Disclaimer: Still own nothing. Nope, nothing. Don't sue me.
Thanks to all my reviewers... To those who wanted to know why Petra knows swordplay, it shall be explained soon, I promise... I just haven't found a way to introduce it yet, I'm trying to drop subtle hints until the final explanation comes out and you all go "Oooh, that explains it!" :-)
"The girl?" Agamemnon found his voice. "You want her?"
"Yes, King." Achilles rose from his position crouched next to the girl and arched an eyebrow at him. "Her, for those chalices you so desire."
In any other circumstance, Agamemnon would see the veiled insult about his greed and start an argument with Achilles. But the comment rang true; Agamemnon wanted anything that glittered, and would eventually give in to his insatiability. After staring at the golden goblets for a while, his answer came.
"Fine, yes! Take her!" Agamemnon waved Achilles away impatiently. He started to reach for the cups.
"Brother!" Menelaus objected loudly, jarring Agamemnon's temporary victory and gold-lust. "You promised her to me, remember? I want her!" he whined. His manner reminded one of a toddler throwing a tantrum after his toy had been given away.
Achilles saw the girl flinch and try to squirm away at that. His jaw tightened. What had those two buffoons done to the fierce fighter he had encountered in the temple?
But he pushed it back. To earn her freedom, he needed to keep this encounter as impersonal as possible. Otherwise he would never get her.
He tilted his head to the side and watched Agamemnon with one brow arched, his arms crossed over his chest, and a slight smirk forming onto his face. Every outer sign showed that this mattered little to him, except on the concubine and status level. He silently thanked the gods that he had never let anyone know his intentions to keep celibate during his stay.
"Brother," Agamemnon had pulled Menelaus to the side and now spoke to him coaxingly, "Achilles will eventually take her, if he wants her enough. You know that he cannot be controlled. Besides, those chalices…" Both men looked over at the sack of glittering treasures.
Menelaus frowned, still unconvinced. His gluttony was less than his brother's; he wanted to punish the woman for being female.
"I shall find you another!" Agamemnon pleaded desperately. "She is not nearly as beautiful as half the females we have found before! I'll let you have the first pick at our next raid."
Hesitating, Menelaus gnawed on his lip thoughtfully. "Is that a promise?"
"On my honor, Brother." Agamemnon gave him an urgent look.
That satisfied the king of Sparta. "Fine, he can have the damn girl," he relented with a growl. He glanced back at the girl once more with a glare.
She only looked away at the wall.
Accepting this gracious approval, Achilles leaned down as he slid his knife out from his belt. The girl's eyes widened and she tried desperately to move as far away from him as possible.
"Shh," he said, softly so the others would not hear, and gave her an encouraging smile. "I will not harm you."
He cut the binds at the girl's wrists before she could blink as to avoid causing further panic. She gradually brought them to her front and gingerly touched them, wincing in pain at the raw skin. Achilles' eyes darkened at that, but he only crouched next to her and never let his expression change.
"Can you walk at all?" he asked gently, ignoring her flinch.
She stared at him, surprise and disbelief written on her face. Slowly, she responded with a nod.
"All right." He rose to his own feet and offered a hand up, which she accepted with a grace and elegance belying her dirtied state. When she stood, Achilles now saw her dark hair falling from its previously tidy state to halfway down her back. It reached her waist and looked so soft and shiny…
She took one step towards him and almost stumbled from exhaustion.
Patroclus, from his corner of the tent, looked from his cousin to Odysseus for an explanation, but the king of Ithaca stared with narrowed eyes at his friend, deep in thought.
Always, Odysseus saw his young friend carelessly choose his pick from wherever they went for war, in every decision: which buildings to raid, what wines to drink, where to pitch his tent, what women to bed that night… The list went on.
But Achilles never gave any consort of his the gentle treatment that he now gave this Trojan girl, who he had never clapped eyes on before today.
Meanwhile Achilles held the girl's forearm to help steady her. When she started to collapse, he tucked one arm under her legs and caught her. Cradling her against his chest with a tenderness none had ever seen in him before, Achilles carried her to the door and out in the direction of the Myrmidon encampment.
His sure and steady strides gave the appearance to others that she weighed almost nothing. Exhausted, she rested her head on his broad shoulders. He glanced down at her every few steps to make sure she still was in one piece and suffering no injury she tried to hide from him.
Petra floated in and out of consciousness, taking in pieces of him sleepily- his long gold mane of hair, his strong arms around her, and his chiseled features.
When her head jerked up again to avoid sleep, he chuckled softly. "Sleep, little one," he murmured. "You've had a long day."
"Mmm…" She sighed and blinked. "I mustn't… in enemy camp…"
Achilles tsked with his tongue. "Rest," he ordered. And this time she gave no argument.
By the time they were at his tent, she was fast asleep with no dreams.
The Palace of Troy
The palace, which had earlier been bustling with the sounds of war, now only contained stifled moans and cries of mourning. Prince Hector had returned with his cousin, safe and sound, but the fate of the Princess of Troy was now unknown.
Outside whispers spread through the gossipy nobles. Each shook their heads solemnly and spoke of how such a wild girl deserved such a fate.
"Poor thing, motherless for so long…" "No good out of it…" "Three men raising a girl on their own…" "Should have known better…" "Too late now, pity…" Their vicious yet well-meant words started to move throughout the city, where the simple folk only shook their heads with dismay.
Servants in the palace tried to continue their daily routines, only pausing to dab damp cloths at their eyes.
Outside at the stables, Alexis the groomsman coughed and gruffly shouted at the two weepy stable boys, "Put your backs into it, lads!" They sniffled and, nodding, attempted to finish their chores. "Poor lady Petra," Alexis muttered to himself. "She never hurt anyone…"
He glanced up towards the main building of the palace, wondering how Hector and his family were taking it. If the love he and his sister always shared before and after their rides was any indication, things would be pretty bleak inside right now.
His assessment was not far from the truth. In the throne room, each royal, with the exception of Astyanax, came together for support. In the center of the room, Andromache held Briseis while Hector and Paris stood over them with the helplessness of a confused and also-grieving male. Priam only stared out the window with the glaze of tears in his eyes.
"She promised me she would be fine!" Briseis wept, her whole body shaking with abandoned control. "She promised me!" she insisted over and over until her cries overcame her and she collapsed.
Despite her own tears threatening to choke her, Andromache wrapped her arms around her cousin in an attempt at comfort. Her son had already gone to bed for the night, blissfully unaware that his favorite playmate, his aunt, would no longer enjoy their romps together. But she kept her grief inside. Once she helped comfort others, she could let herself mourn for the first friend she had in her new home, as Petra would do.
A whisper of hope inspired her to look up at her husband for some assurance. He, after all, had been at the temple when it was taken and had rescued Briseis. Perhaps he could give them some peace.
Hector only shook his head in remorse, though. "All of the priests were dead," he spoke without emotion. "If she was lucky, she died quickly."
A wail escaped the sobbing priestess in his wife's arms, burying her face in the folds Andromache's mourning dress. Andromache's hand trembling rose to cup her own mouth, trying to hold in her grief desperately.
Priam sank onto his throne, looking twenty years older from when his son returned with the news. "Are you sure?" His voice cracked as he beseeched his eldest. His eyes begged for any shred of optimism or relief from the idea that his and Hecuba's youngest lay dead in the temple.
Swallowing past the lump in his throat, Hector tried to speak relief. "She might have escaped," he offered as his hand covered his father's trembling one. "Before he died, her guard told me he gave her his blade for defense." But Priam only moaned lowly in his throat and buried his face in his hands. Muffled phrases met his children's ears.
"My daughter… Mine, and Hecuba's…"
Sobs and mourning filled the vast room. Outside the funeral pyres smoked incense and burning flesh in offers of desperation for Petra's ghost, to cross the river Styx. In one lonely corner of the throne room, Helen stared at the grieving family, guilt choking her.
"This is my fault," she whispered to herself so no one could hear her own self-blaming; "If only I hadn't come here."
Her keen ears picking up this sound, Andromache looked up. "Oh, Helen…" her voice faltered and she only opened her arms. The Spartan queen fell into her new sister-in-law's arms, weeping openly now. "Petra would not let you blame yourself," the future queen murmured, stroking the blonde hair with one hand and holding her close.
"You only gave Agamemnon an excuse," Hector added grimly. "He has had his eye on us for years." That only made the crying keen harder.
"Besides," Paris final spoke for the first time since Hector returned, his eyes still swollen and wet, "I was the one that took you from your husband. I brought this war upon us." Tracks of tears glistened on his cheeks.
"Paris-" his father tried to speak but stopped himself before losing control of his emotions.
"I should be the one punished," Paris continued, ignoring his father. "When the mourning period is over, I'll challenge Menelaus on my own. This is between him and me, over Helen." Helen's panicked eyes met Priam's. "The winner gets Helen."
"No!" Priam stood and grabbed Paris by the shoulders, shaking him hard. "I've lost one child today; I will not lose another to that rabble!"
"Father!" Paris stared into his eyes. "I lost her. Let me stop this."
"Will this needless slaughter bring her back?" Priam shouted. "Will this save herself in Hades for eternity, son?"
"No," Paris met his father's gaze fiercely. "But it will help end this."
He stepped away, letting his father's arm fall limp. As Paris left them and out of the room, Helen started to shake. "N…No… No!" she cried, trying to crawl to him. "He'll kill you! Paris!"
Hector felt his heart starting to shatter in his chest. In his heart of hearts, he knew the outcome of any battle between Paris and Helen's jealous husband: it would end with his brother's dead body covered in dust, and the Greeks attacking a now shell-shocked and even weaker Troy. But he fought the welling ache.
Andromache slowly stood and walked over to him. Her hands touched his face in a gentle act of help, before she enveloped him in her embrace and silently wept. The moment she put her arms around him, he crumbled, letting his own arms grasp his tiny wife as an anchor while the waves and waves of pain lashed over him again and again. He felt her own form shaking and they comforted each other.
He knew he would never see his sister again in this world.
"No! I will not let you take my daughter!"
"You have little say in the matter, Trojan whore!"
"Petra, run…" A blood-freezing scream shook her whole soul.
"Mama!"
Gasping, Petra jerked upwards into a sitting position with her hands reaching in front of her to claw at empty air. Sweat dripped down her face as she tried to calm down her frantically-beating heart, reorienting herself once again with her new surroundings.
This time, she could not possibly be in Agamemnon's tent. The setting did not have the bad taste and flamboyant look of the Mycenaean king's dwelling. Underneath her, soft fleeces covered with even softer blankets covered only a fraction of the smooth sand of the beach. A tapestry lay on the ground in a spot near the door, perhaps for visitors to sit, but otherwise Troy's white grains worked as a floor. A table stood near the door, holding several shields and armory. Few decorations adorned the whole room.
Apparently Achilles saw the foolishness in Agamemnon's choices in loudly pronouncing which tent he occupied. Unfortunately, that meant that escape would be even trickier, for the warrior was no idiot, if half of his legacy was true as she strongly suspected.
Speaking of the monster… Another glance around confirmed his current absence from the tent. How long would he be gone? Her groggy head refused to think clearly but she fought to keep herself coherent.
She slowly stood and looked again. The small stand next to the bed held a goblet that smelled like very fine wine, not the coarse beer that Trojan soldiers preferred. Her stomach grumbled in reminder that she had not eaten since… how long had she slept?
It did not matter. She could not eat any enemy's food. She had to escape this tent, find some quick way back to Troy, and possibly discover the approximate force of the Greeks for her father and Hector. Satisfied with this, she took a step towards the weapons.
Before she could bring her half-made plan into action, the tent flap moved aside and revealed the owner of it.
In his armor, with dirt and blood smudged all over him, Achilles looked every bit the savage lion-like killer rumor had created. When he spotted her, a pleasant smile curved onto his striking features.
Petra took an involuntary step backwards while eying him warily.
"Good morning." Achilles tilted his head. "Did you sleep well?" Her look of disbelief at his greeting and inquiry made him chuckle. Did she expect him to walk in and, seeing her, molest her?
Her temper flared from being the obvious object of his amusement. Before she could stop herself, she asked sarcastically, "Have you been out killing more of my countrymen today, or have you kept to unarmed civilians, seeing how successful that was for you yesterday?"
Apparently he had expected this, for he did not pick up his sword and chop her head off in a righteous fit of anger. Instead he shrugged and replied, "We were burning yesterday's victims, with the aid of Ithaca's warriors. Agamemnon would let the dead stay there, rotting without proper burials." His face clouded with anger at this, but he shook it off.
Petra stared at him wide-eyed. Was the man lying to her? Achilles of Pthia would never treat his victims to the courtesy of a funeral! He would butcher them cruelly before he skinned them and drank their blood…
Then the scent of funeral incense aroused her senses. Achilles smirked at her wrinkled nose and turned to start unbuckling his sandals.
"What is your name, girl?" he asked over his shoulder.
Before Petra could respond, he moved from his shoes to his breastplate. A shocked gasp escaped her lips and she felt her cheeks start to turn bright red with embarrassment. Was he going to undress right in front of her?
Achilles paused and looked over at her. "Did you not hear-" He saw her expression and quickly realized her problem, although he still had no idea what was going through her head and therefore was still wrong.
Having two brothers, Petra was not clueless to the appearance of a male chest (she had, after all, spent most of her childhood around the military of Troy), but Achilles was no relation or friend to her. In fact, she still had no idea what his intentions were towards her, honorable or dishonorable. She met his eyes, her own flamed with indignation.
This confirmed Achilles' inner assessment of her status. Each clue drifted through his consciousness. Despite the plain fashion and now-torn state of her robes, her gown was made of rich material. She carried herself with the rare confidence of a well-off young woman. And she spoke with an equally rare wit. She had to be royalty. And to top that off, she looked completely shocked at the sight of a man undressing.
His conclusion: she was a royal virgin, who had not yet been married off despite her years of (he guessed) eighteen. The thought irrationally pleased him, despite her continued sparking and fighting against him, except for those few moments where their eyes met and the world seemed to stop.
"I apologize," he said to her with a smile, "but unless you want me to smell foul all day, I'll have to ask you to turn your head."
At his words, she turned and faced the wall, sitting down on the sand. He shook his head while he quickly undressed, wrapping a loin guard around his waist when done. With any other woman, he would barely care about her sensibilities. But no other woman had attempted to stab him when cornered or out-rightly disapproved of his warring actions. They were usually frightened to death of him, or sensually intoxicated with his legend, both disgusting him to extremes.
"So what is your name?" he asked again, walking over to her side. She did not respond. He shook his head with disappointment; did she still not trust him, despite his actions the whole day? But his rational side reminded him that she not only had to deal with the new fact that she now was a captive to her enemy, but also was learning the falsehood of his reputation.
When he was closer, he saw her contemplative gaze at the walls. He knelt down behind her.
"I wouldn't, if I were you. It's safer here than out there."
She almost snorted at that instead of jumping at his close proximity to her body. "I grew up here. I doubt any Greek would know my country better than me!"
"You're royalty," Achilles stated. He saw her tense at that, confirming his statement. "You've spent your life on these shores, tending to the temple every time Priam ordered, never being able to leave these shores." His hand reached out and touched her hair.
Recoiling, she leaned away from the unwelcome (and unsolicited) touch on her tresses.
Achilles brought a strand to his nose, leaning forward to take in her scent. It slid through his calloused fingers like silk, and smelled of jasmine. He inhaled deeply and then dropped it, sitting back. "You must be. Your scent gives you away."
Don't answer, don't answer, she kept reminding herself. Think of Andromache, of Hector, of Astyanax, of Paris, of Helen, their safety…
Please give me an answer, Achilles inwardly implored. Trust me.
"You killed Apollo's priests, men of peace, who dedicated their lives to the gods," she finally said. "They did nothing to you."
Her voice broke at that, her head sinking. That hurt Achilles more than he cared to admit. Refusing to wonder why and letting his hand touch her chin, he turned her to face him. Awkwardly she slid around so she did not strain her neck at an uncomfortable angle.
"I've killed soldiers, kings, men who fight," he said solemnly. "Never a priest." And he shook his head for emphasis.
"Then your men did," she whispered and tried to shake off his hand. It made no difference that his blade had not been tainted with religious blood. A lone tear fell down her cheek at the unbidden memory of her friends' fates and the grotesque sacrilege heaped upon the dwelling of Apollo. "They did not deserve that death."
His thumb brushed the drop away. He brought it to his mouth, tasting it. "I'm sorry," he admitted. At her shaking head, he cupped the side of her face. "Truly. I've never condoned the killing of the innocent, but my men lose their heads in the heat of battle. I'll speak to them about this at our next meet." He grinned when she tilted her head at him in confusion. "Do you not believe me?"
Petra's heart skipped when he offered a hesitant smile. But she only frowned at him. "You, my lord, are an overwhelming paradox," she said clearly with a shake of her head.
Achilles leaned closer, their foreheads touching. "You have no idea."
Her breath caught at his provocative statement and move, but she could not for the life of her look away from those hypnotic blue orbs. He sucked in a breath before exhaling, the breeze brushing her lips gently.
"What are you doing to me?" she asked in a low voice. His one hand rose to tangle into her hair tenderly. Her eyes started to drift shut…
"My lord!" Someone called him from outside, interrupting the moment.
To both their disappointments, Achilles sat back on his haunches and called back reluctantly, "Enter!" His eyes never left hers, however. A few maids carried in steaming tubs of water and left them near the entrance. One peeked at Petra and giggled.
Petra felt her cheeks burn. Surely now everybody believed her to be his concubine. And could she blame them? She had almost kissed him! Him, a Greek and the enemy of her people! Oh, surely Apollo would punish her for such wanton actions towards the desecrator of his temple! She closed her eyes in an attempt to hide her shame.
However, her captor was an observant man. Achilles had seen her reaction to the maid's actions and inwardly fumed at how many steps that one giggle spell had taken him back. Making a mental note to reprimand the girl sharply later when he had the time, he only curtly dismissed his serving women and turned his back to his captive.
He started to slip off the loin guard in order to give himself a true and proper bathing now, and then caught himself. "You may want to look away again." He heard her shuffle back to her original position of facing the wall.
He walked over to the tubs, soaked a sponge in the water, and dropped his tunic to the ground, wiping away the grime and gore from his earlier actions. Instead of using each of the five tubs just brought in and dirtying all the water, though, he only chose one and thoroughly cleansed himself. He wondered as he bathed what on earth was going through his captive's mind.
If he had known, he might not have been so swift in his washing.
The splashing water reminded Petra that there was a very naked and very dangerous man in the tent with her. She swallowed and hugged her knees to her chest, keeping her eyes purposely forward the whole time.
His bath was quick. Normally, Achilles would linger and enjoy the few luxuries he allowed himself during war, but he knew the whole situation had to be awkward for the girl. This whole set of circumstances was too interesting for him to contemplate, anyway. Soon, he had dried off and changed into his blue tunic. He ruffled his hair and started to leave, but paused at the door.
"If you wish," he said, never turning to face her, "you may use the rest. Lovely as you are, war is not the cleanest of work."
She spun around in time to see the tent flaps swaying from his abrupt departure.
"Who are you?" she wondered out loud. But no one answered.
Where was the barbarian warrior she had heard so much about? The killer so fierce, he drank the blood of his opponents and used their skins for rugs to decorate his palace? The monster that slay men on their doorsteps and took their wives while their husband's body cooled on the street? The lion that taught no mercy to his men and ended wars with a single swipe of his blade?
A paradox, indeed!
A/N: Didja like it? Didja? Didja? Ok, I'll calm down, but I love reviews. If I get enough, it'll hopefully inspire quicker updates... I hope. Anyway, review!
