Andromache watched Briseis run off along the river. She sighed and lowered her head slowly. She knew that Briseis needed to talk, and she knew that she should go and comfort her, but in her heart she hated Briseis.
It was Briseis' lover that had killed her husband. Briseis could have prevented Hector's death, but instead she went to Achilles bed. Andromache knew her anger was unreasonable, but the wound that was Hector's death went too deep for forgiveness.
She looked down on Astyanax, her child and all she had left of Hector. The tiny boy who had no knowledge of the pain and the fear of the past few days was her life source. Without him, she did not know if she was strong enough to carry on, but he gave her a reason to fight for survival.
She glanced back up at Briseis' disappearing form. What does she have to cling to? She thought sadly. Alone, friendless and grieving, Andromache wondered what she was living for.
Briseis paced moodily along the river that rushed along beside her angrily. She hated Paris. She hated him and she was angry at herself for letting the emotion take over. Why was she doing this? She wondered to herself. Why was she following a band of people who could not meet her eye?
She knew that Andromache hated her, and she understood that. she hated herself at times. She sat down on a slippery boulder and stared moodily into the water. This would never have happened if she had killed Achilles, she decided. That was where she had gone wrong. Had she had the strength to cut his throat, instead of surrendering to his touch, none of this would ever have happened.
To this day she would be living in Troy, no doubt the Acheans would have given up with their best fighter dead, Hector would still be alive, she would be hailed as a hero.
And she would not be pregnant.
She closed her eyes and pressed one hand to her stomach. She had only realised the night that Troy had been sacked, and now she wept angry tears for her fate. Now there was no chance of being accepted into the small community of the survivors. If she wasn't cast out, which she was sure she would be, she would be ignored and abused..
There was one option, she thought. She could kill the child that grew within her. It would not take much: a few herbs in the right quantities, one night of pain and blood, and she would be free of the shackles that bound her, and dragged her down.
But could she do it? Did she have the strength to kill all she had left of Achilles? For despite herself, she loved him still, and she loved their child. Had Achilles lived, she was sure that he would have taken her back to Phthia, and she would have lived, forever content, by the side of the man she loved so much.
He would have wanted her to be strong, to defy those who scorned her. And yet she felt far from strong. He had given her a reason to live when all she could think of were reasons to die. He had kept her safe, guarded her against hurt, and loved with all his soul. Could she really destroy what little she had left of him?
"Why do you still haunt me?" she cried out angrily to the skies. "Why will you not leave me alone? Even now!" and she buried her head in her hands and wept, for all that she had lost, and all that she was yet to lose.
Far away, at the Trojans camp, Helen heard Brisies' despairing cry. She looked up worridly at Paris who was beside her, but he showed no sign of having cared.
"Go and talk to her Paris," she pleaded. "She needs your help."
Paris shook his head stubbornly. "She deserves all she gets."
Helen turned away from him, a confused feeling filling her. She had never done anything but agree with Paris, for in her eyes he could do no wrong. But in her heart she knew that Briseis was being destroyed by grief and guilt.