Troy is an awesome movie, with awesome actors (Eric and Brad, but I think Orli is a pansy). I couldn't wait to write this!!!
Disclaimer: I do not own anyone in this story. I apologize for any line in the movie which I type in incorrectly. I haven't memorized it, and I know what you haven't either! J If anyone does have a copy of the script, please tell me! Comments please!!! R&R!!! Here it is drum roll…
Chapter Subjects: Achilles and Briseis
Language Note/Summary: This is Briseis' PoV which begins at the time when Achilles first meets her.
Announcements: Just REVIEW!!!
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Caught in the Rain
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Ai! May the sun may glow red the next morning for the terrible wrongs the Greeks have done to us, may the Gods strike Agamemnon and Menelaus and terrible Achilles dead! May Zeus unleash his thunderbolts upon the Greek camps! May Apollo shoot his golden arrows of pestilence on the Greek camp! I, Briseis, cousin to Hector and Paris, sister to Andromache, Priestess to Apollo, pray now, whilst I sit in this tent of the man-killer Achilles. I am caught in this rain of captivity, which holds me to this shore. But I will feel the wind on my face as a free princess of Troy someday!
These coarse ropes which bind me bite at my wrists, and the slightest shift of weight sends searing pains up my arm. The tent is poorly lit, dark, gloomy, Like my future. A hot shot of light comes from the opening, and who other than Achilles steps inside.
"The men found her. We thought she might… amuse you."
The other soldier leaves, the one with the dark blue eyes. I notice that Achilles' eyes are lighter, his hair like the golden sun above, stringy now with sweat and dust and blood. He does not speak, and instead picks up a goblet of magnificent gold and studded with many-coloured gems. Probably another piece of loot picked up in some foreign land, fallen into his hands after the blood of thousands has been spilt.
Most of the water he drinks, and pours the rest down the back of his neck. It is steaming outside, and I cannot imagine wearing armour and fighting on the burning sands, now soaking up the blood of my fallen brethren. His armour is not as grand as I had thought it would be, no swirling designs, no jewels, but it is beautiful in its own way, in a simple way.
How could an man as horrible as he wear something made for a fair man, a man with honour, with a good heart and good intentions? The answer to this I do not know. Time will tell. As I worry about my future, his voice breaks my thoughts.
"What's your name?"
I choose not to speak, and bite down on my tongue. He won't have me obey him so easily, he who is used to others obeying him. The other kings do not bow to him, for he is not Agamemnon, but they listen to him in respectful silence, and do not question him. They do not dare, for fear of the wrath of Achilles. But I will not submit so easily. I do not fear the wrath of Achilles. I think. There is no danger yet.
"Come, now, even a priestess of Apollo has a name."
When I do not reply, he begins to strip of his amour. Those tanned, muscled forearms are still streaked and stained with the grime of battle, and as I sit there, I sense his power. It radiates off of him, heavenly light.
The arm-guards come off first. Then the greaves and breastplate and war-skirt. A soft blue tunic like the shades of the depths of the ocean is pulled on. I remember that his mother is Thetis, daughter of the sea. Certainly, there is royal, if not immortal, blood in him, and no scars cut over his perfect body. He stoops down next to me.
"Don't worry. I won't hurt you." With his dagger, he cuts my bonds.
If you didn't want to hurt me, I wouldn't be here. You wouldn't have set foot on this land, Greek. Your words offer no comfort.
He sighs and stands up as if he heard my thoughts.
"You're royalty, aren't you?" I wince in disgust as his picks up strands of my matted hair, and brings it to his lips. "You're royalty," he decides. Very sure of yourself, aren't you?
I am thankful when the soldier from earlier pokes his head unceremoniously through the tent opening, made strips of leather. Obviously, he is familiar with Achilles. No one else would dare enter unannounced.
"Lord Agamemnon desires to see all of the kings in his tent."
I feel a great load lifted off from my chest as he leaves, and breathe in relief. When the tent flap opens again, I expect to see his blond head, but instead, there are the faces of two, leering Greeks. A scream tears through my throat, but I feel as if no one in the world will be able to help me, even if they hear.
Hector!
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