Propter me mota est, propter me desinat ira, simque ego tristitiae causa modusque tuae.
Because of me your anger was moved, because of me let it be ended, and let me be the cause and measure of your sadness.

Gentle friends, meet Achilles, son of Peleus, and Briseis, royal cousin of Troy.

Achilles
One hand slid up his back. As supple and elegant as a snake, the bare pad of a single finger traced its way along his spine, eliciting shivers. As winding as a hilly path, the finger continued its voyage. It charted a course over muscled hills and hollowed valleys, a course muddied by the dampness of ready perspiration and the delightful twisting of his form. Finally, upon reaching the nape of his neck, the hand halted in its slow journey. With devastating intent, she gripped the nape of his neck and pressed cool lips to the perfect back of it, underneath the stillness of his golden mane.
"You're beautiful," she murmured then, and she brought the thumb across his shoulders in precise, dragging movements so that she might better feel the contours of his form. He was leaner, leaner than one would suppose. Layers of plated iron armor, cold and thin, had been piled on top of him to add girth to a man that found his strength in his quickness. Rather, he was rangy and graceful. Muscle was apparent on the ridges of his back and the breadth of his stomach, but he still managed to be slender with the strength of his build. His arms were quick and dangerous; underneath a curious palm, they flexed inaudibly, as though tensed for danger. Achilles was always a warrior. Even lounging in bed with an atmosphere of apparent leisure, his eyes quickened with warning. He was always a warrior.

His waist was trim and muscled, and it was here that the sinew of his body gleamed. Coppery sweat clung to the formed ridges of his torso, and as he reached to pull her from him, his body shimmered with color. His flanks were streaked with perspiration; his legs were corded and lean. She loved him like this. Green eyes, of a dull green, a bleached, pale green, like the shallow water lapping on the shore, peered at him with bemusement. His answering gaze bore no such nuances. Firm and bold, they played at her seriousness without attempting to understand her solemnity. Intense and provoking, he bore none of her fineness. The subtleties of her manner, like the delicate, graceful flick of her wrist as she arranged her clothes and the special firmness to her smile, were lost on him. A warrior indeed. An animalistic warrior. As one whose life is defined purely by movements, by the dance between life and death, Achilles had no depth of feeling. As she watched him sleep after their latest embrace, she knew she would never be able to give him meaning. Another would need to inspire him to understand that life, this farce he had entered with such dejection, was about more than hurried embraces and languorous killing. He fought without pain; he loved without intimacy. Achilles was a warrior.
When she got up to leave him, shrugging into her dress as she moved, he did not resist. His eyes remained trained on the horizon, and he he too clothed himself as he prepared himself to meet Patroclus.

Later that day
Achilles

"Come now, Patroclus," he crowed as he danced backwards upon the cold ground, eyes alight with challenge. The wiry boy, more lanky than muscled and more bony than broad, seemed to be made up of skin that was too thin. He lacked Achilles' smooth beauty, uninterrupted and stunning. The mop of hair on his head, of a middling brown color, was dusty and clumsy; shocks of hair fell into his eyes and upon his forehead in a pattern without reason or explanation. Nonetheless, the shine to his eyes as he evaluated his idol was joyous and unrestrained.
"Nonsense, Achilles," he taunted back, a ready grin on his lips, and his sword was skilled as he parried. With each instruction Achilles issued, his swordplay was improved, and the previous talent of his movements was doubled.
"Are you scared yet, cousin?"
Achilles' smile was white in the glare of the sun. And the manner had adopted, the kind, careless manner of a brother caring for a cherished, protected sibling, dissipated. Achilles wielded his sword easily under the harsh light of the sun. The afternoon was cast into stark relief as the sun beat down mercilessly, and soon Patroclus had tired his abilities. It was then that Achilles moved in to win.
"Terrified," he deadpanned as he manipulated his tool.
When Achilles switched sword hands abruptly to challenge Patroclus for the triumph, his young friend was flabbergasted. Gaping with astonishment, the warrior had no ear for Patroclus' complaints or the muttered oaths of his companion.When the lad criedout for instruction on the manuever, he could manage no more than a token response. Achilles was distracted.
He had heard the whisper among the trees. He had heard the approach. The spear was out of his hand and launched into the path of the stranger before either could blink, and Odysseus found himself the wary observer of a death threat he had not expected. One would have expected Achilles to be soothed by his friend's arrival, but his face merely became drawn and tense in reaction. He knew what the man had come to ask. It was always the same. No matter wherein Greece, no matter the seas crossed toreachit, it would be the same.But would he go? Patroclus was forgotten. The fight was forgotten. Would he go?

Briseis
Briseis turned chilled eyes onto the same horizon as she climbed the steps to the Trojan palace. Over the distant wall, she could see a more distant shore. The sea moved easily, tranquil and undisturbed, against the pristine beaches that ringed it. She longed for such serenity.
"The waves might continue in their path easily," she reflected aloud, and her eyes were troubled and dark. "They did not have a choice in their life's course, and the moved to the only purpose for which they were meant. But what of me? I am not suited for marriage. I stood among the throes of the boys, and I felt the considering gazes, and I rebelled against the manacles already imposed." A hotness had affected the melodious timbre to her raspy voice, and it made the huskiness even more apparent. "After their slippery eyes moved away from my flanks, as they might consider a prize broodmare or sow, they turned to my uncle to offer a bride-price. My uncle. Do I not exist? Do I not have a say? Andromache," she turned respectfully to the solemn woman striding next to her. "Speak to me, dear cousin." Impulsively, she seized one of the woman's small hands and pressed it between her own in affection.

Hector's princess was the only woman Briseis knew to run without appearing to hurry, and the cousin, gangly and freckled still, valued her counsel. With her long filly legs and high-spirited face, she was uneven and chaotic in her feelings. Nothing in Briseis suggested the docility of a union; she felt love passionately, hated with deep loathing, and danced with nimble feet daily from either of those two extremes. Her face was alive, and Andromache could not imagine it under the shroud of a wedding's veil. Even now, the flurry of her emotions spilled over in her eyes, and the gaze she had turned on her companion was glowing with ire. Andromache, rather, was the eye of the storm. Sedate and tranquil, she had clear eyes that looked with gravity and solemnity on a given situation, and the delicacy to her movements was not the grace that Briseis possessed, heedless and wild with fledgling inhibition, but of aged elegance, leather soft and trimmed with silk. Tawny curls spilled to her shoulders, dusky and subdued, and her pale lips were continually pressed into the softness of a smile. As a font of advice and clarity, Andromache was valued by all.

Even now, as she followed her wrathful cousin up the winding steps, a trace of amusement twinkled in her almond-shaded eyes. "Do you know what I think, beautiful Briseis?" she asked kindly as she stopped, one hand on the wall nearby, to rest in their energetic climb. "I think you are an idealist, and I think that you cause me eternal laughter. Apollo bless you for that." She sent Briseis a soothing smile as she chuckled, but the woman, now resting on a higher ledge and swinging her feet in amusement, failed to notice. Impishly, she sent a grin downwards and called after it, "As though you can speak, wife of Hector! Everybody knows that you married for love." With arms swinging wide over her head, she closed her eyes in rapture, just a moment, and stilled her listless feet.
"I think, Andromache, that the worst sin would be to die without passion," inky lashes brushed against her cheek as she closed her eyes to better depict it. The timbre of her gracious voice was rapt and husky with desire. "It does not matter how. I merely want to live so that, for just one moment, I feel that it was worth it."
Andromache's eyes were dark when she swung herself on the seat beside her companion. Dark eyes peered into the blackened eyes of the partner, measuring soul, measuring worth, in the timeless stare. Finally, she cleared her throat and, looking off into the distance, spoke.
"I would that I could promise you happiness, cousin. I understand you, and I understand your desire," her look was vulnerable and fiercewith understanding of Briseis's pain. "You... are one that would void the world of the sunlight, merely so that you would not go through the pain of missing it each dusk. I am sorrowful for you. The world is always harsher to those unable to compromise."
It was then that the younger made a confession. Eyes furtive and brimmed with shining unease, she told Andromache of a desire she cherished, unnamed and tantalizing, in the soul of her form. With eyes that were furtive, she murmured of a love with the strength she sought, and her lips were glad as she spoke of it.

"Do you fault me, Andromache? I know it is not your path."
"How could I, cousin? In the face of a barren love from mortals, you seek consummation with the gods. Did I not call you an idealist? Do it. Be a priestess of Apollo. I can imagine no better occupation."
Briseis bent her head of sienna to receive Andromache's blessing kiss. Together, with the elder princess resting her head on the younger's relaxed shoulder, they looked over all of Troy. They looked over the bakers, selling loaves of cracked wheat and sour rye; they looked over the carpenters, building into the beloved hillsides; they looked over the artisans, peddling crafts of clay and wrought metals. And finally, they looked over the sea, stretching into a future they could not imagine.
"Now all we need is for Hector and Paris to return," Andromache murmured into her ear, at once stoic and helpless, and Briseis soon scooped up her hand in reassurance. They sat there together, one reserved about her future, the other desperate for a happier present. They sat there together as royals of Troy.

Just a note: I can do much better than this. In fact, I rely on doing much better than this in the future. But I wanted to set up a decent foundation so that my later scenes between them make sense, and thus, I have a chapter before they even meet.
I couldn't write it traditionally because they are apart, so I wrote it in both places. Understand what I am trying to do, and review accordingly. :)

To respond to my reviews:

Jariah: Thanks for the comments. I did think your story was splendid. As for spacing, I'm admittedly the strange duck who is irked by too many spaces in a story, and I thus tend to group it all together. But, I certainly see your point: to seperate the scenes, I need more. Gotcha. Next time, it will be as you say.

Squashes: -dances- You just made me so happy. I feel like vocab is a downhill fight here, and having somebody say that was tremendous. Now to ace the SAT...

Priestess: If you really want me to update, show a bit more enthusiasm. :)

Skipster: Here's your update! But thanks for the compliments.Keep in mind, though, that I might edit this chapter again.

USA: I did warn you that it was merely a prologue, so I assure that all of my chapters will be much longer- but thanks for the feedback.

Jo: Thanks! Here's your update.