…………………………………………

Briseis crawled to the far end of the tent and huddled in a corner, atop a soft pile of furs. She pulled her legs up against her chest, wrapping her arms around them tightly. Silent tears dripped down her face occasionally and when they did, she hurried to brush them away.

Tears were a sign of weakness. She had never forgotten those words ever since Hector had told her so.

"When you cry, he had said solemnly, you open yourself up for attacks. People will see the weakness inside of you, for your tears flow hand in hand with your weaknesses. Then it will be easy for them to strike, because now you are vulnerable, blinded by the tears that drown your hope and courage. Therefore, Briseis, you mustn't cry, as when you do, you lose yourself and with that loss comes defeat. No daughter of Troy can be defeated, so you must remember to keep your tears within."

Taking in a deep, shaky breath, she forced herself to smile, in the hope of banishing the thoughts that was slowly eating her away. She peered around the tent, exploring her new surroundings carefully. She saw where his armory and swords lay, glinting dully in the faint sunlight. Then she saw the small gold knife lying unnoticed to a corner, half hidden under a thick rug. Her eyes widened considerably, recognizing it as the knife Achilles had used to cut her bounds earlier on.

Briseis straightened, kneeling over cautiously, her gaze fixed on the entrance, her ears concentrating hard on the sounds from outside drifting in. Other than gruff deafening shouts, the never-ending, heavy stomps on the soft sand and the loud clangs of metal upon metal and metal upon wood, there was no sound of Achilles, or the raven-haired man. Neither was there footsteps heading for the entrance. The leather flaps swayed lazily in the thick breeze and nothing out of the ordinary broke the steady momentum of the workingmen.

Seeing this as a chance, as good as any she would ever get to plot her escape; she reached over the rugs and hastily snatched up the golden metal. She breathed out, not aware till then that she had been holding her breath.

With the cool metal in her hands, she felt invigorated, with a pulsing energy bubbling inside her. Briseis clutched the knife to her with firm hands, slowing her heavy breathing down as she tried to think how to proceed next.

Briseis thought frantically, afraid that at any moment she would be intruded. Searching the tent once more, she spotted a dark corner to the left of the pile of rugs and furs she was sitting on. Realization then dawned upon her that the pile of furs must be his bed, and Briseis scrambled to get off it, alarmed. She stared down at herself, feeling an invisible filth creep upon her. She trembled slightly.

Countless of women and whores had warmed that bed and many more sinful acts had taken place on it. She felt like dirt, having sat on it without knowing and taking strange comfort in its softness and luxury. Now she was beginning to feel like an ungodly, sinful whore, instead of the priestess she was because of it.

Her face glowed red with shame and fury. She hated it, she hated this feeling. It was like the plague, enveloping her till it would kill her. She wanted to get up and shake it off, scrub her skin till there was no more; but she could not. She had no more strength, only desperation. The threat of tears taunted her and she squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her palms against them till she felt her eyes relax once more.

I am not a whore. And they can break my bones and take away my courage, but they will never break my spirit. And until they do so, Briseis thought resolutely, I will not allow myself to become one.

Determined to keep her promise to herself, and determined to survive this ordeal, she held the heavy knife and wedged it in between two wooden crates in the dark corner. It was a good hiding place, for she would most likely sleep there tonight, seeing how there was no other suitable place. It was the only flat piece of ground left. His pile of rugs and furs took up most of the ground space and his armory, swords and crates of belongings took up the rest.

A secure feeling settled in her heart knowing that she had some form of protection now. She leaned against the two crates and hugged herself once more. She was still frightened, but now she had need to be brave and have even more courage, for she could escape as long as she could kill him. Briseis rested her weary head on her folded arms and slowly began to shut her eyes.

She knew she should not be resting, much less sleeping, now, in an enemy tent, but Achilles' promise had seemed sincere and she was too tired to evaluate it.

As her eyelids fluttered close and her breathing mellowed, there was a loud commotion outside and the leather flaps rustled endlessly as thunderous footsteps marked the entrance of Greek soldiers.

Her eyes flew open in fear and she pressed herself closer to the crates, hoping that the soldiers would not see her.

"Where is she?" a boorish voice roared ferociously. A shiver ran down her back and her blood raced with tension. It is me they are after! A frightened scream threatened to make itself heard from the depths of her throat and Briseis stuffed her fingers in her mouth to stop it.

"Where is she? She is in the tent! Find her!" the same voice ordered, the tent walls seeming to shake from the deep rumble.

At his words, the sound of a hundred other footfalls erupted in the tent. Briseis gasped in shock, unable to control herself from shaking. She was trapped; they would surely find her with so many men! Powerless and helpless, unable to control the Fates from what she knew would happen next, she closed her eyes amidst the tears of terror streaming down and prayed.

But it seemed that even the Gods would not help her now. Her eyes closed, a calloused hand gripped her hair and pulled her up from the ground as she cried out in pain, not caring about the evident tears streaking her face. The pain was torturous and her head felt as though it were on fire.

"Ahh, we've found the wretched girl. Take her to King Agamemnon!" the soldier ordered treacherously, his eyes glinting like a mad man.

"Let me go, you brute!" Briseis spat at him through her tears. Her tiny hands fought with his large ones in an effort to get him to release her hair. She wrestled against him, kicking the metal guards on his shins as the vice-like grip on her hair tightened and the pain increased sharply.

He laughed viciously at her actions before throwing her to the pairs of soldiers standing before him. They caught her at once and held back her arms with overpowering strength, dragging her out the entrance as they strode through it. Her heart shattered into a thousand pieces and any trace of hope she held onto vanished into the air as she found herself heading towards her doom.

King Agamemnon was a cruel man and cruelty was, no doubt, what she would receive.

………………………………………………..

The raging overhead sun soon dried her tears, leaving sticky trails down her cheeks. Her eyes burned from the piercing sunlight and before long her eyesight seemed to have left her, and she only saw bright lights and moving blurred masses. The coarse sand that she had so often before buried her feet in, grazed her knees and shins as she was pulled through it and soon there was no feeling in them, only the occasional shot of intense pain that her body registered with irony.

This was not supposed to happen. Things were not supposed to be this way.

A lump rose in her throat and remained there. She wanted to cry it all out, to hear Andromache's soft voice soothe and comfort her. Only this time there were no tears and there was no Andromache.

………………………………………………………….

Thank you very much for your reviews, it is greatly appreciated. This story will not follow the movie entirely; such as in speech and actions, but it will be very much alike, other than few minor changes.

And between wretch and wench, I think I'll use both.

Thanks a lot once again.