So ... you know the usual: if you are reading along, if you're happy to see an update, don't forget to leave a comment. It's the virtual coin in the hat for the storyteller and it's always appreciated ;-)
xXx
Hector left her alone with her thoughts in a small locked chamber for a full day. No one came near her, except servants with warm water for washing and warm food to eat. She'd spent the day looking through the metal latticework affixed to the large windows, watching the people on the street below. The window faced the city, not the beach, so she couldn't see the sea or the smoke from the fires of the Trojan camp.
Andromache and Helen came to sup with her in the evening, but neither stayed long. She asked them about Hector, but they both looked uneasy – Andromache answered that he had been occupied all day with matters of state. Relta knew she was lying, but didn't think it worth the effort to challenge her. She knew he was letting her dangle, letting her stew, so all she could do was wait.
And when he rapped on the door on the morning of the second day, she was sitting on the edge of the small bed they had put against the wall for her to sleep on, waiting for him.
"I'm sorry," he apologised, spreading his hands in a gesture of supplication. "I had a lot of business to attend to."
"You're not sorry," Relta replied. "You left me by myself on purpose. To show me how dependent I am on your good will."
Hector beamed at her good-naturedly, chuckling as though he'd been caught at a prank.
"Did it work?" he asked.
She glared at him.
"Prince Hector," she replied. "I have nothing. Not a single coin, not my stones, not my bag. I have nothing but your good will."
"So I take it that's a yes then, is it?"
"Yes," she said. "Yes, I will go back to the Achaeans and yes, I will kill Agamemnon. Give me a poison: I don't intend to get close enough to his neck to slit it."
Hector nodded and pulled something out from behind his back: it was her pouch.
She grabbed it, reached inside to check that everything was there.
"It's all there except the money," he said when she looked up at him questioningly. "I've kept that somewhere safe for you; you can have it back when you return. In the meantime, let's practise what you're going to tell the Greeks when you return."
He sat down on a chair opposite the cot and made her recite her lines.
xXx
And then she walked back over the dunes, as though she'd never been away.
Timon and Eudorus were hunched over the campfire, warming up a broth. The day was overcast and it had rained all morning, torrential rain that had come and gone, leaving heavy clouds in its wake. The weather seemed ominous, like the mood of the camp. They sat on their heels, neither speaking, each deep in his own thoughts. Then Eudorus looked up at the woman approaching them, recognising her gait. She pulled back the cloth that covered her hair and he saw it was her, the She-Wolf, the White Queen, her robe sopping wet from the rain.
"He is alive?" she said.
It was a question, not a statement.
Timon and Eudorus looked at her in astonishment.
"Yes, my lady," Timon stammered.
She surveyed the beach coolly, biting her lower lip in thought. Most people were inside their tents or under the canopies erected before them, wrapped up against the damp.
"I thought so," she said finally. "His ship is still here."
She drew in a breath.
"I suppose I should go to him, then," she said to no one in particular and turned to leave.
Eudorus glanced at Timon, who looked at him, slack-jawed. Then they scrambled to their feet and ran after her.
xXx
"Where were you?" Odysseus asked.
He stood before the entrance to Achilles' tent, like his gatekeeper. The door was covered with a heavy black canvas, not the leather strips that had served as the curtain-like door when she'd been there.
The Ithacan looked deeply suspicious and Relta didn't blame him.
"I went to a village on the shore and paid for passage to the mainland," she said in a calm voice. "But they were convinced I was a runaway slave, so they stole my money and marched me off to Troy."
"To Troy? Inside the city?"
"Yes," she replied, the words tripping easily off her tongue. She had practised with Hector and the lies just flew out of her mouth. "They brought me to the captain of the guard – "
"Lysander?"
"A dark-haired man? Yes, I think so. But he was distracted by other things, so he just ordered me thrown in gaol."
"And how did you escape the dungeons of Troy, my lady?" Odysseus asked sardonically. "Your witching powers?"
"I didn't escape, my lord," she answered in the same sardonic tone. "King Priam ordered the release of all the women and children in the prisons as an act of mercy to celebrate Achilles' death. I found myself back out on the street with a bunch of ragamuffins and petty thieves, so I took off as fast as I could."
"Back here," stated Odysseus. "Back to Agamemnon's camp."
"Where else could I go?" she answered, not trying to hide the annoyance in her voice. "They took my money, they took my things. How do you think I'm going to get to the mainland? Swim?"
Relta raised her hands to show Odysseus that she was carrying nothing. She had buried her pouch next to a scrubby bush a little way off the road to Troy. She hoped it would still be there when she went to dig it up.
Eudorus leaned over.
"She walked here, my lord. Alone. Some of the slave women reported seeing her on the road to the camp by herself."
Odysseus looked her up and down.
"Why did you return if you thought Achilles was dead?" he asked.
"I didn't think he was dead," she lied. "I have seen his wounds heal. I knew he was still alive. And he is, isn't he?"
The king of Ithaca tugged his beard, then seemed to relent.
"Yes," he admitted. "He's alive. But – but he's not ... he's not the way you left him. His injuries are bad."
She set her jaw.
"Show me," she said.
xXx
"Gods in the firmament," she hissed.
Achilles' tent was as dark as night, it reeked of herbs and incense, and it was full of people. She couldn't tell how many, she could make out some shadowy figures but it seemed crowded. Underneath the heavy smell from the burner, she smelled sweat and that unpleasant smell of death. She blinked rapidly as her eyes ran with tears, reacting to the smoke and the strong smells. Odysseus gave her a tiny push into the room and she moved forward, her hands outstretched.
"Queen?" said a familiar voice and she looked down.
It was Ahma.
"My lady!"
Patroclus. He grabbed her hand and pumped it enthusiastically.
Two of the figures now were identified.
"Queen of Kalios? I am Phoenix," said a third and a craggy face emerged out of the gloom. "I am tending Achilles. This is Aito, my assistant and this is - "
"Where is he?" she asked.
They'd moved the furniture around; his bed was no longer where it had been.
"Here," Phoenix said and took her elbow.
She resisted the urge to shake him off, allowed him to lead her a few steps to where someone lay on some sort of a stretcher on the floor.
She drew in a ragged breath and knelt quickly.
"He has some broken ribs and of course a broken leg... the wound on his head is healing, but it is weeping still and that worries me. And the shoulder. That's compounded by an old wound – the little woman said you sewed it, is that right?"
Relta ignored him, her breath coming and going in rapid tiny gasps, as though she were drowning.
Achilles lay, still as death. His long hair had been hacked back; now it was a thumb's length, sticking up raggedly around his face.
Oh, his face.
The skin was stretched across the bones, his face looked like a funeral mask.
"... and the men said that you are a wit – a healer of sorts? That you have some powers?"
"I have no powers," she hissed, standing up. "I am not a witch and I am not a healer. Why is he not healing? He can recover from anything."
"We have been giving him the milk of the poppy," Phoenix said. "He was raving, talking out loud, saying bizarre things. It frightened the men. We thought it best to ... put him to sleep till he started to heal."
"Started to heal?" she repeated. "How can he heal if you have drugged him? And what's that stench?"
"They are herbs," Phoenix said smoothly. "Offerings to Zeus for his full recovery."
Relta felt a red wrath rise in her. Stars exploded in front of her eyes.
"Fuck Zeus," she spat.
In the darkness there were shocked gasps.
"Oh, no," said Phoenix.
"Fuck you, Zeus," she raged into the darkness. "Fuck you! Either take him and let him die, or let him heal. What is this? What is this?"
There was no answer, from either mortal or immortal source.
Then Phoenix ventured carefully, "He is healing, my lady."
"Not fast enough," she snapped. "He looks like death. He smells like death."
She pushed Achilles with her toe.
"Well?" she said to the body on the floor. "What are you waiting for, man? You've slept long enough. Wake up."
"My lady – " Phoenix began, worried, and reached out to touch her but she shoved his hand away.
She pushed past Odysseus to the door of the tent and grabbed the heavy canvas. With both hands she ripped it down, enjoying the satisfaction of hearing it tear. She grabbed a handful of leather strips and knotted them, letting the dim light of the day pour into the tent. Ignoring the protests, she pushed Phoenix' assistants aside and scooped up a handful of sand to put bury the incense burning in the little copper bowl. It hissed and she tipped it over, not minding that the hot bowl burned her fingertips.
"Get out," she ordered. "All of you except for Ahma, get out. Eudorus, Timon, Patroclus stay nearby. The rest of you get out. Out!"
The men looked at each other warily, then reluctantly left the tent.
She knelt beside Achilles again. In natural light she saw the yellow tone his skin had taken on, sallow like bracken water; she gently examined the cut on his head. The sight of it made her stomach turn, but she recognised it had been well cared for. She brushed his hair aside, in places shorn short to allow them to tend the wound.
His eyes were shut, but she could see his pupils moving beneath the lids. Was he dreaming?
She stroked his cheek tenderly. His lips were cracked and dry.
"Ahma," she said and pointed at his mouth.
The old woman understood and brought her some jars of unguents. Relta opened one or two, found a grease that had been infused with herbs and rubbed it gently across his lips.
"Achilles," she said clearly. "Achilles, it's time to wake up."
His pupils fluttered, she saw them move beneath the near-translucent skin of his lids.
"Achilles," she ordered. "Wake up."
His lips parted.
Behind her Ahma gasped.
She tried again.
"Achilles," she said. "Come back."
His eyes shot open. Relta held her breath.
He stared at the ceiling above him, breathing deeply, raggedly.
"Yes," he said.
Ahma sank to her knees beside his body, put a small dark hand on his ribs.
"You're back," Relta said, taking his hand. "Now stay here."
"You're back," he repeated, turning to look at her. "Stay here."
Then his lips moved, formed the ghost of a smile.
xXx
Zeus had cared for him well.
So well, in fact, that Achilles had considered taking his place among the residents of Olympus. Why engage in mortal battles when surely the gods would provide more stimulating challenges?
"I will keep you here," Zeus said thoughtfully. "Thetis would wish it, I'm sure."
Achilles grinned. His mother did not trust Zeus and his tricks: he was quite certain she would not wish it at all.
"Oh, no," said Zeus and Achilles could tell by his voice that he was not happy.
The White Queen stood among them, her copper hair a discordant note of fury among the white columns of Mount Olympus.
"Fuck you, Zeus," she shouted at the god. "Fuck you! Either take him and let him die, or let him heal. What is this? What is this?"
"He is healing," Zeus said and it seemed to Achilles that he sounded a little defensive.
"Not fast enough," she countered. "He looks like death. He smells like death."
"The mortals have put him to sleep with the milk of poppy," Zeus said. "They give him no food, no sustenance, no air, no sunshine. It's not my fault that he looks like a corpse. I, for my part, have been looking after him very well."
The White Queen turned and she kicked him – kicked him! – with her foot.
"Well?" she said to him. "What are you waiting for, man? You've slept long enough. Wake up."
Achilles looked to Zeus.
"I thought you said she was not of your realm?" he said.
Zeus shrugged.
"She walks in two realms," he replied. "These mortals I cannot control. If she comes for you, you must go."
Ignoring Zeus she brushed his lips with hers and said,
"Wake up, Achilles. Come back."
The god sighed.
"Oh, very well, then," he said, resigned. "You can have him back. Go on, then, lad. Off you go."
Achilles opened his eyes.
"You're back," Relta said, taking his hand. "Now stay here."
His head hurt, a crushing pain that made him struggled to keep his eyes open. He tried to focus on the beams that formed the ceiling of the tent till everything stopped spinning.
Slowly, he turned his head to the side. Her copper hair was bound in a plait around her face, her eyes furrowed in a frown. When he turned his head to her, her features relaxed and he saw her remember to breathe again.
"You're back," he said hoarsely, turning his head slowly, slowly in her direction. "Stay here."
Relta nodded, a tiny movement of her head, while Ahma broke out into a wail that might have been one of joy but was probably just relief.