TELL ME YOU HATE HIM

"Is it not true that you were enslaved by Achilles, cousin?"

Paris's question is laid before her, flat and formal, labeling her as cousin and only a cousin, but not the beloved Briseis she is to him. He does not even raise his eyes to meet hers, but instead looks away as if ashamed of her. But then his dark eyes rove over her appearance and even he finds it difficult to believe that his freshly bathed and groomed cousin had been a slave just a few hours before.

Like all Trojan royalty, she gave off the impression of an immortal from Olympus. The floral fragrances that she had been bathed in ever since she was a child now crowned her with an aura that reminded Paris of the wild-flowers on Mount Ida. Her sienna curls, still moist with bath water, ran like a waterfall of pure darkness down her white-clad back. Escaped wisps of the dark tresses frame her face as do her silver earrings of turquoise stones. All her jewelry from the brooches that hold her dress to the belt that encircles her slim waist is turquoise except for one piece. Only one necklace hangs from her neck and it is unlike all Paris has seen. A chain of shells that are definitely foreign to Troy's beaches. He doesn't want to know how it came to wink at him from his cousin's throat.

And when she does not speak, an unreasonable fury rises like a breaking tide in him.

"Speak!" He roars, knocking the pitcher of wine from a table so it smashes at her feet. Among the shards of painted clay pools the crimson wine which reminds her of blood that she saw aplenty on the Trojan beach.

And in the next moment, he is begging for forgiveness with his knees in the pool of wine (or as she sees it still, blood). And then, his hand clings to hers and in a desperate voice, he pleads,

"Tell me you hate him, for what he's done to Hector, to Troy."

"Why should I?" she whispers, her fingers tangling his hair that is so unlike the golden mane of her lover's. "You would hate me if I don't tell you what you want to hear, but if I lie, you'll know and despise me anyway."

"Never," he promises, kissing her wrist which hovers above him. "I could never hate you."

Perhaps, she thinks, as she catches sight of Helen disappearing from the door, this is why they whisper that we love each other as more than just cousins.

But she laughs at such a thought for Paris is not and never will be Achilles.