I awake with a start. The darkness surrounding me is so dense, that it feels like I am still dreaming, but something disturbed my sleep. I rise on the bed that Andromache and I share, my nephew tucked between us both, and I listen. There is something in the air, a disturbance of some sort though I don't understand where it comes from. Have the Greeks come back for revenge? If so, they would have a hard time getting inside the city walls. However, a chill swoops down over me, and my hair stands on end.

I get to my feet and pad to the wide window that overlooks the royal gardens. I can hear a din now, and I pull back the curtain to reveal a nightmarish vision. Dark clouds billow from the city center as the wooden horse the men dragged in burns like a pyre. Red and orange light flickers against the white limestone walls, contrasting with the dark blue of the night. Is this what Kronos sees when he gazes upwards from his prison in Tartarus? Hellish chaos and then above it, the peaceful sky? There is screaming all around, and I pick up on the distinct sound of metal weapons clashing against one another.

I drop the curtain, reverting into blissful darkness, but the vision will not fade. I stand frozen in place for a minute or an hour, I don't know which. My mouth hanging open in a silent scream. Somehow the Greeks have found a way into the city, and they are now able to pillage and plunder to their heart's content. With Hector gone and our army without their captain to rally around, Troy will certainly fall.

It is the thought of my sweet cousin, murdered and dishonored, which spurns me into action. I slip my sandals on and pull out the knife I keep hidden beneath the bed.

"Andromache! Wake up!" I hiss, violently shaking her shoulder.

She lets out a small scream. "What is it?! What's happened?!"

"The Greeks have breached the city." The words explode from my mouth making the threat real, and a wave of panic rushes through me.

Andromache opens her eyes wide, and I think she will have a fainting spell, but she doesn't. Instead, she shoots up from the bed, her fear driving her to action, unlike me. In an instant, she has her son in her arms. She covers him with a shawl, which she then wraps about herself in a makeshift carrier.

She reaches for the nearest torch and makes for the private exit to the gardens. "I know a way to safety. Hector… He showed me a route to the mountains." She says this with a manic giggle at the end, as though this is something she's been expecting.

I start to follow and then halt at the top of the stairs. "Wait! What about my uncle? What about Paris and Helen?"

Andromache stops but does not turn around. The torch throws dark shadows over her face, and her next words frighten me. "This was their doing. They can rot among the ashes of Troy."

I am shocked at the change in her. In my mind, Andromache has always been a wispy willow of a woman, wholly dependent on Hector. A daughter of kings, named after a great warrior, with none of the power or drive. Oh, she knew her rights as Hector's wife and behaved as the future queen of Troy should. But she is a woman's woman: the perfect housewife, modest and demure, forever deferring to her husband... or so I thought. I hardly recognize her in this hardened creature before me. Part of Andromache died along with Hector, and she is only trying to save what is left by whatever means she has. Still, I will not budge.

"I need to find them," I say firmly. "I won't leave them behind."

She gives a brief, understanding nod. "Come with me, then. You need to know the route anyway."

We rush through the gardens, quick and silent like shadows. The wails of the Trojans are heard clearly on the other side of the palace walls, and the acrid smell of burning wood invades my nostrils. I tremble in fear. How many people have died? How many more will die still? And even as I think this, my mind turns to Achilles. Is he leading his men now to raid the city of his misfortune? I should feel hatred for what he did to me, for what he did to Hector, but all I can conjure up is longing.

I shake my head to dispel him from my thoughts and follow Andromache into one of the storage buildings. An empty corridor winds out of view, and as we run through it, the stink of fermenting yeast hits me. We're in the wine cellars. We turn a corner, then another, and it is all I can do to keep track of the path. Suddenly, we come to a short set of steps that end in a door.

"This is it," Andromache says. "This leads into the mountains behind the city. It will take them forever to find this place if they ever do." I nod, a little breathless from our run.

"Can you find your way back here, Briseis?"

She asks this in a softer tone, and I can see something in her has changed. Perhaps she regrets our parting. Perhaps she fears we will never see each other again. She may think I am mad, but she won't stop me from doing what I think is right. Still, I appreciate the concern in her voice.

"Thank you, Andromache," I say and hug her tightly. She is surprised at first, and then she envelops me with her bony arms. I kiss her cheek and then kiss my little nephew farewell before she opens the door and disappears through it.

I run back through the corridor and into the gardens. In a matter of minutes, everything has changed. People are running, screaming, crying. Men and boys head to the bottom levels of the castle where the armory is, while women and those unable to fight scramble with their belongings. There is nowhere to escape from the Greeks. They planned their attack well, and now each level of the city, from the ground up is taken. Only the palace walls protect us, but they won't hold long.

I approach a group of serving maids who are sobbing into their tunics. I grab one by the arm, and she begins screaming as though I had just run her through with a sword. I slap her across the face to give her something to cry about.

"Listen to me! Spread the word there is an escape route through the wine cellars. The princess Andromache is waiting there." She nods, terrified, but also willing to obey if only to save her life. The group splits up, and I begin running again.

Paris' chambers are at the other end of the palace, and I must continue through the public gardens. I make my way through the throngs of panicked people, stopping some of them to tell them about the escape route. But, when I reach the terrace garden that had once been my uncle Priam's pride and joy, I stop at the horror before me.

The city is engulfed in flames. These reach so high that they are almost as tall as the parapets. Destruction and ruin abound, and I see a stream of Greeks pour out of the temple of Apollo, their tunics drenched in blood. They carry heavy sacks filled with plunder, and I know now there isn't anything sacred to them. Troy will be razed to the ground. Our children will be tossed over the walls, so the seed of our men will never bear fruit. The women will be ravaged and left to die, or they will be taken as slaves. I shudder to think what fate awaits for the likes of Andromache and me as members of the royal family.

Without paying attention to what I'm doing, I fall to my knees on the soft grass before the great statue of Apollo and clasp my hands together, praying.

"Great Apollo, one of your daughters begs for aid. Please, save Troy. Protect her people from the tyranny of the Greeks. Please, protect us from Agamemnon. Please… protect Achilles." But it is not Apollo who answers.

"It's too late for prayers, priestess," a deep, growling voice says in my ear.

I gasp and am about to scream, but a thick hand clasps my neck, choking me, dragging me upwards. I struggle and kick wildly, but Agamemnon tightens his grip. He is in full armor, stinking of blood and sweat, grinning with pleasure at the destruction of my home. My vision clouds and, I know I will faint.

"I almost lost this war because of your little romance," Agamemnon sneers. "But now, I think I want to taste what Achilles tasted."

I understand now he hates Achilles because he envies him: his youth, his fame, his power, and he will find a way to hurt him through me. But his words do not inspire fear. This time, I am not helpless. I promised myself I would not be so again after I was captured by his filthy army of barbarians. I hold his wrist with one hand, trying to loosen his hold on me, and with the other, I pull out the small knife from the folds of my dress. He does not see death is coming for him. Quick like a snake, I stab him in the neck once, twice. His triumphant grin melts into shock. His mouth opens up wide, and his eyes bulge out of their sockets. The Greeks may have won the war, but he will see none of its glory. He falls to the floor, his blood spilling on the altar at the foot of the statue of Apollo, like a cow slaughtered in sacrifice.

I run, but don't get a moment of reprieve. Two Greeks who witnessed the scene rush at me. One catches me by the waist and drags me down, and the other pulls out his sword. I know I am about to die. Suddenly, a ferocious roar cuts through the air, and a vision races toward us. It is Achilles. He makes a display of his prowess by swinging his sword and decapitating the man that would kill me. The other soldier is unprepared, and he fumbles with his sword, but Achilles is already before him, and he stabs his blade clean through.

I look up at him. I am dizzy from the violence I've just witnessed, but even so, all I can think is that he is alive and that somehow, impossibly, he has come for me.

It would have been my greatest shame to confess it, but the fact was that during the time spent as his captive, I fell in love with Achilles. Oh, I had my pick of the young men of Troy and from other neighboring kingdoms, but none caught my attention as he did.

I remember when he first stepped into the hut where I was kept for his pleasure. He was sweaty and covered in trojan blood, but his godlike appearance still astounded me. He was handsome, with finely chiseled features and a penetrating gaze the color of the sea. He was trim yet muscular, and there was a grace to his movements, so unlike the other warriors who seemed to lumber about as though they had rocks tied to their limbs.

I was afraid of what he would do to me, yes, but I was also angry, and ready to fight my way out before one of those filthy Greeks laid a hand on me. But Achilles did not seem to be interested. I berated him for the murder of the priests and the sacking of the temple of Apollo and he laughed in my face. He rambled on about the gods envying us, and though his scorn enraged me, his words captivated me. What manner of man was he that he did not fear the gods? I had, of course, heard the tales of his mother, the nymph Thetis, and how she'd given birth to a son blessed with divine powers. Was this what made him dismiss them with a wave of his hand?

As the days passed, I became more curious about him. This strange man who was fiercely devoted to him, and who had no stake in the war save for the glory it would bring to his name. He was rough but never unkind, and from the first moment, he knew me for who I was: a daughter of princes. He never approached me except to ask how I fared and never treated me like a slave. I came to believe he kept his distance because he hated me, and while I was grateful for his neglect, I made up my mind to kill him. However, the Fates intervened, and in an instant, everything changed.

At the time, I was vaguely aware of Agamemnon's animosity towards Achilles. The murmurings among the slaves were that the great general was not pleased with his best warrior. This was because he had refused to swear allegiance to him like the other kings had done, and would constantly challenge Agamemnon's command. The king of Mycenae knew that Achilles was beloved by the people, just like Jason, Perseus, and Theseus, and he commanded their awe and respect, in a way he would never do. Therefore, Agamemnon decided to make an example of him.

It was early afternoon when Agamemnon's men came for me. I was taken to one of the ships and, to make sure I behaved myself, one solder slapped me across the face so hard that I blacked out for a moment. When I came to, I was in the king's audience chamber, with Achilles before me, and Agamemnon beyond him. I could taste blood on my mouth and, there was a sharp stinging on my lip and nose. My hands were tied behind my back with leather thongs, and they were so tight that I could feel my hands throbbing.

When he saw the way I'd been treated, the fire in Achilles' eyes burned great and terrible, and I finally understood how fearsome he could be. But Agamemnon was not bothered by the hubris of a young warrior. He jeered at him by touching my face and running his hand down my body, hinting at what he would do with me as his slave. Achilles loathed this behavior. I could tell by the way his jaw muscles tensed as he decided whether or not to kill the king, but I would not have it. Too much blood had already been spilled. I appealed to Achilles, and to my surprise, his hand was stayed.

Achilles was a man beholden to none, and it cost him his pride to lower his sword. He did not look at me, turning his fury towards the king, who took several steps back. But the young warrior did not attack, did not rage. Instead, he pointed the hilt of his sword at Agamemnon and cursed him, swearing he would gaze upon his corpse before his life was spent, and then he was gone. Agamemnon was shaken, and under this threat, which seemed to carry the power of divinity, he lost his appetite for me. But to give me back to Achilles would have been to admit his fear, and so he did what any man does with a slave that has lost its use to them.

That evening, after his men returned to camp, Agamemnon handed me over to them. They pushed me back and forth, crying out profanities, mocking the virgin robes I still wore. They splashed wine on my wounded face and groped me, giving me a taste of what would come next. I tried to fight them off, kicking and punching, but there were too many of them. I could not help crying out for help, though I knew no one would come. How many nights had I lain awake in my pallet listening to other women do the same?

One of the men approached me with a burning brand, and in anticipation of the pain, I let out a scream. But the iron never touched me. Instead, the man fell at my feet, a gaping hole in his throat. I looked up and saw Achilles come to rescue me. His face was devoid of emotion, despite the man he'd just killed, but his gaze warned the other soldiers from interfering. They watched as Achilles picked me up in his arms and carried me back to his tent.

I must have passed out because the next thing I remember was waking up on my pallet. My face was wiped clean of blood, and a tincture was placed on my cuts and wrists. I must have looked a miserable sight, and I briefly mourned my beauty. I was no Hellen, but I had once been considered beautiful. Slowly, I got to my feet and noticed Achilles was there, sleeping. It would have been so easy to run away from him, but there was also something I needed to do. Looking around, I spied a carving knife on the table, and I silently picked it up. Its edge was so sharp that one slash would end Achilles' life and possibly the war.

I walked to his bed and put the blade against the tan skin of his neck, but before I could form my decision, he spoke. He must have sensed me there right from the start but waited to see what I would do. He goaded me on, and I was once more surprised by his reaction. He was not afraid of death. Was there anything he feared? Was there anything that could bring this man to his knees? He was almost like a god to me then… almost. I knew part of him was mortal and that his death would save millions of others, despite his kindness to me.

I tried to make my hand move, but his gaze was hypnotizing. The seconds ticked away, and suddenly, he grabbed me by the shoulders and rolled me sideways so that he was now on top of me. I continued to hold the dagger, but I was shaken. Was he mad, or was he just taunting me, knowing I would never have the courage to kill him? I would have protested, but then Achilles lowered his face, and he kissed me.

Of all the things I had expected him to do, this was not it. It was a tentative, almost curious kiss. He tasted of dates and heady wine and, I wanted more. I needed more. I forgot my murderous intentions and gave in to the pleasure of his love. Achilles ran his calloused hands over my soft skin. He stroked my legs and my belly, and the most intimate part of myself, and I could only cling to him in ecstasy and despair. He did this deliberately, but with care, watching me with those deep, blue eyes of his.

That is how he made love to me, his eyes wide open while he kissed and touched and joined his body and mine. I wondered if this was because he wanted to gauge my reactions, but afterward, when we were both breathless and sweating, he would clasp me in his arms and gaze at me. The harsh lines vanished and, there was a look of serenity on his face that I had never seen before.

We would talk about our past lives. He about growing up in Phthia and being taught by the great Chiron. I spoke of my life in Troy and of my decision to become a priestess. Only once did we speak of the future. I asked if he would ever leave the fighting behind, and in turn, he asked if I would ever leave Troy. I considered it for a moment, but I knew deep inside that I had made up my mind long ago. I put my hand over his heart and kissed him: I would follow him anywhere.

I was happy those few weeks. I forgot that there was a war raging on. I forgot that my countrymen were dying on the plains beyond the sand dunes. I forgot that I had given Apollo my maidenhood. All I knew was that Achilles loved me, and I loved him… until everything changed once more.

The day that Hector killed Patroclus, Achilles' cousin, was the day our dream of a life together vanished. Achilles cloaked himself in ire and hatred that burned with the strength of a thousand suns, and I could not reach him. I could not pull him back from the brink of the abyss, and the next day Hector was dead.

Achilles arrived, dragging my cousin's body behind his chariot, denying him a proper entry into the Underworld. I wept when I saw the bloody, disfigured thing that had once been Hector, and I regretted not killing Achilles when I had the chance. I stayed away for an entire day, hurt but also feeling unclean. I went to a small cavern on the beach and knelt to beg forgiveness from Apollo. When I returned to camp that night, I had decided to appease the god's ire by killing myself. It was the only thing I could think of that could make up for what I had done.

From a distance, I saw that a chariot was waiting outside of Achilles' tent. I saw him place a long, bulky object across it, tying it with leather thongs, and then turn to an old man. They were speaking among themselves, but I was already running, my feet digging deep into the sand. Priam's eyes opened in amazement when he saw me rushing to him. He opened his arms and wept, thanking the gods that at least one member of his family had come back to life. Would that it was Hector.

We both turned to Achilles, but he no longer bore the hardened mask of hatred. He swallowed and apologized for hurting me before taking my hand and putting a silver necklace decorated with shells in it. It was the necklace Patroclus had worn, a gift from Thetis herself. I accepted it as a token of the love we lost and allowed myself to caress him one last time. The last thing I saw of him was his figure alone on the beach, his golden hair blowing in the wind.

Until now.

I open my arms up to him like a supplicant. He kneels and envelops me in his embrace, fiercely kissing my face, my eyes, my mouth. And I sob and return his love in kind. I have missed him so.

He runs his hand across my cheek. "Come with me," he whispers.

I nod, and he wraps me in his arms to help me up when I notice movement behind him. I look to the palace entrance and see my cousin, Paris, draw an arrow from his quiver.

The joy which I felt but moments before is replaced by horror. "No!"

My scream comes too late. Paris has loosened his arrow, and it strikes Achilles on the ankle. He rears back in my arms, and I hear him gasp as though in unimaginable pain. Something has gone horribly wrong. This is not the reaction I expect from the most powerful warrior of all time, and then another arrow strikes his side.

"Paris, no!"

Achilles turns to meet his attacker, a mad look in his eye. He picks up his sword and walks menacingly towards Paris, who shoots him once, twice more, but he is unstoppable. I shake off the stupor of terror and put myself in front of Achilles.

"Paris, don't!" I cry.

But another arrow finds its mark, this time piercing Achilles' heart. I watch him stand still as a statue for one brief moment and then crumble to the ground. I run to him, and there is enough life left in Achilles for me to say goodbye. He reaches out with both hands and finds my face.

"It's alright," he whispers, though I know it is not.

I am weeping, but I still press my lips to his and find he responds to my touch. He kisses me savagely. His tongue probes my mouth with his tongue, his teeth rasp against my lips. It's as though he is trying to absorb life through me, and I would gladly give it up if it meant he would live.

Achilles draws away. His breath comes heavily now, his life rapidly extinguishing. But, he is serene.

"You gave me peace in a lifetime of war."

I know this is important. I know I will remember his words for the rest of my life, but I don't care for them at the moment. I touch his face with my hands, memorizing it, and I kiss him again and whisper I love him.

"Briseis, come."

It is Paris who speaks, and a surge of loathing fills me. Andromache was right. He is to blame for the fall of our city, for the deaths of our people. He should be the one to perish and have Helen, the fair and beautiful, tear her clothes and weep in despair like I want to do now. Like so many of our women are doing at this very moment.

I ignore him. I want to stay with Achilles. I want to know he will be at peace. But the reprieve from the battle is over. We can hear the sounds of destruction approach us.

"Go," Achilles pleads softly. "Troy is falling. Go."

It is the timbre of his voice more than his words that make me obey. I kiss him one more time, the sweet taste of his lips mingling with the salty sting of my tears. I wrench myself from him. Paris grabs me by the waist and drags me away. I look back to see him shut his eyes, a look of relief passing over his face.

That is the last time I see him: Achilles, a god among men. Achilles, warrior of the ages. Achilles, the only man that I will ever love.