A/N: Thank you all for your wonderful replies. I posted the first chapter so quickly (I'd been previously threatened by a close friend) that I forgot to offer any explanations. The story is mostly the in-between of the scenes from the movie, when they should have shown us what Achilles and Briseis were thinking and doing, but didn't. You'd think after having seen the movie twice already I'd have all the right lines nailed, but I don't. I'm going mostly from (bad) memory, and purposely changing certain details. I'm not sure how long this is going to be, but as with all fanfic I've written, the story somehow figures itself out. Enjoy!
P.S. This one, too, is for my girl Rozi. Muah.
Achilles walked into Agamemnon's tent just as Nestor called him the king of kings. He snorted to himself, thinking of the man's treachery and hypocrisy. To say that Agamemnon lacked honor would be the understatement of the century. The man was ruthless, shameless, and merciless. He lived by absolutely no code but that of self-interest, and that made him dangerous even to the Greeks.
Nestor presented a sword, a spoil of war to Agamemnon, congratulating the king on his victory. He then stood from his kneeling position and left the tent, followed by Menelaus and a few other men. Odysseus was the last to exit, and on his way he paused to smile at his good friend. "Remember Achilles," he said while placing a hand on the warrior's shoulder, "war is nothing but young men dying and old men talking."
Achilles shook his head slightly as Odysseus passed by him. Once they were alone, he walked up to Agamemnon's throne and began, mockingly, "Congratulations, king of kings. You have won a great victory today."
"The beach of Troy belonged to Priam in the morning," Agamemnon replied, "and it belongs to Agamemnon in the afternoon." After a short pause he continued, "Your men sacked the Temple of Apollo."
"Anything you want from it is yours. My men don't care about the gold," Achilles told the haughty king.
"And neither do you," Agamemnon observed, standing from his throne. "You came to Troy for your own purpose, for glory."
"And glory shall be mine."
"You fool!" the king sneered. "History remembers kings, not soldiers. Your name shall die with your body. Agamemnon will live throughout the ages."
Achilles scoffed, turning his back to Agamemnon. "Anything you want from the temple is yours. Take all the gold, I don't care."
"I don't want the gold," the king retorted, approaching Achilles. "I already have my prize."
Achilles' face froze when he realized who he was referring to. His heart constricted painfully in his chest, and for a moment he found it difficult to breathe. The commotion from behind caused him to spin around, and rage engulfed him when he saw the priestess shoved roughly into the tent. When she looked up at him her eyes were calm, but he saw a slight glitter of fear dancing in the brown orbs. Time stood still when he saw the cut on her eyebrow, and yet another new one beside her lip.
Agamemnon observed him carefully. Achilles was just a fool who'd let a woman get to him, a virgin woman no less. It excited him to know that he'd found a weakness in the legendary warrior, something he could use to goad him on. He encircled the Trojan woman slowly, stopping by her side and lifting a lock of her hair to his nose. "You didn't tell me Achilles of this one particular spoil of war," he murmured, tilting his head to look at the shaken man.
"Release her, Agamemnon. Your dispute is with me."
"I can't do that. See, I'm the king, Achilles, I always have the upper hand." He snickered when he saw a muscle in Achilles' jaw tick. "I think I'll have her give me a bath tonight," Agamemnon continued, leaning into Briseis. "And after that...who knows?"
The image of the pig treating the priestess like a whore burned into his mind, and Achilles pulled out his sword. "Release her now," he commanded, slicing the sword through the air. "Release her!" He yelled, ready for bloodshed.
When Agamemnon's soldiers closed in on him, Briseis broke free from her captor and stepped forward. "Stop!" She yelled, and all eyes turned to her. "There has been enough slaughter today. I will not have anyone dying because of me." She turned to Achilles, whose chest was heaving. "If killing is your only skill, that is your curse," she told him, her words slashing though him, rendering him speechless.
Agamemnon jeered at the silent warrior. "Well, well. The mighty Achilles, silenced by a slave woman."
Achilles straightened in his spot, pointing the edge of his sword at the man he hated most in the world. "Before this war is over I will stand above your corpse and smile," he snarled before exiting the tent.
The walk across the beach was long and torturous. Images of the priestess, whose name he didn't even know, flashed in his mind and burned in places he didn't know existed. He trudged forward, the rage within him expanding with every step he took. He passed by one of his soldiers and took him by the arm. "We don't fight anymore," he said firmly, leaving no room for questions. As he approached his own tent, the rage bore down on him. He entered it furiously, knocking over the washbasin with a simple wave of his hand. He reached for anything he could find and threw it to the ground, satisfied when it split into a million pieces. When everything around him was in complete ruins, he slumped down into the corner the priestess had occupied and reached for his wine.
If killing is your only skill, that is your curse.
Her words echoed in his head, burning holes in his skull. For the first time in his life he was questioning everything, questioning the nature of his own existence. All because of a few words uttered by a Trojan priestess. All because of the too few looks she'd given hem. All because of her. He drowned his newfound, terrifying feelings in cup after cup of wine, until the intoxicating liquid began to calm his nerves. But every time he'd blink, her image would flash through his memory for a split second, and he was back to square one. He was back to feeling the impossible rage, but he was accustomed to rage. What he wasn't accustomed to was the fear. Fear for her and fear for how he'd cope if anything happened to her. He'd never felt fear before, and he now knew what he'd always known - he hated it. He hated being afraid. He'd do anything to erase the knowledge that she existed in the world, in his world, but he couldn't. And that scared him the most.
He took one last sip of wine and flung the silver cup across the tent. He had to get her back, here, in his tent where no man could touch her. No man but him. He had to get her back so she could look at him with those accusing eyes of hers and throw his banter right back at him. He had to have her back, have her innocence back and look upon her because as much as she irritated him, she calmed him all the more. She made him more human, and he'd never felt that way before. But mostly he just wanted her to be where he knew she'd be safe from harm. He wanted her with him, and no matter what he had to do he'd make it happen.
His thoughts were interrupted as someone stormed into his tent. It was Patroclus, and he was furious.
"You ordered the soldiers not to fight?" he demanded, staring at his cousin.
Achilles lifted his head slowly but uttered no reply.
"Don't you care that Greeks will die tomorrow? All because you can't stand Agamemnon."
"Have you ever been in battle, Patroclus?" Achilles asked the young man calmly.
Patroclus shifted on his feet. "No."
"Have you ever killed a man?"
"No."
"I have," Achilles said, looking away. "And there is nothing glorious about it. At night I see them, the faces of the men I've killed. They're standing across the river waiting for me. And they say 'welcome brother'."
"So you won't fight?"
"No," Achilles answered, looking at him again. "And neither will you. You are much too young."
"You taught me everything you know. I'm ready!"
"Patroclus, no," he said firmly.
"We're going to see them tomorrow. Falling, dying. And it will be on your shoulders."
"I think you should leave now."
"But-"
"Patroclus, go!" Achilles commanded, and the young man left furiously.
He leaned his head back on the pillar and closed his eyes. Where was she now? What was she doing? What was being done to her? The thoughts raided his mind, setting it on fire. If Agamemnon laid even a finger on her, he'd have the pleasure of slitting the bastard's throat himself. He'd make Agamemnon's death long and painful, and he'd smile. But even that, he now knew, wouldn't alleviate the anger of knowing she'd been hurt because of him. He'd promised her safety, but hadn't delivered. The events of the day bombarded him like a shower of fiery arrows, and he cowered underneath them.
"Are you afraid of me?" he asked.
"Should I be?"
"You don't have to be afraid. You're safe here."
He'd lied to her. He'd made her only one promise in the few hours that he'd known her, and he broke it. It didn't matter whether she'd believed him or not. It mattered that he'd believed it. And now he was sitting in his tent, alone and drunk. He'd been with so many women, too many women, but had never lingered too long on any one of them. Yet this particular one got deep under his skin, and he had no idea how to get her out. He didn't know if he even wanted to. He hadn't touched her, but she coursed through his veins like his very blood.
And that wasn't good.
Maybe it was her defiance. Maybe because it posed a challenge, and he loved challenges. Maybe it was because she reminded him of himself, more so than any other person he'd ever met. And it helped that she was a woman. She was a beautiful, smart, proud woman. She was everything he didn't know he wanted. Or needed.
He was an arrogant man, he knew that. He went through life caring for very few people and remembering even fewer. The masses were uninteresting and unworthy of his attention. Especially the women. To him they were beautiful, seductive, and replaceable. Very easily replaceable. Each new face was just a new body to warm his bed. They didn't intrigue him for any reason other than primal, male pleasure. And that's how he'd liked it. He'd though that it was enough. But after meeting the priestess, he knew that it wasn't.
It didn't even come close to being enough.
The Trojan woman, amidst all her innocence, actually had a personality that he cared to see. She also had wisdom and was as fearless as they got. At first he'd mistaken it for conceit, but he now understood that it was merely her bravery that kept her going. She cowered to no one, and he liked it. But at that particular moment, it scared the hell out of him. He knew that whatever Agamemnon demanded of her, she'd refuse. He was torn between the satisfaction and the fear he felt because of her. He wanted to go look for her, but was far too drunk and tired to stand up. Instead, he felt his heavy lids dropping over his eyes and allowed sleep to engulf him.
And for the first time in a long time, he dreamed.
He dreamed of the priestess and her large brown eyes that had the power to nail him to a wall.
