It did not happen at all as she had suspected. The war between Agamemnon and Achilles ran deeper than she had believed, deeper than she had realized, deeper than she could comprehend. Arrogance was coupled with a hatred that coursed through each individually, fueling them and powering their struggles. It polarized their paths, bitterly opposing to reconciliation. For a long while, she had feared that she would never see the light of day again, so cold was Agamemnon's sense of justice, so furious was his simmering sense of retribution. Vengeance was the pawn of the victor, and each sought, under the guise of nonchalance, to unseat the other. They were Greek ways, Greek feelings. But though she could not account for the peculiar custom of hiding venom beneath polished words and ornate threats, she soon began to see the pitiable carnage of such feuds. Achilles had refused to fight after the king had seized her, and that was the first moment her heart had softened. Achilles, she had cried out inside.
She was apart from him in her ornate prison, trapped in a way she had never been before, but she imagined that she could see him clearly. How often she thought of him, when they were both alone! He would be pacing, she sometimes surmised; he was the sort of man to pace. He would be brooding, though, she knew that for certain. His eyes would be of fire and lips would be bruised in the faded sun, with shadows of mire and gloom, waste and sorrow, spun around him in his hazy musing. Briseis had thought of him often, despite the bloom of guilt in her gut when she did so. It had only taken hours of loneliness, wheedled away by a knowing mind, to make her vow wane. So quickly, Apollo had been purged from her body! So quickly, she had scorned her purity! And though Briseis recognized it, though she recognized her own commonness, she always reverted to the fantasies again for the comfort it brought. Virginity had been a lonely bedfellow, and when she was apart by herself, it was only a longing for Achilles that could bring her ease. Briseis did not need Achilles to tempt her into sin. She had fallen there by herself, and even then, cognizant as she was of her own depravity, the woman had thrilled to the moments when she remembered a new gesture of his, a new action he had done on her behalf, because of the way it had buoyed her spirits.
But the confinement had lasted less time than she had imagined. Agamemnon, for his bluster and promise, had never touched her, and the war turned tide in a lamentable direction for her insatiable king. One night, his skin had gleamed with more than perfume and oil- blood and sweat had been slick on it, coupled with a weary expression that hinted at grave loss. She had looked down at her hands, hiding her painful, inexpressible joy behind her fall of ocher curls until his scathing command had replaced her happiness with a growing sense of fear. Petulantly, he had cast her from his tents, throwing her as a bauble to the men that swarmed around. She shuddered to remember the lurching, confusing pain of that night: they were touching her intimately before she could breathe, before she could think, whispering more intimate promises, worming fingers into her, coarsening her, deforming her.
When the night had become a sickening black, studded with mocking stars, Briseis was certain that the men would do what Agamemnon never had, what none other Achilles deserved to. But then- oh! She felt his grip, and she remembered the unique pattern of his touch, and his broad hands cupped her under her elbows and cradled her in his arms, broad, unyielding, comforting, controlling. She didn't think; she couldn't think. All she could do was, despite her former objections to his presence, was turn her face towards him, mutely allowing him to bear her hence, as he sheltered her from harm.
Now, she sat on the bed while he knelt at her feet, supplicating. They did not speak, for she had no words, and he had no courage, not here, with the immensity of the recent past between them. His golden head was bowed, already retreating, already giving her victory. With an otherworldly sense of need, she placed her hand on his shoulder and ran it down his arm, beseeching him to look up and meet her gaze.
He did.
And a truth moved between them, deeper than words could have expressed.
She was acutely aware of her surroundings- of the plush bedspread beneath her, of the muted talk and laughter of the camp, of the whimsical musing of the wind as it fluttered- but when she first urged him against her lips for a kiss, she lost all sense of time and space. His big hands moved upwards to hold her head, cradling it in his palm as he moved upwards on the bed to assume control. What she would remember later was his eyes, the peculiar vibrant blue light from them, the impossible, unsuspecting joy from them, as they first met hers with truth.