A Forest
Disclaimer: See previous chapters; I don't like being redundant.

In what seems like a very long time ago – lifetimes, even; lovers and killers, fruit and sand and spears have passed; such a long time ago – Briseis as a child went on a voyage out of Troy. Together like a family of children governed by watchful Hector, she and Paris and Troilus and others banded like a caravan and ventured out of Troy and past Mount Ida with nothing but curiosity and childish vivacity holding their hearts. There was no purpose in the journey, no diplomacy to be made and unfurled and certainly no enemy soldiers with throats bared for the cutting: it was a spur-of-the-moment voyage on horseback brought on by Paris and Briseis' questions of 'what is it like beyond Mount Ida?', and Hector's benevolence in humouring their quest. That is the spirit in which Briseis now remembers Troy: alone, aloof, and apart, not coldly so but in the sense of a utopia, no change, with exploration instead of wars to be had. It was a childish notion, but she does not consider that to be negative.

And so on they went, their caravan of young horse riders, with Hector at the helm and with Troilus at the back, the sun of Apollo bronzing their faces as they left Troy and ventured away from the sea and into what they thought of as 'new lands'. The terrain changed with the passing of every hoofbeat, away from the metallic sands of the plains of Troy and into the grasses, lemons and yellows and soft pistachio tints, which collected like fur around the hoofs of their horses. And then from the grasses sprang stunted trees, the gnarled tendons of their bark twisted this way and that from the force of the winds off Poseidon's waters, like old wise women turned to trees by the gods. And, amid their laughter and childsplay, came the lush greens that even brought an easy smile to Hector's face; the grasses that darkened and swelled with good water, the flowers and insects crawling from every cranny, great trees whose leaves hung over them and brushed against their faces; pistachios hanging in great boughs of bright bright green. A forest: it was a teeming mass of life, both one colour, and many shades of one colour, and then all colours all at once. It shimmered with life and death and transitions, a triangle of existence. And so they all knew: the forest exists beyond Mount Ida, and it was a chaotic, addictive place that they would never forget.

Just a forest.

Without Achilles there to be her interpreter, war grows chaotic around Briseis. The soldiers of Carthage, running like ants to every possible place with every possible purpose, the glint of sunlight off their swords as they moved, the sound of iron on iron even in the dead of the night, the rhythmic beating of the oars against the waves. It is chaos of the senses for her, and so Briseis is reminded of the forest.

Sitting protected on the edge of the flagship, closely surrounded by guarding ships, Briseis Lady of Fortune is often consulted in matters of strategy. They have gotten to know her well enough to manipulate her, the Carthaginians have: they know that they can leave her to her own devices on the ship, because she treasures life and her mortality far too much to throw it away at their expense.

(What they don't know is the reasoning for this: how the legendary warrior Achilles, the most violent man in the world, told her of the value of mortality: "The gods envy us because we're mortal…that every moment might be our last; it makes everything that much more beautiful…we will never be here again." They don't know how she sees the bright of his eyes everywhere she looks.)

What they –the generals of Carthage, that is- know is that they need this slip of a girl: the men's morale rests upon her shoulders. Carthage would never have been able to rationalize an attack on powerful Mycenae so early in history. Their only tool against the Greeks is Briseis' Fortune, which is why her image is emblazoned across their banners, which is why they ask her input on strategy: so they can tell the men, "Lady Briseis told us directly." They come usually just after the sun lifts off the golden cusp of the horizon, because she is always in the same place, having risen from her pallet early. She sits on the gunwale of the ship, perched like a skittish bird; slipped wings held protectively over her body. They ask questions:

"How should we broach the shore?" They say,

Or, "Would Fortune smile on us if we attacked Argos?"

Briseis murmurs without emotion or expression, but the most astounding part of the whole affair is that the generals actually do glean an answer from her responses. They thank her profusely for her input, as if it were willingly and happily given, as if they hadn't locked her in her stone chambers back in Carthage for weeks until the day they had set sail amid the fleet, as if she felt some kind of loyalty to their people because they had provided for the Trojans. Through her noncommittal answers, they have somehow ended up where they are: on the edge of the Ionian Sea, the coast of Peloponnesus well in sight. The men rustle with anticipation, dogs licking their jowls as if tasting the scent of the coming battle, the proximity to war making their scuttling further frantic. The chaos intensifies, as if given the blessing and touched by Dionysus, and that brings Briseis back to the forest.

A forest: so empty and so alone, and yet so chaotic and full of life, shimmering and frothing up the surfaces. Like herself, how she feels, what it all means to her.

When the Greeks capture her, Briseis wonders in silence perched upon her gunwale, (for they most certainly would – the Carthaginians were fools for believing they could take Mycenae so unprepared) what would happen? Would the Greeks know her face? And if they did, how would they have known it? Back on the sands of Troy, her position as Achilles' woman was well known and well respected, as Achilles was an awesome and fearsome force unable to be reckoned with. If the Greeks knew her from then, would they keep her alive out of respect? Or perhaps see fit to sacrifice her on Achilles' tomb, as so many women were in Greek tradition? Or would they just slay her on the spot, a quick slide of blade across her smooth white throat, because her lover was dead? Or might they just kill her because they know her face from the banners of Carthage? Or what if they chose to keep her as a captive once again, submitting her as concubine to some lesser lord? If that were the case, Briseis decides, she will slit her own throat before her bare skin touched the pallet of any other man, and her soul will be pulled down to Hades to rejoin her only lover once again.

The beaches draw ever closer, and a cry goes up from deep within the coherent whole that is the soldiers. She feels the sense of chaos again, that lost sense of overflowing life. A hand grasps her arm, belonging to a face she is used to, pulling her towards the lower level of the boat: "My lady, please stay below deck. We are about to land on the beaches!" As Briseis complies and takes her steps down carefully, she sees her image raised high on the sail of the ship for a brief moment before shielding her eyes and ducking below.

The door thumps over her and she is alone – finally – in the deep of the ship. In the dark. She sighs, sitting on a box.

Outside, she imagines a forest; overgrown and waiting to be shorn.

"How many ships?"

"Some two hundred, I would say – fifty good soldiers to a ship – Carthaginians, mind you." Achilles and Diomedes share a laugh at their enemy's expense as they stand with their armies, in complete battle regalia, high up from the beaches of the coast amid the low grasses of Greece. Diomedes adds, "All bearing the same banner, also; their lady of fortune." He eyes the black and red profile etched onto the sails of the ships laid out like toys before them, ever nearing the shores, and sneers at the serene expression on the woman's visage.

Without emotion, Achilles responds, "Let them keep their idols to their temples; they have little effect against my sword." His hand grips idly on the hilt of his sword, his fingers twitching at the thought of their oncoming activity.

"Indeed."

He narrows his eyes, scanning laterally like a tactician and briefly wishing for the presence of Odysseus. Diomedes, however, is as good of a replacement as any, as is the thought of wise Nestor up in the palace in the hills. Achilles matches the Greeks forces waiting at attention on the beach with those that are loaded on the boats. "Two hundred ships…if we draw them all out, we might take them in a matter of days." He glances at his friend.

Observing the oncoming enemy still, Diomedes informs him, "Yes. I believe that's the approach commanded by Aegisthus and Clytemnestra…tactfully suggested by Nestor."

Decidedly bored and satisfied with his appraisal, Achilles turns to him fully and addresses the topic with disdain. Arrogance drawn from his heady power laces his voice: "You mean they haven't been killed yet? Where are Agamemnon's sons…the man was a drunkard for a king, but any excuse for blood debt is worthwhile. I'll take no orders from that sack of wine's shrew and her lover. Whether you follow my Myrmidons, Diomedes, is your decision." He smirks, chancing a look at his friend's face, knowing how the offer must pull at him. Diomedes, after all, is a great warrior.

He sighs wistfully, but not weakly. "Such decisions are not so easily made when you're a king, Achilles."

Achilles begins to walk away, but does not halt himself from correcting, "You forget, dear friend, that I am a king. I see no swift retribution coming at me or my men."

Turning back to his retreating form, Diomedes says astutely, "Only you have that fortune, friend."

"Fortune?" Achilles stops, halfway between Diomedes and Eudorus, who waits for him and his command lower in the hills. The Myrmidons are not so far away. Achilles motions towards the oncoming Carthaginians with the proud curve of his chin, and says, "Leave fortune to them, and to their lady. I have my sword. Come fight with me, Diomedes, and we will show them our glory." And he leaves, his sword lightly touching his thigh as he walks.

Diomedes, after a short laugh to himself, follows.

Sometime during the course of the first day of battle as Achilles, like a colossal wave of fire sweeps through the ranks of Carthage with his men towards the ships, cuts down man after man after man, leaving wives and children and brothers and sisters, parents and friends to grieve back in their homeland of Carthage without remorse, he fells a man with a clean stab through and matches his eyes with his won. And then the man says the strangest thing:

"For our lady Briseis…" and he dies.

And Achilles is stilled, a firestorm quelled if only for a moment, though the fire burns brighter as it swirls in the depths of his eyes and as his thoughts turn upon themselves in a haze of confusion. It lasts many seconds, and those men of his who see him are astounded, as Achilles is never still in battle, never peaceful, never not killing.

But the moment passes, and soon he is again in motion, grasses put to flame again, and life departing to Hades with every swing of his sword.

Not far off, Briseis sits, and imagines her forest.