A single quivering sword, a million bated breaths. Achilles was poised to strike, poised to ruin. And though Briseis inwardly lamented her own pain, she cried out to stop him. A single gasp, unnoticed and unheard. A single moment passed, a thousand heartbeats fluttered, and she breathed in deeply to ready her courage to try again. The next time she shrieked her command, all bore witness to its testimony. Even the crouched feline, her noble protector, paused. Beneath her lowered eyelids, she remembered the flickering images of the thousands murdered as he smiled, and her ire cooled into mournful, solemn contempt. One such as he would never save her. She would not allow him. Fear left her. Despite the hulking guards keeping her chained, she tossed her head and addressed them as a lady, as a woman, as a princess of Troy. Her people had been slaughtered and raped, their virtues pawed, their religion spat upon and dirtied. Her rage rushed in. She could find the voice to address this grand audience. She could show them that Troy still had strength.
"There will not be more deaths on my account," Briseis commanded quietly, in a voice that rose with confidence as her halting plea continued. Soon, it swelled as her fear receded, bold and enraged with the weight of her scorn. Her low voice was deceptively low, deceptively pleasing. Like the embers of a dying fire, she still bit at proffered hands from behind her guise of safety. She was truly Apollo's mistress, was this burnished warrior. And, despite the lack of gold dripping for her brow, despite the lack of jewelry twined in her curls, she was truly majestic.
"I submit to this willingly. I gave myself to Apollo, that I might live in his service." Willing her fingers to stop their trembling, she tightened them into fists as she schooled her breathing. One breath in, another out. She could do this. Give me strength enough for this. Give me strength enough to look at them both as I make my promise.
"Is this any different? I sacrifice myself now to this, that more might live."
You are merely his conquest. He cannot love you, she repeated again and again, a desperate manta, a solemn oathBut out of the corner of her eye, she saw her warrior sag in defeatas though his strings were cut.Achilles had fallen. Somewhere inside of her, she began to ache.It was with difficulty that she brought her eyes from his, eyes smarting from a fire suddenly quenched, to meet Agamemnon's hungry look. And she was stunned, in a dispirited way, to find them empty. Dripping tunnels. Rank, soulless passageways of ebony and gray, of chalky white and deep charcoal. Was this shell to possess her? Was this throne to be her master? She thought of Achilles then, of the way he had regarded her, of the dignity he had shown her. Looking in his eyes was more difficult than looking in Agamemnon's. She saw his pain: it glimmered in the way he stood, still crouched in a fighter's stance, in the way his eyes challenged hers then, in the way he was already shaking his head, denying her request. She saw that he was broken.
You hate him, remember? Pay him no mind. But she could muster no more contempt. Pity was readily available now, as sympathy was, distributed freely to them both. Serenely, she shook off the men holding her and stepped forward. His blue eyes still held her gaze.
"My Achilles. If killing is your only talent," she whispered in apology, feel the weight of anguish flood her form, "that is your curse."
The moment passed, the spell was broken. But she watched in revulsion, in fascination, as his sword plunged into the ground to pierce dirt, not life, in symbolic acceptance of her choice. Forgive me, she whispered inside. But as the men seized her, as she was wrenched forth from her reverie and brought back into captivity, she wondered if she could forgive herself.
She was the first person, the only person, to ever defeat Achilles. But there was no triumph in her aftermath. He had single-handedly slaughtered hundreds of her kin, stood on a beach in the open sunlight to mock her gods, brashly challenged her way of life. He had stolen her peace and held her in slavery, but she felt no more anger... She felt only sadness, for him and for herself. She sensed that she had sentenced them both.Agamemnon stood and walked beside her, devouring, supping, leeching her life. Suddenly desperate for hope beside such bleakness, she craned her head backwards just once more, trying to glimpse Achilles' face. But he was already gone, lost into the crowd.The king's hand was on her face then, on her lips, touching her eyes, unbinding her hair, demanding attention, demanding obedience. Achilles, she thought once in stark, stunning want. Achilles.
Behind her, she heard Agamemnon breathe through his mouth, deeply and fast. Brushing her robes at her side, straightening her posture, she turned as a queen might and faced him.
Achilles, back in his tent and pacing, prowling, demanding restitution, was the first one to scream.