Sometimes nothing makes sense. Sometimes, everything becomes a blur – intentions, feelings, actions, regrets – and the victim of it all is left crippled, not knowing how to react or what to do. And war, as it turned out, was indeed an ugly thing. War had taken from him something – two­ things – he never could have anticipated. One of them he never could have anticipated losing, the other he never in his craziest imagination could have anticipated being lost without. But now he bore the burnt of both, and it threatened to drive him mad.

The evening without her had been next to unbearable. It was worse not having her there at all, rather than having her stare at him in disgust. He realized, with some reluctant difficulty, that having her in the mere vicinity calmed him excessively. She was like an antidote that slowly, but powerfully seeped into his veins, healing him from all the lethal diseases he never knew plagued his body or his soul. But now that she was gone, and with her absence had taken her healing power, he was once again decaying into oblivion, only this time he was all too painfully aware of it. He could plainly see his blunders, his savagery, and his lack of humanity, and it unnerved him. He wasn't supposed to care. None of the above was supposed to matter for he was a warrior, and he behaved as a warrior should.

But to be a warrior he'd had to deny himself everything else, even the one thing he prided himself over those in Olympus. The only difference was that before he hadn't been aware of it. But now it assaulted him from every angle.

Mortality, as he'd seen it, had been nothing other than a primitive indulgence.

But then she'd taken him by the hand and shown him, quite unwittingly, what mortality truly meant. She'd shown him the beauty, the stunning beauty he'd been blind toward until the moment when her innocent, searing eyes burned into his. And then everything was so unbearably beautiful and intense. He was human and he could feel it, not from the way his body responded to her touch, but from the way his pulse quickened and his soul trembled.

He could actually laugh at the very notion. It would be a bitter laugh, but a laugh nonetheless, at the concept of him having a soul. He was Achilles, the one and only who neither needed nor desired such a pesky nuisance that a soul eventually became to every man. But now, when she'd taken it back with her, not only did he desire it, he felt eternally at a lost without it.

He would regret, if he could, ever laying his eyes on her. He would regret all of it, as a warrior, and would be disgusted at himself for his actions and, most importantly, for allowing himself the feelings that were eventually the downfall of every man that ever walked upon the earth. He would regret it, he would despise it – only if he could. But now that he'd seen the other side, now that he'd felt what it was like to be on the other side, it was impossible to want to regret or despise or turn back. And that was the worst situation of them all. He could neither go back, nor could he move forward, nor could he bear staying in the same place he found himself in.

But that wasn't the only thing that was eating away at him. He knew, as he watched dawn slowly break through the thick blankets of the night, that today he would have to say goodbye to the one person among the very few he'd rather die for than see dead. Today he'd have to place his beloved Patroclus' body upon the funeral pyre and watch him burn. Today he'd have to feel his heart break once more, for the third time in his life. The first time had been when he'd heard the news of his cousin's death, the second was when he'd watched Briseis ride away knowing well that he would never see her again, and the third time would be today when the flames engulfed Patroclus' body and made the reality all too obvious.

He wanted to end this tirade of emotions within him. He wished he'd never opened that massive door that he was now powerless to close, and he feared he would be just as powerless for the rest of his existence. This fate didn't belong to him; it shouldn't belong to him for he was Achilles, not some sniveling, pathetic man who occurs too often in romantic poetry. It was too cruel a coincidence and too painful a circumstance that it should indeed be so, that he – Achilles – should be suffering in such a way, or suffering at all.

Your glory walks in hand with your doom.

His mother's words echoed in his tormented head, confusing him. Was this to be his doom, this wretched end he never could have anticipated? When she'd spoken those words to him – his most beloved, wise, beautiful mother – the doom he'd pictured had been nothing short of a glorious death after a well-fought battle. The pain he'd imagined would be inflicted by a sword or a spear, or both, not by the loss of a woman. Or even worse, was his doom to be the complete loss of himself, for that was surely occurring since he could no longer recognize who he was or what was becoming of him. To be so affected, so plagued by such a trivial matter – it never would have come to pass before. But before was a distant memory, and now was all he had to hold on to.

The day was spent agonizingly preparing for Patroclus' funeral that would take place at sunset. He took it upon himself to perform all the funeral rites for his young cousin for it was the least Patroclus deserved. He had been young, hotheaded, stubborn – but his heart had been in the right place. It was that heart that ultimately got him killed, and now Achilles was left to deal with the unbearable guilt and regret of it all. Guilt on one side for his abandoning the war for some woman, which had been the cause for Patroclus' downfall; and guilt still on the other side for backtracking on firm decisions he'd made because of his deep, undeniable connection to Briseis. It was that connection that had cost him his cousin, and it was the loss of his cousin that had cost him that connection. He'd never imagined that so many things could be so explicitly intertwined, yet they were. She'd been right when she'd told him that somehow or another, everyone was involved in the war. He'd refused to believe it because before that had never been the case. It hadn't, at least not for the everyone in his life. But then he'd come to Troy and all the rules had changed and with them so had he. However, there was no point dwelling on the subject any further. It was over, it was done, and he had to move on.

With a heavy heart, just before sunset, he walked to Patroclus' body that lay on the funeral pyre. He held the young man's beads tightly in his hand, placing them onto his body after many excruciating moments of attempting to silently say goodbye. He finally did it, and as he walked away another piece of him broke, a piece he would never be able to repair. Moments later the fire was lit, slowly swallowing any remaining proof that the young Patroclus had ever walked upon the earth.

Achilles watched all this with a heavy heart and an even heavier conscience. The war had finally taken something great from him, something he never expected, and it was a strange occurrence to witness the tables so suddenly and so viciously turned against him. This was the most difficult thing he'd ever had to do, apart from allowing Briseis – beautiful, kind Briseis – to leave. He now felt a part of that agony she'd felt for Hector, but she would probably never know that. She would probably never understand that he was capable of feeling things just as intensely as she was and that they tortured him even more for he had long ago forbidden himself to feel anything.

He looked torturously at the setting sun, noting how the sparks of fire jumped into the air before disappearing into oblivion. It was somehow too surreal, too unlikely to be true, yet he was witnessing it before his very eyes. Patroclus had been precious to him; he'd been among the only two – and after Troy, three – people he'd ever loved. Achilles had always felt a need to protect him, to take him under his wing and slowly shape him into the man he could never be. But he saw that all the years had been spent in vain for in the very end, Patroclus was his own person and he made his own decisions, no matter how rash they had been. It bothered Achilles to no end, yet if he were to be honest with himself, he was no different. He always made rash decisions, acted on impulse, not caring what the outcome may be because, in the end, he always survived. That was the only difference. He always survived for he knew how to survive, but Patroclus hadn't. And that was why it was his body upon the pyre, not Achilles'.

But if someone could look into his soul, they'd see it was rotting faster than any thing on earth. He'd discovered it some very few days ago, only to lose it just as quickly and painfully for the source of his discovery and the nourishment of his soul had been taken away from him.

When the dark had enveloped the beach and Patroclus' body was no more, the Greek soldiers slowly retreated to their lodgings. Achilles was the last to leave, not having uttered a single word the entire day, nor having met a single eye, not even with his faithful men. When he entered his own quarters, he realized just how sorely he missed her. She should have been there, sitting on his bed, anticipating his return. She should have been there with her wide eyes, welcoming him into the shelter of her arms and the warmth of her soul. He would have allowed her to take him into her arms and, without a word, soothe his troubled soul. He would have allowed her this, he knew, for once to see him so utterly weak and vulnerable.

His own silent confession startled him, and then infuriated him. He dropped onto his bed, exhausted of fighting off all the senseless emotions that threatened to break him. He was a warrior and a warrior was never weak or vulnerable. A warrior never sought the shelter of a woman's feeble arms; a warrior never sought any shelter.

But as the memories and regrets and guilt began pounding on him, he slowly allowed himself to be less of a warrior and more of a man, if only for one night. As his body slowly succumbed to the dark abyss that was sleep, he allowed a tiny sliver of light to penetrate the darkness until it became bright as the sun. He allowed her smile to escape from his locked memory and into his reluctant dreams until, ever so gradually, she became all he could see and feel.

- - -

Briseis awoke with a start. She wished she could stay asleep forever for the day that would ensue would be the worst in her life. She lay silently in her bed, staring blankly at nothing in particular until she felt her eyes begin to burn, a small forewarning to the tears that would follow. It had been a terrible set of hours, the worst she'd ever lived through, to the point that she was sure the reality would suffocate her and force her into a most welcomed death. But no such thing happened, to her great disappointment, for each time she felt was her last moment, the agony would subside just enough to allow her to breathe, but never enough to allow her any peace or comfort. Slowly she became aware of his shells around her neck, and as she realized that they were there, she felt them weigh down on her, threatening to smother her with the unbearable burden of their presence and all the feelings they roused within her.

The tears escaped the confines of here eyes, spilling over the curves of her cheeks, burning her skin as they slid down her face. A week ago she never could have imagined that she would be in this place as the person she was now, wishing more for death than the life she would have to acknowledge and live with once she left the shelter of her room. She remembered the events from last night ever so vividly, and they would forever remain engraved in her memory, she was positive of it. She remembered how his shells had formed crevices in her palm as she'd clutched them tighter and tighter the farther her uncle's chariot stole her away from him. She hadn't even been aware of the ferocity with which she'd held onto them until she'd felt a piercing pain and looked down to see the scarlet blood trickle onto the white shells. The ride had been silent, her uncle both overjoyed and troubled by having found here where he had. And she had been – by her life, what hadn't she been?

Emotions, such as she'd never experienced before, had slammed into her, knocking the very breath out of her. There was a little bit of everything, felt with such intensity that could have split her into a million pieces. Sorrow, deep, undeniable sorrow at leaving him behind. Guilt for feeling that sorrow, and still more guilt for reacting to his killing Hector the way she did. Regret at the last words she'd spoken to him – I hate you – for she could never hate him, even if she tried, which she had indeed attempted to do. Anxiety at returning to her family and still anxiety at attempting to live life without him for he had become her family. Then there was the pain, pain for losing Hector to him, and pain for him losing Patroclus to Hector, and pain for knowing that there could never be any favorable conclusion to the fate of their relationship. And there were a million other emotions swirling furiously within her, emotions she dared not put a name on or acknowledge.

So when they entered the walls of Troy and when her family greeted her with the utmost relief and love, she was forced to banish all these emotions and smile for them, smile for beloved Andromache and hide the fact that she loved the man Hector's widow despised, smile for Paris and hide the fact that she desperately missed his brother's murderer, and smile for all of Troy as though she'd never betrayed it, knowing well that if she was given the chance, she would do it all over again.

Once the relief and joy of her family had subsided, she felt the overwhelming agony that Hector's death had produced in every corner of Troy. It seeped into her veins and battled fiercely with her own agony of leaving Achilles behind, and once again she was left utterly confused and exhausted. After she retired to her quarters, which were now so unbelievably dull and cold to her without his presence, she allowed the torment to unleash itself on her and make her world even darker. She wasn't sure when she'd gone to sleep, but she knew it was the most restless and pointless slumber she'd ever had, one she was sure would persist until the end of her days. The agonies she suffered were even unknown to her, but she felt each one like a burning coal on the surface of her skin, eating away at her in the most vicious and painful manner.

With the new day came a new challenge for she had to get dressed and prepare for Hector's funeral, but she could no longer wear any of the robes she'd committed her life and heart to before the Greek onslaught. She would have to exit her chambers and greet her family with the guilt and shame of no longer being a priestess, and they would all know who had taken that honor away from her, and she couldn't bear it. Whether they would know that she'd released herself from her oath willingly she wasn't sure, but she hoped with every fiber of her being that they wouldn't. Somehow she hoped that nobody would notice the color of her robes at all, but she was well aware that the hope was futile.

Exiting her bedchamber, Briseis cast her eyes to the ground and proceeded to join her family for breakfast. Their shock upon seeing her dressed in blue was undeniable, but thankfully nobody said a word. Dearest Andromache bore it in the most restrained manner, even though she had the most right to despise her. The day passed in silence, at least for Briseis, for she could find no words to say to any one person around her. Everything that she'd loved and grown up with had become so alien to her, to the point that several things even repulsed her. There was a sense of honor deeply rooted in every corner of the palace, in every corner of Troy even, but the atmosphere lacked his presence and his ferocity that she'd grown accustomed to, and even comfortable with. She yearned for his blue eyes, bluer than the Aegean, yearned for the shelter of his arms even though she knew that in some way she was safer without him.

But none of her reasoning eased the overwhelming desire in her heart for him. Not even the anger she'd felt last night could alleviate the yearning he'd embedded in the very core of her being. She wondered where he was at that moment, at every moment that passed without him by her side, wondered if he thought of her the way she thought of him, incessantly and with a broken heart.

She knew that he was preparing for the funeral of his cousin the way Troy was preparing for hers. She'd felt his insufferable grief at Patroclus' death, and she was ashamed to admit that her own grief at Hector's death could never match his, but then again none of her emotions could ever match his. His were great and powerful just like him, every single one of them. She knew she was one of the very, very few who had witnessed anything other than a warrior in him, and for that she would be grateful for eternity. She had witnessed the man while everyone else witnessed the legend. And she loved that man, no matter how wrong it was of her, and she was powerless to deny herself that pleasure.

Hector's funeral, if she was to admit to herself, was the most pitiful scene she had ever witnessed. With his absence she could feel just how important he had been to the very identity of Troy and the honor of the royal family. Paris, with all his immature rashness and lack of wisdom, was to carry Hector's burden from that moment on, but Briseis knew well that he had neither the power nor responsibility for such a task. The only two truly admirable people in the entire assembly were Priam and Andromache. Both were the epitome of composure, wisdom, and nobleness. Everyone else, herself included, was below their station, no matter their relation to the two beacons of Trojan pride. The third and most brilliant of them all was on his way to eternity, and she knew that he deserved the highest rank wherever he may be.

At sunset the fire was lit and Troy lost every trace of its greatest man and leader. As dusk settled a new atmosphere of desperation and heavy anguish fell upon them, threatening to suffocate them all before the Greeks even had the chance to attack them again. But they survived, just barely, and each Trojan returned to his private quarters to be left alone with his private thoughts.

As Briseis settled in her bed, she wished it had been her burning on the pyre that evening instead of Hector. There seemed nothing left to live for, and the future of Troy itself was so unstable and foreboding. All they could do now was wait, wait to see whether the gods would favor them over the Greeks or if they would perish in a less honorable way than Troy's finest had.

But all these thoughts and reflections were nothing when she compared them to her own personal loss. It no longer mattered if she survived or not, for a part of her had already died upon her return to Troy. After giving herself to Achilles she realized that she lived only for him, and now there was no reason to keep on living. The only relief she could attempt to have was through her dreams, so she struggled to find her way into the world of the unconscious where she could be in his arms once more, where nothing but the two of them existed. As her eyes closed ever so slowly, she drifted into that safe place and found him waiting, and nothing else mattered except his smile and the way it made every inch of her body tingle. She found him waiting, and her world was complete again.