She remained standing in the same place long after he and his chariot had disappeared, unable to accept either of the two realities that would unquestionably come to be. Either he would return and she would lose her cousin, or he would never return and she would lose her beloved. And so she stood frozen in one spot, well aware of the Greek soldiers' eyes on her, but she didn't care. She felt those two halves of herself – her Trojan half and the half that belonged to Achilles – she felt them collide within her until it became difficult to breathe. After the sun climbed high in the sky, she somehow decided through her grief that she should probably return to the safety (safety?) of Achilles' tent and seek refuge from both the heat and the danger the enemy soldiers posed to her.
She walked back to the tent, retracing the steps Achilles took as he left for his doom, or the doom of her cousin – both equally horrible. She slipped inside, her gaze sweeping over the unmade bed fleetingly, a bed whose comforts were now just a bittersweet memory. She made her way to that fateful spot in the farthest corner and sat numbly on the sheepskin, awaiting either the news that her cousin had died or that her Achilles had died. Some time afterward - she wasn't sure how much of it passed - she felt the tears roll down her face. Thick, heavy, scathing tears.
And in those moments the tiny seeds of doubt and regret began to grow inside of her. Doubt about what she'd convinced herself that this relationship, if it could even be branded as a relationship, meant to both her and Achilles. Doubt about what she'd begun to think of him, whether it was a reality or simply an excuse she'd made in her mind to justify her actions and her feelings. And after the doubt the regret hit her cold and hard - regret about letting him touch her, reveling in his embrace, aching for his kiss, relaxing at the sound of his voice. She'd told herself that she would never regret, that she could never regret – but how could she not when he went to murder her cousin, knowing well what it would do to her?
She must have been a fool thinking that he would change his entire life because of her, an inexperienced, naïve priestess who was a virgin until she met him. She was indeed a fool, and the realization of it hurt the most, more than anything else. She was a fool to think that she loved him for he was a monster. He was the same monster he'd been that first time her eyes fell upon him in the temple of Apollo, and once again she wished that she had been slain rather than given a chance to betray her county and herself. Now she could neither turn back time, nor could she flee, nor could she live with herself – she was trapped. She was trapped in her misery and her regret and the searing pain that nearly paralyzed her.
How could she have been so stupid and so blind? Why did she have to be so idealistic, even when she was well aware of the reality? Why did she make him up to be something that he wasn't, something he didn't even want to be, and why did she convince herself that she loved that person? She'd convinced herself that she was in love with someone who didn't even exist. The Achilles she loved was a mere figment of her imagination; the Achilles who had left to murder her cousin was the one who was real.
Sometime afterward the tears and the sobs subsided. Briseis remained huddled in her corner feeling completely empty. There was nothing inside her anymore, no fear, no anger, no hope. She was a shell of the girl she once used to be, a carefree girl who used to run on the beaches of Troy with her beloved cousins. All that had been taken from her within a span of just a few hours, and now she was left with nothing.
But as she noticed the day getting older, something began to move within her and she knew she was lying to herself. She didn't know whether to be relieved that she was still capable of feeling, or to hate herself for what she was feeling because, as the hours wore on, the fear began to slip through the walls she thought had been safely raised around her heart.
The fear wasn't for her, however, it was for him. The longer he took to come back, the more she became convinced that he would never come back.
And so, once again, she became completely frustrated and confused as another storm began to brew within her. She should be happy that her cousin had survived, her beloved, brave Hector. She should be ecstatic that he had lived for he had a wife and a son, while Achilles had nothing but his arrogance.
And me, she thought, startling herself.
She felt her heart break then, for the both of them, for the impossible hope she'd been harboring and the impossible situation she thought they would eventually find themselves in. She was so utterly confused that she couldn't figure out whether she hated or loved him, whether the man she hated existed or the man she loved existed, or whether the both of them existed in the same person, and whether that was even possible. She let out a troubled sigh, closing her eyes and wishing herself to death. At least in death she would find some kind of peace.
And in death she would find him waiting.
The neigh of a horse startled her and she jolted, her eyes flashing open at the moment when he entered the tent. He ignored her completely as he stood before his washbasin, or perhaps he didn't see her, and instead he busied himself as he washed away the traces of the battle and removed the heavy armor from his body.
She felt her heart swell within her chest, hating herself for it, and in the same instant hating what she'd always hated – war, and all the horrors it brought upon everyone. She observed him as the bile formed in her stomach, threatening to spill from her lips and take her soul along with it.
After a long, anguished silence, she finally spoke, slightly unaware that words were coming from her mouth.
"When does it end?" she asked, her voice broken and unsure.
"It never ends," he replied without looking at her.
"You murdered my cousin," she observed painfully, the tears forming in her eyes.
"And he murdered mine," Achilles said, still unable to meet her gaze.
"He thought it was you. But you…you knew."
His furious eyes flashed at her then, and she shrank away from him. "It has nothing to do with you, Briseis. War is war whether you're involved or not." After a moment, he added, "and you're not."
"I'm here, aren't I? In some way or another, we are all involved in the war."
"Don't torture yourself over what you have no control over," he said gruffly, turning to face her. "You're pained over the loss of your cousin, as I was pained over the loss of mine."
She frowned. "So in your logic, it is my turn to lift a sword against you in revenge."
Something passed across his face, quick and torturous, but he corrected his composure so fast she thought she'd imagined it. "You already tried it once, and we both know how that turned out."
She heard the mockery in his voice, loud and clear, and it made her blood boil. How could this be the same person who'd told her yesterday that she mumbles in her sleep? It seemed impossible, but it was just as impossible to both hate and love that same person with the same intensity, and yet she did.
"You…make me sick," she choked out, raising to her feet and dashing for the exit. But his arm reached out, his long fingers latching around her shoulder as he jerked her back. She let out a tiny gasp, either out of surprise or fear, he wasn't sure. His free hand closed around her other arm and he held her tightly against him, furious at her for saying what she did and furious at himself for causing her to feel that way.
"Do you understand," he ground out, blue eyes burning into brown ones, "that I had no choice!"
"Everyone has a choice," she replied with equal intensity, causing him to grip her closer and tighter, and another gasp escaped her as the blood rushed to her middle, fast and hot.
"What about your choices? Are you going to punish me because of the choices you made?"
She stared at him, aware how his face was mere inches away from hers, his face that was twisted into a million different emotions.
"My choices have nothing to do with you," she spat out at him, and he reacted by pulling her off her feet. His eyes had widened and the usually clear blue was thick and dark, causing her heart to race.
"Let go of me," she demanded, gripping his rock-hard arms. When he didn't budge, she began to twist against him. "Let go-"
And then his lips were on hers again, furious lips against furious lips, two desperate souls attempting to quench the searing pain that threatened to break them both. He felt her fingernails dig into his skin, but she wasn't trying to push him away, she was clinging onto him for dear life. He kissed her hard, delving his tongue into her mouth as the passion overtook him, and for a little while both of them forgot. Somehow he'd placed her back on her feet and her hands were entangled in his hair as she pulled his head toward hers.
They broke the kiss to gasp for air, and both dived in again, furiously fighting one another for control of the situation. He stepped forward and she stepped back, her hip hitting the washbasin and knocking it over. The clatter of metal against the floor startled her and she bit his lip, unaware of it until she tasted the blood, but he refused to break the kiss. Not only did it not hurt him, it enticed him further as he ground his hips against hers, causing a moan to escape from her throat. They stumbled back and fell on the bed, and his hands were everywhere, and she liked it. He kissed her mouth hungrily as if she could somehow heal him, but he knew that she was just as broken as him. If she could somehow crawl into him and fill that void that he'd made today, maybe he would feel a little bit better, and she a little less horrible.
And so he continued to ravage her mouth with his and her body with his hands as he pushed her dress higher and higher. She dug her fingernails into his shoulders as he ground against her, their clothes the only barrier between them and ecstasy. He wanted to show her, and at the same time show himself, that the warrior from today was separate from the man at this moment. The warrior from today needed the battle, but the man needed this, needed her gasping his name, surrendering to her desires and drowning in him the way he drowned in her. And so he kissed her and she kissed him back, and he pushed her dress above her hips, and she jerked her head away from his.
"Stop…stop," she whispered, her voice hoarse and unsure. He froze above her for a moment, but one look at her swollen lips and he dipped his head in again only to receive the cold brush of her cheek.
"Get off," she said a little more firmly, trying to push him away with those tiny, tiny hands. "Don't touch me, don't…" she almost sobbed, and he rolled off of her. She sat up and pulled her dress over her legs, and he trembled as he watched her.
Why was she doing this to herself, to him? Why couldn't she just allow this for herself, why couldn't she accept that this moment had nothing to do with anything that was happening beyond the cover of his tent?
"Briseis," he said almost weakly, reaching out to her, but she shrank away from his touch.
"You think that…I can let you do this now while I sat here today, knowing well you would murder my cousin?" Her eyes were wide, filled with tears she refused to shed.
"You were doing this, too," he said stubbornly, and she recoiled at his words.
"You have his blood on your hands, and your hands were…" she chocked out, shuddering visibly before him, and his chest tightened. "I was a fool, a stupid, stupid fool, but I'm wiser now. You can't…I won't let you, at least not willingly." One teardrop escaped from her eye, spilling over the side of her cheek. She stood up, testing her shaky legs, and walked toward the entrance.
"Where are you going?" He demanded, causing her to hesitate.
"I cannot bear to look at the monster who murdered my cousin," she said almost viciously.
Achilles felt that familiar anger begin to boil inside of him and he shot up to his feet. "Yet you could bear kissing me," he said angrily, and she spun around.
Her lips parted as if to say something, but she was speechless. After all, it was the truth. She couldn't resist him, not even now. She hated what he'd done, but she knew that she could never hate him, or the sensations he aroused within her, and it scared her. It terrified her.
"You cannot fault me for something I have little control over," she said finally, but it was a weak comeback.
"I don't fault you. I want you," he said, his voice thickening as her resolve thinned. "I want you to lose control. There's nothing wrong with losing control."
"There is, when the other person is you," she disagreed. "I don't know what happens now. I don't care. I know only one thing – I regret it."
Achilles recoiled at the confession. It was the one thing he could not bear, and yet it was happening, and it hurt.
"I regret all of it," Briseis continued, the words dripping from her lips like ice. "I regret ever laying eyes upon you. But most of all, I regret ever thinking that you were anything other than a monster. You are a monster, and I hate you."
And then she was gone.
It took him a long time to regain the feeling in his legs, and once he did he walked slowly, ever so slowly around the tent, tempted to break everything into a million pieces the way he had that first night Briseis had been taken from him. And for a fleeting moment he regretted his actions from that day. But then the moment was gone and he was back to normal.
Except…he wasn't.
He sat still for a long time, thinking about nothing in particular. He had no idea how everything had become such a mess. Before he came to Troy, it was all so simple. He'd come, he'd fight, and he'd have his glory. Maybe he'd enjoy himself with a war prize, maybe he wouldn't – it hadn't mattered back then. But then she was there, and she was anything but a war prize. Proud, stubborn, innocent – all the traits he never wanted in a woman. The only trait he used to look for was that she was a woman. But then she reached out and touched him like nobody had done before, and she made him almost human.
The mortality he was used to. He craved it. But the humanity – she made it real in him somehow.
And then she took it all away.
You are a monster and I hate you.
Maybe she didn't mean those words; maybe she was reacting to her pain in the only way she knew how, the same way he'd reacted the night before when he'd almost choked her. He hadn't meant to, he was just so enraged that he needed to unleash it on someone, anyone. So maybe now, she was furious and in pain and he was the only person she could turn on, and so she did. After all, he didn't detect any hate in her voice when she'd moaned his name, or kissed his lips, or clutched him with those impossibly tiny hands of hers. But then–
I regret all of it.
Did she, really? He didn't, not a single moment, especially since it seemed like they would have no more moments together. She may let him get close to her in the heat of passion, but once that subsided she would always push him away. And he wouldn't force her because he couldn't. He couldn't hurt her, in any way, and it tore him apart that he already had, in the worst way possible. But she had to understand that no matter how much it pained him to do it – and it had pained him terribly – it pained him just the same to not do it. If she'd lost her cousin, he'd lost his as well, and Patroclus was far younger and far more inexperienced than Hector had been, and he didn't deserve to die.
Yet none of his reasons helped to ease the knot in his chest.
When someone shuffled at the entrance of the tent, he became tense, preparing himself for another round with Briseis. Instead of her, however, a cloaked form appeared and kneeled before him. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion and surprise when the person took his hands and kissed them. The stranger sat back and pushed the hood from his face to reveal his identity.
It was Priam, king of Troy.
"I come to you as a father who has lost the one thing he loved most in this world," the old king began hoarsely. "My son met you in battle today because he was honorable. He killed your young cousin unwittingly, but he allowed you to have his body to perform the proper burial. I am begging you, not as a king, but as a grieving father, to give my son the honor of a proper burial."
Achilles sat speechless. He had sworn to mutilate Hector's face beyond recognition, yet he could not deny this honorable – and desperate – plea that the old man was making. He also realized that the old man was a fool to risk his life like this and that, if he wanted, he could have his head on a platter as well.
You are a monster.
Her words echoed in his mind and he frowned. "You are a fool for coming here," he heard his gruff voice state his thoughts.
"I may be a fool," the old man agreed, "but I need to give my son the honor of a proper burial. I beg of you, as a soldier, to allow your opponent this last right."
Achilles sat quietly as if to contemplate further, but the decision had already been made in his mind. He stood up and walked outside and busied himself with fulfilling Priam's request. He knelt over Hector's body and his face twisted in pain.
"Until we meet again, brother," he said quietly and stood up.
Priam came out a few moments later, gratefully thanking Achilles on his show of respect. The two men were about to part when that familiar voice rang in the quiet of the night, and both turned to see Briseis running toward them.
"Uncle!" She said uncertainly as she hurried toward Priam. He embraced her happily and Achilles stood back, painfully acknowledging to himself what he would have to do.
"My dear Briseis, we all thought you had perished," her uncle said as they separated. She stole a quick glance at Achilles before answering him.
"No, I have been alright uncle."
"Nobody has hurt you?"
Their eyes met again for a brief moment, and then she looked away.
"No."
He breathed a sigh of relief. His hands worked at loosening the shells from around his neck, and when Priam turned to him with his question, Achilles could only say yes.
Yes, take her away and leave me without any trace of my humanity.
Yes, take her away and allow me to go back to my dark, empty, blood-thirsty world, although I am well aware that it will never again satisfy me.
Yes, take her.
As Priam stood upon his chariot, Achilles approached her for the last time, taking her tiny hands into his own.
"If I have hurt you in any way," he said, his voice wavering, "it was not my intention." He closed her hands around his necklace and she stared at him, dazed and confused and reluctant – reluctant? – to go.
She mounted the chariot next to her uncle, and he heard the whip through the bubble that had once again formed around them, and slowly she began to recede from his vision until all he could see was the black night.
She was gone.
