Those He Loves

For Milly, who beta-d for me despite having never seen the movie, with love. Canonical inconsistencies, if anyone can spot any (ooh now there's a challenge), are my fault, not hers. And I await the next chapter of her HP fic with impatience.

Disclaimer: I would say that the characters belong to Homer, whom I respect and honour. Failing that, they're probably technically the property of the director of the movie 'Troy'. Either way, not mine. And Greece, Troy and all places mentioned are the property of Geography, c/o The Creator, as far as I know.

Well, this is a double first for me; my first het fic (for once I've decided to abandon my beloved slash in favour of a het pairing! Shock! Horror!), and my first Troy fic. Naturally this is film-based (while the Iliad is an amazing book, it has been a few years since I last read it, and it is a bit Brad-Pitt-deficient ) although I have added a teeny bit more about the gods in the story.

I'm rating this R just to be safe; pairing is Achilles/Briseis, and while there's no graphic detail, there are squelchies herein.

Notes; since it's been an even longer time since I've read the Aeneid I've had to, um, make up the bits about Mount Ida. But they're short. And plausible, or at least I think they're plausible. And I've taken blue to be the colour of royalty in Troy simply because the royal family all seem to wear it a hell of a lot in the film. It may or may not be factual.

This is an interlude that takes place during the twelve-day ceasefire for Hector's funeral games. Pretty straightforward, obeys canon conventions etc.

pokes new concept of 'het' and eyes it closely Well, it'll be a learning curve 

Briseis clenched her fist tight, feeling the shell necklace bite into her palm as the chariot rumbled over the damp, sandy beach, away from the Myrmidon camp. And away from Achilles.

She could feel his stare boring into her, and she turned to look back at him. His eyes were red-rimmed from the glow of dying fires, and the tears he'd shed over her cousin's body, and his gaze was fierce, like that of the lion he so often compared himself and his men to. She could feel the pressure of her uncle's presence by her shoulder though, and knew she could not gaze back at the Greek warrior for too long without causing suspicion. She turned away, faced the unseeing body of her cousin that lay in front of her, rather than the unblinking face of the lover she was leaving behind.

The priests from the little temple were dead, and the Greeks held the beach. She could not go back there. The High Priest himself welcomed her back to the city, and then she was given all the rest and quiet she desired, 'to recover', and she took up residence in her old rooms. As soon as she was alone, she donned a fresh robe. It was a virgin's robe, and she had to suppress a shudder as she put it on, half from remembered horror of almost being raped while wearing a similar garment, and half from fear that Apollo would see her and punish her, for she was no longer untouched, or pure.

A knock came at her door, and she jumped, startled out of her contemplation. She went to open it, and at the other side stood Andromache. Without a word, Briseis held out her arms, and her cousin's wife almost collapsed into her. They cried for Hector, floods of tears.

Briseis drew Andromache into the room, and bade her sit.

'Dearest cousin, I am sorry for your loss,' she tried to say, but she couldn't finish the sentence for crying. Andromache looked up with her eyes pink and face wet with tears.

'He was your cousin. You grieve as much as I.'

But Briseis could not shake feelings of guilt. She had lain with Achilles, had comforted him, surrendered herself to the enemy, and Hector had died. Why had she not pushed the knife home? She'd had it at Achilles' throat, ready to kill.

'Nothing is easier,' he'd said. 'Do it.' He had urged her to cut his throat, and when she hesitated, he had turned the tables in a heartbeat, and taken that which she had dedicated to Apollo, something not hers to give away, let alone his to take. And she had revelled in it, in the feel of his calloused hands sliding over her skin and the warmth of his mouth on hers. Oh, she was wanton, not fit to be a priestess. And Hector was dead.

The two bereaved women sat with each other throughout that day, sometimes talking through their sniffles, but mostly just grieving. Sometime after the noon bell rang, Helen slipped silently into the room, and joined them, her arm going around Andromache, lending support even as she wept. Briseis thanked the gods that one of them could be strong. And that evening Paris sat with them also, wracked with sorrow for his brother, and guilt for what he saw as his cowardice. Briseis knew what it was he felt, for she felt it also. She scrambled across the floor to her cousin's side. And thus they passed the night in mourning and vigil.

Twelve days. Achilles had promised them twelve days of funeral games for the memory of Hector. Twelve days of trying to keep soldiers in enforced peace was tiring, and two people haunted his waking thoughts as well as his dreams. Patroclus, whose death the great warrior could barely comprehend, and Briseis, with whom he had spent all of one night. He had bedded so many women and men on his campaigns, how was it that one Trojan priestess occupied his mind so well? One night of passion with Briseis, and then the death of Patroclus. Then he had killed her cousin, and the look on her face as he had entered the tent afterwards had been devastating. It all twined together; love and grief and death, until it drove him half-mad. Life was supposed to be simple! He was the greatest warrior in the world, a soldier. He'd been at war for most of his life; he wasn't supposed to feel like this over losing another soldier, or sleeping with a captive, or killing an enemy. But the soldier was his beloved cousin. Why had he brought Patroclus with him?

Why was it all so complicated?

Suddenly Achilles whirled around, his hand shooting out and catching that of Eudores, who had made to move aside the strips of leather that served as a door for the tent.

'What?' Achilles asked harshly, drawing Eudores inside.

'My lord, King Agamemnon wishes to speak with you.'

Achilles rolled his eyes. Would the old fool never be satisfied? Fortunately he had something to offer him should he press for action; Odysseus had told Achilles of his plan to enter Troy. The Myrmidon leader had great respect for the King of Ithaca; the man had brains, when all was said and done, and brains could win wars that a single man's prowess with a sword could not.

Achilles stamped out of his tent towards the more imposing structure inhabited by the King of Mycenae.

Once inside, he inclined his head a fraction towards the visibly fuming commander. 'Agamemnon,' he said levelly.

'Achilles,' Agamemnon said, struggling to keep control of himself. 'So. Twelve days,'

Achilles raised an eyebrow in assent, and waited.

'This is a war, in case it had escaped your notice. If we extended funeral courtesies to every enemy soldier then we'd be here for the rest of our days!'

'He was the crown prince of Troy, and a worthy opponent. He deserved respect,' said Achilles, his voice cold.

'By the gods, Achilles, the brute killed your cousin! Does that mean nothing to you?'

Achilles could see that Agamemnon was trying to rile him. Perhaps he would put up with Odysseus playing such trickery, but then Odysseus would not be so unsubtle. Agamemnon was no great student of other commanders, obviously.

'My cousin was killed in the heat of battle, under a mistaken identity,' the blond warrior said evenly. 'Killing someone in a war is not an unheard of thing to do.'

'What happened to your fury, your revenge? Would you have it said that Achilles son of Peleus was going soft?'

'People may say that if they wish. Anyone that says it to my face may regret having done so, however,' said Achilles threateningly. 'And I will thank you to say no more of my cousin's death. Prince Hector was due funeral rites. I gave my word that no Greek would attack the city for twelve days. Would you undo that oath?'

Grudgingly, Agamemnon shook his head. For all he would dearly have loved to shame Achilles in front of both Greeks and Trojans, his counsellors had warned him that such an act would only impact badly upon his own cause.

'I would not. But you have put me into a hard position, Achilles. My patience with you wears thin.'

'Perhaps you should consider fighting your own battles next time, then. In the meantime, I suggest you call on Odysseus,' said Achilles. 'and listen to what his devious mind has cooked up. You may find that he has something to suggest.'

Achilles turned to go then, without another word. Agamemnon let him leave. It had been a pointless discussion; the Myrmidon had only reiterated what the other kings had said when in conference about the enforced peace. But the suggestion about the wily king of Ithaca was well made. Agamemnon sent a man to find Odysseus.

Back in his tent, Achilles paced, then sat on the bed and fidgeted, then finally trudged down to the shore and threw himself into the water, hoping that a swim would cool his head. Over the Greek camp loomed the shadow of Troy, a brooding presence in the light of the setting sun. Briseis was up there, in that fortified city, doubtless praying to Apollo for the siege to end, for the death of Agamemnon, of Odysseus, of Achilles himself . . . no, she would never pray for anyone's death, that girl. Death was alien to her. She understood nothing of war. Plagued by thoughts of Briseis, Achilles thrust his head under the water and started to swim along the shoreline, hoping to get out of the shadow of the brooding city. But it overlaid the whole camp.

Briseis . . . it was like he could think of nothing, no-one else but poor dead Patroclus and wild Briseis, back in her city.

There was nothing he could do for Patroclus. The boy was gone, burnt to ashes, his soul doubtless wandering Elysium with the other fallen warriors of the world. A noble end, one Achilles himself would not be ashamed to have met, but too soon, oh far too soon for his cousin.

But Briseis . . . she lived. He had to see her. He had to get into the city. All men said it was impossible, not with ten thousand men could you enter the besieged Troy!

Achilles thought he might try it alone.

Briseis had spent the day in prayer, entreating the gods to listen to her, to stop the killing. Apollo, of course, patron god of the city, had occupied her most of the day, but Athena, goddess of wisdom and defensive war, surely she could help? Zeus, mightiest of all, and Hera, his consort, a goddess of women, of home and hearth, would they not be able to put a stop to this? Briseis even appealed to Aphrodite, on the basis that the deep and abiding love between Helen and Paris was the cause of all of this, and she had caused it, had given Helen to Paris.

She did not stop at the figure of Ares.

Back in her room though, memories of her conversation with Achilles on the subject of gods came back to haunt her.

'And what of Ares, god of war?'

'All the gods are to be respected and feared . . .'

It was true, that she knew. She had condemned Achilles as a dumb brute, then simply as a brute, a murderer. Yet he followed the creed of the warrior, one who revered Ares, a god equal in stature to the others whom she had prayed to that day. Why was that different to what she did in prayer and thought, dedicated to Apollo, god of the sun, music, an intellectual god?

But Achilles kills people! Her heart argued with her mind. He kills and kills. His gift to the world is his skill at killing. How can I love such a man?

He seemed so knowing, so confident, whether talking about gods, or seducing her not-unwilling body. So confident. They said he was the son of Thetis, a sea-goddess. Was that how he knew so much about the gods? It was claimed that all he sought was immortality. What if he was immortal? With divine parentage, did that make him immortal? Probably not; others who were supposedly half-divine were not immortal. But maybe it explained his desire for immortality.

And yet he was so resigned. He would kill, and continue to kill, until he died. Until it was his turn to lie on the pyre with coins for the ferryman on his eyes.

'Everyone dies . . .'

Briseis swallowed a sob. She didn't want him to die. She didn't want this war to happen; she didn't want Achilles to die!

There was a soft knock on her door, and a low voice said 'Briseis?'

Achilles knew one fundamental rule of large, fortified cities. They can become traps very fast. And so no sensible king would build a walled city without leaving a back exit. Preferably one that emerged a bit away from the city.

The Myrmidon commander had learnt from Odysseus. He reasoned that any escape route would lead to the nearest safe place, and around here that was probably Mount Ida. So Achilles headed in that direction, between the walls and the mountain. He found an old goat track and followed it.

'Ah,' he said with some satisfaction. Amongst a fall of rocks near the side of the mountain he could spy a dark hole. The entrance to a tunnel, he was willing to bet. Warily, he entered.

As he walked along in the dark, his internal compass was telling him that he was walking back the way he had come; back towards Troy. The path underfoot became more and more easy on the feet, until it was dressed stone he was treading on, and the props on the sides of the tunnel became smoother to his hand as he felt his way along. Eventually he came to a door, which he opened. He appeared to be in a storeroom.

'So much for 'no enemy has ever entered Troy',' he muttered to himself with dark humour as he edged out of the storeroom and made for the higher levels of the city. He was glad that he'd thought to bring a hooded cloak with him to mask his face and his clothing, for even at this late hour the city was busy. He kept a close eye on the decorations of the buildings. Royalty tended to be in the more ostentatious parts of any city, and Briseis was royalty. But she was also a priestess of Apollo, although Achilles didn't know how long that would last now that she had lost the virginity they seemed to think so necessary for the job. Did they think gods weren't prey to human-like passions, that they wouldn't approve or understand? He shook his head, and kept a look-out for religious statuary, reasoning that it might also indicate where she could be.

He was walking along a covered walkway, when he noticed a preponderance of guards near an ornate building, decorated in the royal blue. That would be where Briseis was. Carefully, trying not to attract attention, he slipped behind one of the pillars that held up the roof of the walkway, and surveyed the scene. The wall there was built of stone blocks, further out at the base than at the top, and with enough of a step left on each block that he could easily climb it. But that was no use if all it meant was that he was an easy target for one of those bow-carrying guards.

Achilles scanned the line of guards on the balcony intently, looking for an opening . . . ah. There was one guard sleeping.

They don't expect anyone to get in, thought Achilles with some satisfaction. So the sentries fall asleep.

There was about twenty metres distance between each guard, and the sleeping man was leaning against a huge pillar, the twin of the one Achilles was hiding behind, which would provide some cover from detection by the left-hand side guard. Providing he was quick and quiet, Achilles could get up there, and from there through the doorway into the building.

It was easier than he'd thought. Achilles would have skinned any Myrmidon sleeping at his post. He would also have posted guards at more frequent intervals along the balcony. Really all it took was silence and good timing to get past the guards. Achilles had a vague theory that supposed impenetrability was a bad thing for cities. It bred weakness.

A door caught his eye; decorated in blue with the lyre of Apollo, and a picture of the sun. Briseis' door.

He knocked. 'Briseis?' he said quietly, his voice uneven.

Briseis froze. Carefully she walked towards the door, hesitating before putting her hand on the handle.

'Who's there?' she asked nervously.

'Achilles,' and this time the voice was nothing more than a rough whisper. She eased the door open, trying to be as quiet as she could, and when it was wide open enough to admit him she stepped back, allowing him inside. Once he was standing beside her, she closed the door and slid the bolt home.

'What are you doing here?' she asked in a fierce undertone. 'This is madness!'

'I had to see you,' he said. His eyes travelled down her body, making her shiver under the intensity of his gaze, before returning to her face. 'I see you still wear the robe of a virgin,' he added, quirking an eyebrow in enquiry. She blushed, which made him smile slightly.

'I am still a priestess,' she said defensively. 'Despite my indiscretions,'

He had not expected that. It was like a slap in the face. 'So . . . when you were with me, it was an indiscretion. I was an indiscretion,' he said, still keeping a rein on volume, but his soft voice belied the sudden flash of anger he felt. 'Did the other priests ask you about your time in the Greek camp? Or did they just assume you'd been raped, and leave it at that?' Briseis said nothing.

'So was it rape? Do you think I raped you, Briseis, princess of Troy? You were the one with your knife at my throat.' She still stared mutely at him. 'By the gods girl, speak!'

'I never thought of it as rape,' she said in a tight voice.

'But an indiscretion, nonetheless,' Achilles was not letting go on this point.

'Oh, and much it meant to you! I gave myself to you, forsaking my vows, and you could not respect me enough to spare my cousin an ignoble death!'

'He killed Patroclus!'

'In battle! Soldiers die, Achilles, you told me that yourself. Everyone dies, what difference does it make now or fifty years from now? That is what you said to me!'

'He was too young to be fighting!'

'Then why did you bring him to the war?'

Achilles was silent for a long moment. He still did not have the answer to that himself. And then he said; 'I do respect you.'

'What?'

'I respect you. You have courage, and that is rare in a pampered princess of royal blood.' He held her gaze with his own. 'You were not an indiscretion to me. You were my guest.'

'Achilles-' But what she was about to say was cut off by an abrupt knock at the door, and the voice of a guard.

'My lady? Is something wrong? I heard voices . . . ' He rattled the handle of the door.

Briseis pushed Achilles violently away from the door, and he stumbled, a foot caught in the rug on her floor. Affecting a yawn, she said to the invisible guard, 'All is well, thank you. I was praying. You may return to your post.'

'As you wish, my lady,' came the guard's voice again, and then for a few heartbeats all that could be heard were his footsteps dying away.

Briseis turned, looked down at Achilles sitting on the floor, against the side of the bed.

'We must be quiet,' she said, and held her hand out to pull him up. He took it, but instead tugged her down to sit beside him on the floor.

'I'm sure we can manage that,' he said with a smile. She became wary. Had he come only to enjoy her body again? She decided to bring the conversation back to gods again, as that topic seemed to interest him. And she had a question she wanted to ask him.

'Is it true, what they say about your mother?' she asked, regarding him frankly. He rolled his eyes.

'That depends. Precisely what are they saying about my mother?'

'That she is . . .' and now Briseis felt foolish even saying it, 'a goddess?'

Achilles sighed. 'If I tell you, will you promise not to tell another soul?'

'I promise,' she said, wondering as she did so why it was so important that she swear, considering it was a common enough rumour.

'Then listen. Yes, my mother is Thetis, a Nereid. My father is Peleus of Phythia.'

'And then is it true that you are immortal?'

He scoffed. 'Immortal? I have skill in avoiding the weapons of others. But I can die like any other mortal, if I am hit where I am vulnerable. As Hector did, and as Patroclus did. I am still a man, Briseis, whoever my mother may be. I eat, sleep, desire the things any man desires,' he stared into her eyes again, his expression fierce and hungry, and lonely. 'And I grieve too. Do not think you have a monopoly on such an emotion.' He attempted a smile. She touched his cheek, saddened by what she saw in his eyes.

'Do you miss him so much?' she asked gently.

'Too much,' he said, his voice cracking. 'But I am sorry for hurting you, that day. Truly sorry.'

She lowered her eyes. 'I have forgotten it already,' she said, and made to drop her hand back to her lap, but he caught it.

'Briseis,' he began, kissing the tips of her fingers. 'Should I go then?' He made to stand up, and instinctively she clutched at him. Her head said to let him go, but the rest of her had other ideas.

'No,' she whispered. 'Stay with me tonight.' Her hand moved up to cradle his face again, and he leant down and drew her into a deep kiss. Her hand went around his neck to tangle in his hair, and the other came up to join it. Achilles' hands moved to her waist, supporting her slender body. She leant back into his encircling arms, her weight bringing him down on top of her, but he had other ideas. Why stay on the floor when a bed was readily available? Wrapping his arms more snugly around her, he swung her up onto the bed, and then settled beside her, exploring the contours of her body under the robe she still wore. She cried out with pleasure, and he moved to cover her, but she gripped his shoulders and moved to push him up.

'We must be quiet,' she whispered hoarsely, and shook him slightly, almost as punctuation. 'If the guards find you here . . .'

In answer he ran a hand intimately along her side, moving the robe out of the way, and kissed her as he leaned into her, swallowing her cries with his mouth.

For a long time the only sounds to be heard were their laboured breathing, and the rustling of bedclothes.

Briseis woke before dawn to the sounds of Achilles dressing.

'Where are you going?' she asked drowsily.

'Back to my men,' he said, and crossed to the bed, still doing up his clothes. 'Briseis, Odysseus knows a way to breach the defences,' he said urgently, taking her hand. 'Once the funeral games are over, he will use it. The Greeks will get in. Troy will fall.' Before she could react, he went on. 'I will not let anything happen to you, I swear. I do not know when the attack will come, only that it is coming. When it does, I will get you out. You have to trust me.'

'What of the others? Achilles, so many people live here. They cannot die!' She was weeping softly at the thought of the doom of her city. He lifted her chin gently, reassuringly.

'There is a way out, a secret passage. I used it to get in. Priam and maybe Paris will know of it, I am sure. They will lead your people out. But I must be sure of your safety. I will come for you myself. You know all too well what soldiers will do to captives.' He kissed her fiercely, as if warding off such a fate, and then abruptly went to the door. 'Look to my coming, Briseis of Troy. Never let it be said that Achilles abandons those he loves.'

And with that he left.