They sat together in silence, a blissful, content silence as they ate. He looked at her the entire time, and she gathered enough courage once in a while to meet his penetrating gaze. Although she wasn't hungry at all, she forced the food down her throat because she knew she hadn't eaten in a while. As she felt his eyes on her, boring into her very soul, the air became thicker and it became a little harder to breathe.
The sun was setting outside, she knew, and anxiously anticipated what this evening would bring. She could foretell that it would somehow, in some way, be different than the previous two. The first night he'd held her body, the second her heart, but tonight he would have her soul. And she was both terrified and exhilarated at how tonight would play out to be. Especially after a day of mutual understanding…and a bath that inadvertently turned into so much more.
He'd had someone bring the water for her, steaming hot, and somehow he'd managed to get into his possession the jasmine oil she loved so much. He spilled some into the bathwater, and then their eyes locked, and both of their chests heaved with expectation. Her hands unconsciously began fidgeting with the buttons on her dress, but in a flash he was behind her, his arms of steel around her as he pried the buttons loose. She felt his heavy breath on her ear – it was ragged and short and it made her body burn. Once he undid every button, he peeled the dress off of her, and she felt her long hair cascade across her naked back, but she didn't care. Little by little that unnecessary, girlish shyness was slipping from her reach, and she was becoming accustomed to being looked upon as a woman.
She turned around slowly, reveling in the sensations as his eyes drank her up. She saw him struggle to swallow, and it pleased her. He then took her hand and led her into the bath, and she settled comfortably inside it. It was soothing and calming, and everything that she needed – until his hands were inside there too, his large, powerful hands gently scrubbing her skin with a washcloth. Her eyes flew open to meet his impossible blue, and a shock of awareness passed between them, and they became enclosed in their bubble once again.
As he tended to her limbs and everything in between with his expert hands, she was vaguely aware that somehow, in some way, he was again making love to her. She sank deeper into the tub, her body trembling at the sensations he was causing within her. After a while she felt his hands end their roaming and she opened her eyes to find him sitting back looking at her face, his hands hanging over the rim of the tub.
She reached for his hair then, delving her fingers into the perfect locks, and he closed his eyes. She tugged his head closer and closer still, until their lips met and exploded. First the kiss was slow, innocent, but it quickly escalated until he was lifting her out of the tub. She broke the kiss then, his disappointed eyes boring into hers as he allowed her to resettle in the tub. He observed as her hand trailed over to his shoulder to undo the knot that kept his outfit in place, and understood what she intended, and it pleased him immensely. In no time he was blissfully sharing the bath with her, kissing her wet hair, her wet lips, her wet shoulders. They spent what seemed like forever in there, until the water began getting cold.
Both got out reluctantly, dried their bodies reluctantly, dressed reluctantly. All this they did in silence, their eyes speaking everything their lips dared not. The rest of the day was spent in a similar manner, by each other's side, doing simple little things and having short, light conversations that made it seem as though they could do this forever. It was a different world, for the both of them, being immersed in one another and nothing else. It was safe, ever so safe – had finally become safer than anything they had ever been used to.
But when the air thickened between them, as it did now, that safety became a little more unstable and she became a little more anxious. Deciding that she needed a walk to clear her head and her heart, she stood up slowly, her intent clear in her eyes. Achilles nodded, sorry to lose her company but knowing that she needed some time for herself, or else she would become completely unwound, and he hated when she was unwound. An unwound Briseis meant a hollow, emotionless Briseis, and he hated that. He loved to see the fire, or anger, or embarrassment, or anything dancing in her eyes rather than nothing.
And so he nodded his head and she slipped out of his tent and onto the dark beach. She walked slowly, vaguely aware that the soldiers had returned from the battle, a little more demoralized than they had been yesterday. As she felt that twinge of happiness erupt from somewhere inside her, there was some guilt laced with it, and she became frustrated. When she was with Achilles, fighting with him, sitting with him, making love to him – all that her world consisted of was Achilles, and she was to herself Briseis, Achilles' Briseis. But as she walked along the beach, she began to remember what it was like to be Troy's Briseis, and the anguish of guilt and uncertainty bore down on her, tearing her heart in two.
Although she didn't want to, she began to remember, and she became aware of her two realities once again. On the one side she was the niece of Troy's king, and on the other she was Achilles' lover. The two completely impossible situations had managed to bore themselves into the life and heart of only one person, and she thought she would explode. She came to the shore as everything fell on her, striking her down like a powerful blow, and she lost her footing. She found herself sitting numbly on the sand, staring out into the dark waters before her.
What was she to do? How was she to leave Troy when she had been a Trojan her entire life? Or, on the other impossible end, how was she to leave Achilles when he had become her entire world? She knew there was no possible way to alleviate the situation, for whichever half of herself she chose to live with, she knew the other half would die.
And then she realized that even if she decided to return to Troy, she would have to live with the guilt of betraying her country as well as the anguish of leaving Achilles behind. But if she remained with Achilles, she would always be a Trojan and would have the man she loved by her side.
The man she loved?
Briseis frowned. When had…what did she understand about love? Up until three days ago she understood nothing about men, and now she was speaking of love? If love made it difficult to breathe, if it caused every inch of her body to burn, if it made her want to be next to Achilles all the time – then perhaps she was indeed in love. Then, perhaps she understood her dear cousin Paris' decision to wage a war for Helen, for she would surely wage a war for Achilles. She decided that she would do anything for Achilles, and perhaps it was a bit naïve, or completely naïve, but she didn't care.
She loved him.
Feeling more secure about the past few days than ever before, she stood up decisively and headed back to her haven. But as she approached the black tent and saw the argument that had ensued, as she saw Achilles chocking Eudorus to his death, everything she had just decided on became a distant memory.
- - -
When Eudorus' head poked into his tent, Achilles immediately knew that something was terribly wrong. He also knew that it had nothing to do with the Myrmidons betraying his command. It was much more than that, much more complicated, much more dreaded. His face quickly transformed into a mask of stone as he followed Eudorus outside. His eyes observed the man's closed fist, then traveled back to his tortured green eyes.
"My Lord," Eudorus attempted, his voice faltering for the first time in his life.
"What is it, Eudorus?" Achilles pressed.
"My Lord, something terrible happened today."
Achilles' frown deepened. "I know. You disobeyed my order."
"But…we didn't. My Lord, we thought…it was you marching today, and so we followed."
The dread began to spread as Eudorus spoke. "What are you talking about?"
"My Lord, he moved exactly like you. His movements were flawless. He wore your armor."
Achilles became increasingly disturbed, and a moment passed before he finally understood. He raked his clouded, unreadable eyes over the beach. "Patroclus," he said harshly. "Where is Patroclus?"
"My Lord," Eudorus attempted, but Achilles brushed him aside.
"Patroclus!" he yelled, unable to allow himself the realization that had already formed in his mind.
"He wore your armor today," Eudorus managed finally, loosening his grip on the young man's necklace. "We thought it was you," he offered weakly, shrinking when Achilles' furious eyes turned on him. "And Hector...he came toward him. And we thought it was you."
He saw the flash of white in Eudorus' hand, and he knew. Pain seared throughout him, pain like he had never known before, and everything happened in a flash. Eudorus' throat was clutched tightly in his hand, but still he felt nothing other than the pain. He heard nothing, not Eudorus' chokes, not Briseis' screams as she begged him to stop.
Patroclus had died.
He wanted to howl like a wild animal. Instead he clutched harder, until he felt her tiny hands on his arm, attempting to save a life. His mad eyes turned to her, Hector's little cousin, and the fury in him grew.
"Stop! Achilles, stop!" She begged him, trying to prevent his steel of an arm from choking Eudorus to death. When his furious, furious eyes fell on her, she felt the fear fill her, and saw the monster she'd witnessed in Apollo's temple.
He dismissed Eudorus with a simple wave of his hand and the man fell to the ground, gasping for breath. He had known, ever since he'd lifted the helmet to reveal Patroclus' dying face that a million deaths would be more welcome than delivering the news to Achilles, whose fury was now completely directed at a terrified Briseis.
Her eyes widened when she saw his hand reach for her neck this time, and she stumbled backward, to no avail. She felt those fingers close around her neck, around her life, the same fingers that had ever so gently strummed across her naked body earlier that day. She looked upon the man that she loved, or the man she thought she loved, and he wasn't that man. He was a warrior once again, an unearthed beast whose territory had been crossed. As her body began to get weaker and weaker, she managed out a bitter chuckle at the irony of it all.
The man who had given her the life she never could have imagined was going to end it as well.
The man who owned her body and her soul was going to send both to the underworld, and she would never be in this place again. And suddenly it all came back to her in a flash - being shoved into his tent, stopping him from dying because of her, foolishly thinking she could end his life, being pressed underneath him as he took her old life and gave her a new one, being honored (honored?) as his guest, being told that she mumbles in her sleep, sharing her bath with him – it all came back to her at the moment when he was taking it all away, and she couldn't help but let out a bitter chuckle, and he froze.
He froze, for a million different reasons – mostly for her life and for his sanity. He released her as a new wave of anger engulfed him, anger at himself and anger at fate for dealing him such a despised card. He'd almost killed her, had almost choked her to death, and the realization made him tremble with fear.
I could have forgiven a dumb brute.
His eyes locked with hers, and when he saw her tears they sliced through his heart. He wanted to explain himself to her, to tell her that her cousin had killed his cousin, a boy inexperienced in battle. He wanted to erase the fear from her eyes and erase the look that told him she had no idea who he was. But she did, because he was that man who made love to her, who held her, who promised to her – he was that man.
But he was also a warrior.
And he would always be a warrior.
He took a step forward, but she retreated quickly, running away into the dark beach, and he lacked the emotional and physical strength to follow her.
Instead, he pushed down the burst of regret and agony at having hurt her, and turned back to Eudorus who was standing once again.
"Here, my Lord," the faithful man said cautiously, presenting Patroclus' necklace to him.
And the pain slammed into him again.
He took the white beads speechlessly and retreated to his dim quarters. Once inside, he slumped onto the floor, clutching the beads so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He wasn't used to so many conflicting feelings bearing down at him all at once. There was the pain because of his cousin's death, and the fury that came with it, but there was also the pain of having hurt Briseis and knowing that he will hurt her yet again for he must take vengeance for his cousin. And the pain he felt because of Petroclus was different from the pain he felt because of Briseis; the pain for his cousin gnawed at his heart while the pain for Briseis gnawed at his soul. Both were searing and unbearable, but one would subside while the other would remain with him forever.
He blew out a heavy breath, attempting to lessen some of the burden that weighed down on his shoulders. Part of that burden was carried by the warrior, but a large part of it was carried by the man within him. And that man, he decided, was weak, and he detested him – but it was that man upon whom Briseis looked so fondly and allowed to touch her. And so he had to keep that man, no matter how much it hurt, because it would hurt worse if she always looked upon him as a warrior.
And he hated when she looked upon him as a warrior. The fear and disgust were evident in her eyes, as they had been in the moment he'd turned on her, and he hated it.
Yet he couldn't kill that warrior because, until Briseis, that warrior was all he knew.
And that warrior was moving around numbly now, reaching for his weapons, sharpening them for his meeting with Hector. That warrior was oblivious when her tiny form reappeared in his presence, didn't care that she walked to the farthest corner and turned her face away from him, hugging her legs close to her protectively like she had done upon their first encounter.
An hour passed, perhaps even two, neither of them could be certain. The only sound that broke the silence inside the tent was the steady rhythm of metal against metal as he sharpened his weapons. The man in him observed her carefully from the corner of his eye, recoiling every time she flinched at the sounds he was making.
Eventually he grew satisfied with his work, or perhaps he grew tired, he wasn't sure, and sat back. He stared at the metal before him, metal that would spill blood in the morning, and the knot in his chest only grew tighter, making it harder to breathe.
He raked his gaze over her, and seeing that she had fallen asleep in her pathetic corner, decided that he had no use to stay up either. He retired to his bed, and tonight it was cold and uncomfortable without her by his side.
But tonight everything had changed. And tomorrow even that would change.
- - -
She wasn't there when he awoke, and he decided that it was better. It made what he was about to do a lot easier. The act itself was quite simple, and the intent behind it was as well. But the relation of the man he'd marked for death made everything very complicated, and so it made the act difficult too.
But not having her accusing eyes look at him while he prepared for the dual lessened some of that. He could get ready in peace – but he was the farthest thing from having peace. He was warring with himself, warring with what he had to do and what he yearned to do. As a warrior he had to have his revenge, and he yearned for it too, but as a man he had to have his Briseis and he yearned for her just as much.
But the man in him was weak, he knew that clearly, and so the warrior prepared to earn his revenge. As he stepped outside, his chariot was waiting for him. His face was a mask of stone as he stepped upon it and whipped his horse. He began moving, and everything was so easy until he heard her anguished pleas. She was running alongside him, attempting to pull on his leg, his arm, whatever she could reach, begging for her cousin's life. He dared not look at her, certainly not at her face or into her eyes, so he whipped the horse again, harder, and easily left her behind in the dust. Her pleas dimmed with the distance until all he could hear was his warrior's heart thundering in his warrior's chest.
When he reached the walls of Troy they were waiting for they knew. He roared Hector's name like an unleashed beast until the man finally appeared before him, and he began working on his revenge.
And after several decisive blows, revenge was his.
