blood. They came, I left for another man's bed.
I gaze back at him to see his tears. But I am not comforted. He is not crying for me, not because I am his. He is crying because his prize was taken away. He calls my name, he knows my name, and yet, he does not know me. I am his, but only his prize. A man such as that, a man that smells of dust, sweat, and blood, cannot love. I am his, but he is not mine. I am his, but only as a possession; but at least a prize he treasures.
And yet, in this new place, my heart still aches for him – I can hear it creaking.
This new place is strange. It does not smell of the one I love. It is clean; there is not dust. This new man does not labor; there is no sweat. This man does not fight; there is no blood. He is clean and groomed and too soft. There is no hardness in him but his eyes, which stare at me hungrily. The air is filled with the smell of spices. I can taste the sweetness in the smell – it makes me sick. No chalkiness, not salt, no work. This is the man who feeds of the dust, the sweat, and the blood of others.
This man does not call my name – this man does not know my name. To him, I am also a prize. A prize he does not treasure, but one that he will toss away. After he does not hold me, and I do not hold him. I am left alone in the dark.
I smell my hands, there the fragrance of home lingers.
The smell of dust.
The smell of sweat.
The smell of blood.
The smell of him who holds my heart.