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Achilles marched stonily past the countless men, his eyes black with dark ire. His roaring anger had cooled off, but the essence of it remained in him. His powerful strides on the soft sand marked his presence, and the working procession of men hurried to part when he neared. In any occasion, no man would do well to stand in the great Achilles way. And now, with the black fury evident in his eyes, it would mean death to any man who was foolish enough not to recognize it.

The Greek soldiers stared at his passing back with well-placed fear and caution. Nothing had ever made the impassive man burn with such rage. 

As soon as he passed each one, it was only a few tense moments before they returned to their work, heads bent conscientiously, for fear that he would sense their curious eyes and lead to the undesirable situation where they would incur his wrath.

He did not see their fearful expressions or take note of their actions. To him, it had simply become natural for men to part in his presence. He did not acknowledge them, nor feel strengthened by the mere reaction his presence had caused.

He walked, swift and fast, his determined strides cutting through the thick heatedness. In no time he reached the end of the beach, one reserved only for him and the Myrmidons. There was no written rule which entitled his privacy and space, but an unspoken one. And thus all the men stayed clear of it, for it was safer to observe the way of things and follow, than to read and disobey.

He brushed past Eurdorus, who had been waiting patiently for his arrival with an anxious look upon his face. With the intention of informing Achilles that his war prize had been snatched away, his creased features gradually ceased to be as he caught sight of his face. Knowing then that Achilles knew of the seizure, he stepped back respectfully and went off to warn the rest of the Myrmidons that the great Achilles would be best left alone today.

Pushing aside the leather flaps to his tent in a boorish manner, Achilles entered. With rough fingers, he undid his top and fell back onto the pile of furs. The fine smooth hairs clung to his sticky skin and his chest was tight with irritation and frustration. He let out a growl.

Having an urge to go back to Agamemnon and give him the killing he deserved, he picked up a ceramic plate lying next to him and flung it on the ground. It smashed into fragments of earth colored pieces and the few grapes that it held lay split upon the floor.

Achilles curled his fists into a tight ball, leaning back dejectedly against the tent. He closed his eyes wearily, anger welling inside him as he thought of the girl.

Briseis.

Ignorant fool! She could have escaped from Agamemnon's wily clutches had she not been so honorable, so self-sacrificial. Three Greek lives were nothing when there were thousands, millions more! He sighed helplessly.

What could he do when she would not allow anything to be done? He groaned inwardly at how one Trojan girl had rendered him helpless. No man, giant, nor King could boast of such a feat, and to think that a mere priestess had unknowingly succeeded in doing so!

Picking up a flask of wine beside him, he immersed himself in drinking, a temporary healing that softened his pain and blurred his troubled thoughts.

His mind wandered back to her once more, finding himself unable to detach himself from her. In the few short hours of gaining her, he had become so deeply entrenched in her fiery spirit, her royal pride, sense of honor and duty, and her arrogance and dignity. He could not put his finger upon anything particular that made him so attracted to her, so curious.

Of course, she was beautiful in her flesh and face. It was not a womanly-matured beauty, one that was so capable of seduction and coyness. No.

Her beauty was pure and innocent. One that could burn an impression in a memory forever, or just leave a mild mark of its presence, but yet its touch would not be forgotten because it left a yearning for more.

He wanted to find out who she was and what lay beneath the façade she set up around herself. It was what drew him to her, regardless of whether she was present before him or not.

Because something had tamed in him when her eyes had met with his. Something about her caused him to forget the brutal way of life he lived, where men died and fell with the wind.

She held a truth in her that he wanted to free, because he had gotten a glimpse of the other things life held that he had so forcefully pushed out of his heart.

He had seen happiness, joy, honor, respect, family, contentment, freedom and love.

No, it's not just an attraction. It's a need. He realized resignedly. I need her.

It was not just for physical pleasure and satisfaction, not merely lust and passion. He felt no remote sense of love for her. It was a selfish desire on his part, a naïve hope that maybe she could help heal the emotional wounds within him, help him acquire peace. He rested his head wearily on his shoulders, his grip on the goblet tightening so. Frustrated and confused, he could find no resolution to alleviate the anguish. He flung the goblet up in a brusque movement and watched the pale red liquid rose out in a smooth curve, splashing lightly on the earth surface when it fell.

As he stared at the earthen ground drink up the rich liquid rapidly, he began to laugh. His laughter filled the tent, but it was not laughter that rang out in joyous tones of happiness. It was bitter, but sweet in its bitterness.

He laughed softly in the lonely silence, finding it almost unbelievable at the state he was reduced to.

A wreck because of a virgin priestess. What have you become? A mere mortal?

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I hope you like this. I thought that you guys might want to see something short about his thoughts, instead of just hers. I really don't know what to make of this chapter, I think it's a little odd but please give me your comments. Thanks.