It had been a heartbreaking day. She had watched a man she loved leave her to go and kill the other man she loved. Of course, it had been a long time since she had had anything to do with Hector. Their brief, secret romantic relationship had been cut short by the arrival of Andromache. Hector had distanced himself from Briseis after that, and she assumed he had grown out of love with her. He certainly loved Andromache.
But Briseis had never been able to love anyone else. So she had chosen to be a priestess. It had been a simple life for her, serving Apollo, keeping the temple beautiful, assisting the men who also lived there. She had felt wanted and needed by them; it was like they were her brothers.
But then Paris had brought that ghastly Helen home from Sparta. Briseis loved Paris more than any other man in the world, but only as a friend. In her eyes, no woman would ever be good enough for Paris. But Helen would never be good enough for any man, as far as Briseis was concerned. Helen was too beautiful, too confident. Too cheap. Briseis wondered with a bitter sob how many other men Helen had slept with behind Paris' back.
It was because of Helen the Greeks had arrived at Troy. Briseis thought back to that terrible morning, when she had been cleaning the statue of Apollo outside of the temple. She must have been the first person in Troy to see the Greeks arrive. She remembered the priests bundling her inside and hiding her in a dark cupboard where the oils were stored. She had sat in there for a long time, until the screams started. The screams of the priests. The laughter of the Greeks.
She had heard Hector as she was dragged off roughly by two of the soldiers. But she couldn't scream for him; the Greek had his hand over her mouth. She knew that if she had called, Hector would have come.
She had been tied up in a tent and left there for a long time, until he had arrived. Achilles. He had changed everything. He was like no man she had ever met, and she knew she loved him as soon as she saw him. She had cursed herself for it. He was a soldier. A killer. But that didn't change what he was. And to her, he was perfect.
Hector had killed his cousin. So Achilles had left to kill Hector.
Briseis knew that only one man would be coming to get her. It would either be Achilles, or it would be Hector. But it would not be both. She knew she would be heartbroken if either of them died, and of course one had to die, so she was curled up in Achilles tent crying. There was nothing she could do.
The beads at the entrance clicked, and she looked up.
Achilles was standing there, looking in, his expression impartial.
Briseis gave an anguished, choked scream and buried her head in into her hands. Hector was dead. Now she would never know if he had still loved her.
She wondered, just for a moment, if it might have been better if Achilles had died that day.