Love.

Disclaimer: See previous chapters; I hate being redundant.

Notes: Well, as much as I hate myself for doing this, for the moment I am splitting this chapter in half. I finally decided upon a narrative theme and motif for this last chapter (no easy task, I'm telling you, considering that it had better be good…it's the last chapter!) and got to serious writing. However, the anticipated meeting scene for Briseis and Achilles is a difficult one for me to write, and I'd rather not rush writing it today. SO, I am putting out this half of the chapter, then I'm flying out on vacation tomorrow for two weeks. The second half will be written by the time I come back, and then all will be completed. I hope you all will forgive me for the disjointedness; I can barely deal with posting half a chapter myself. Anyway, please do drop me a line and let me know what you think. Cheers!

Voices, floating in and out of her head. Voices, discussing, dissecting her.

They talk in regal tones, authoritative, in trebles that had at one time been familiar to Briseis. Her mind casts back to before all of this, back to the haven past the Temple of Apollo, past the walls of Troy. Back to beloved cousins and uncles and gilded thrones, and throne rooms where important matters of the state were discussed and decided upon in strong voices much like those fading in and out of her consciousness now. The voices bring her back to Troy. Back to a time before soldiers and war. Before pomegranates. Before Achilles.

"She belongs to Achilles? What in the name of Zeus does that mean? Speak quickly, Eudorus!"

The whiteness that surrounds her even behind the protective embrace of her eyelids pervades Briseis physically, as if sinking into her every pore. A sun sickness, she knows, from venturing out of doors without a proper head covering. Her limbs are heavy, sluggish, and she has not the energy to move even a single muscle. She wonders idly is this is what dying is like; this foreign detachment from the physical self, this removed observation of her surroundings without care or purpose for what happens next.

"My lord…she was his captive…a prisoner of war…"

There is a tough ache building in her chest – it is an ache for her family. It is only in this moment that Briseis begins to realize just how far away she is from all she has ever known. The dawn of this knowledge has left her untouched from the moment she has told Paris to leave her behind in Carthage…and during the moments of unfortunate events that have led her to Greek shores. There is an ache in her chest, and it is an ache of her love…a powerful, persisting love beyond death and circumstance, a love for her country, her family, the cousins and uncles and nephews, her gods, her lover. She carries them—the dead, and her love for them, with her through her every living moment – and she knows they are with her because of this persistent ache in her chest. In this moment, it is the only thing that is truly hers: her face belongs to Carthaginians banners, her body to her captors, her mind to her fallen gods…but her love keeps her alive.

"Achilles and the Myrmidons have met the Carthaginians in battle before? He had not spoken of it earlier…"

She now understands the spirit of the tale she overheard what seems so long ago, when—ironically!—safely entrenched in the Greek camp upon Troy's beaches and within Achilles' grasp. The tale of a Mycenaean who took a Corinthian wife and lost his child because of their differences in nationality had seemed appropriate to her at the time, a true war story. That is still true to Briseis, but, she thinks, she missed an integral aspect of understanding: the man who told the story had no sadness or bitterness inflecting his voice—why? He lost his child because of his own decision…why should he not be tortured by it?

Briseis knows now why he tells his story with a note of pride in his voice, despite it all: thinking of his wife—and his lost child—is his manner of loving them while he is far from them, be that distance from Troy to Greece…or the width of the river Styx. He tells stories of them, thinks of them constantly, and his love keeps them alive in his mind. Much like Briseis herself does now, about all those she loves. If she had the strength within her, she would raise her voice to the high heavens of Mount Olympus and sing proudly of Hector the Tamer of Horses, of beautiful Paris and his stolen wife Helen of Sparta, of little Astyanax and wise, serene Andromache…and of Achilles, the Destroyer.

"No, my lord. She isn't from Carthage. She…she is from Troy. We found her in the temple there."

The sad reality, however, is that she cannot do as she wishes: be it sing or dance or tell tall tales, or even walk away from this bloodstained canvas of a beach battlefield. The fatigue from her long journey, nefariously building at the back of her mind, and her overbearing sadness have finally washed over her—like the waves of the blue, bottomless Aegean—and left her in this inglorious heap upon the floor. At the feet of yet another collection of Greek lords who, Apollo help her, might find a new way to further the nadir of her despair.

Priestesses don't despair because their emotions are already filled to the brim with love and faith and hope for their gods. But Briseis does despair, she does. The slow tears begin to travel over her cheeks.

"Troy? Are you sure you are not mistaken? To come from a Trojan captive to a savage country's goddess is a far leap indeed."

What have I become? She wonders. If not a priestess, then perhaps a warrior king's woman. If not his woman, then perhaps a mute. If not a mute, then perhaps a patroness of fortune. The charade goes onward, ever onward…

"I am not mistaken, my lord Diomedes. I know her face. And…"

"Yes, Eudorus?"

"I mean no offence, my lord, but it would be best if no harm came to the woman. Lord Achilles was uncommonly protective of her."

With all the confusion in her mind, the blackness that comes from within the overbearing white of the heat in that moment is more than she ever hoped for.

Achilles stands higher from the ravaged beach on the slope of a dune, surveying his damage.

The few remaining Carthaginian boats are cutting choppily through the unfamiliar water, abandoning soldiers, banners and weapons alike in an amusing desperation to put distance between themselves and the battle-hardened Greeks. For all their finery and war myths, the foreigners have proved to be a sad enemy indeed. Achilles feels no anxiety over a few worthless boats of would-be soldiers – he knows Nestor and Diomedes, in their quiet manipulating ways, will have the monarchs of Mycenae send a detachment of their own fleet after the cowards. Achilles refuses to give those who retreat the honour of his sword; he fights men and not worms. Let a lesser man take down such an enemy.

Eyes squinting against the familiar—and very welcome, in his mind—Greek sun, he glances around to take inventory of his men. They stand out in the crush of soldiers littering the beach; iron men amongst sticks. He is fiercely proud of the Myrmidons. Strangely, he cannot see Eudorus but Achilles pays it no mind. He knows his right hand would not fall in an insignificant battle such as this. His mind turns away.

Upon the sand near his feet, and spread all over the beach, are the forgotten Carthaginian banners. Shifting his stance casually, like a languorous lion walking his territory, Achilles regards the facial profile inked into cloth. It is drawn so as to be a pretty face, he reasons, his head cocked lightly. He listens to the sounds wafting their way over to him, as if they might carry an answer to his vague questions. His mind casts back to one of the faceless men he has slain today upon this very sand: "For our lady Briseis…" he said. Perhaps he misheard the man, Achilles reasons, but uneasily and unconsciously he knows that it isn't the case. Few are the times when he senses fail him, and in battle they are flawless—part of what has kept him alive, and so great. He did not mishear the man. So what does it mean?

Answers don't reach him, but the Myrmidons do.

"My lord…" one man begins, waiting for acknowledgement before continuing. Addressing Achilles is treated by all much like addressing a wild and dangerous animal: wait for a validation of cooperation before continuing.

Achilles doesn't meet his eyes, looking far out into the horizon and studying the fleeing ships of Carthage with a critical, suspicious eye. Eventually, in dissatisfaction, he raises his chin and cocks an eyebrow. His soldier continues, "My lord, shall we go after them?" By them, he means the enemy.

Rolling his shoulders back and sheathing his bloody sword, his lord answers, "No. Let the Mycenaeans clean up their mess. Have the Myrmidons return to camp." He looks back to the horizon, the distant look in his eyes a dismissal in itself, and the soldier begins to turn away after inclining his head. The words rolling off his tongue, Achilles adds, "Tell them they fought well today, Nikolas." From his stance, it looks almost as thought Achilles doesn't realize he is even talking.

His soldier, Nikolas, cracks a smile and inclines his head again in receipt of the compliment. "Thank you, my lord. I will tell them."

A nod. Then, a slightly puzzled look crosses Achilles' face for a moment, and he asks, "Where is Eudorus, Nikolas?"

After a quick perusal of the men on the beach, Nikolas turns back to his lord and says, "I understood that during the battle, King Diomedes wished to send you a message for a change in tactics. Eudorus went to the high tents to find out what it was. Did he not come to you, my lord?"

A pause. Then, "No. Not that a change in tactics was necessary to achieve this paltry win." A well-known smirk crosses his face, lascivious, dangerous. Achilles stabs at one of the abandoned banners with a nearby spear imbedded in the sand. Then he turns fully to his soldier, feet shifting. "I go to Diomedes, then. You know where to find me.

Stepping into Diomedes' battle tent is nothing like stepping into Agamemnon's. For one, the only reason behind a kings' gathering in Diomedes' tent is for reason of strategy…not for philandering and flattering and grovelling. There is also the matter of respect; primarily, Achilles does not only respect Diomedes, but is proud to call him a friend and councillor on occasion. So when Achilles walks into Diomedes' tent, he does not steel himself for battles of word and territory; in fact, he is genuinely smiling.

The king spots his entry immediately and stands from his position at a table. The two men grip each other's forearms firmly in greeting, and then turn to the map of the coast laid out on the table. Achilles allows the king to speak first, considering his words carefully.

"Look, the Carthaginians mean to flee back to their homeland the usual route…around Peloponnesus. I did, however, take the liberty of sending a runner to Sparta yesterday, and they will have their navy blocking the way around the coast, forcing them to return our way."

Taking out a short dagger and pointing with it, Achilles counters, "That is, of course, unless they try to force their way past or around the Spartan line."

Laughing, Diomedes says, "And? What does it matter if they die on this shore or in Spartan waters? I know you won't bother fighting them should they come back—you'll leave it to us to clean up the job."

Achilles rubs his hand over the stubble lining his jaw and smiles. "You know me too well." He takes the goblet of watered wine offered to him by a young soldier made temporary servant and drinks deeply of it. His eyes glitter darkly, an after-effect of his time spent fighting today. All who know him know he will be aggressive and unforgiving today, as is his character—almost drunk off the battle and blood. "Well, Diomedes? Did you join us soldiers upon the sands?"

Sitting in a chair, Diomedes chuckles. "Would you respect me if I didn't?" He sighs suddenly. "Of course I fought, Achilles. It is a king's obligation is to expect no more of his soldiers then he does of himself. I don't enjoy it so much as you, to be sure."

After a gesture to the stitches upon the man's leg, Achilles questions, "And your wound?"

A dismissive gesture. "It is nothing." Then a smile, "Your man Eudorus had a hand in the stitching—he arrived at the right time."

Achilles puts down his goblet, half-full. "Yes, where is Eudorus? I looked for him after the battle. I heard you wanted a change in tactics. Not a wise decision, in the midst of the melee, Diomedes."

"Yes, well, it seems it proved unnecessary." Diomedes then slides to the edge of his seat, studying his friend for a moment. "Eudorus is waiting for you near the Myrmidon camp. He tells me…" He looks at Achilles slyly, with a smirk, "…that I have found something of yours."

With a discarded cloth, Achilles had begun to clean the blade of his sword. He stops and frowns, creating deep lines in his forehead as he regards the other king. His head cocked to the side, he asks, "Something of mine?"

A bright grin. "A wayward trinket, shall we say?"

Suddenly very tired, Achilles tosses the cloth away and is still for a moment. He pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes, and then points the tip of his sword at Diomedes, not five inches from his throat. "Play your riddles some other time, friend. What is it you mean?"

Finally Diomedes shrugs noncommittally, after a long pause. The blade before him is retracted and resheathed, Achilles' countenance no less hard. He should have known better than to provoke the man so soon after battle, he thinks offhand. Then says, "Go with Eudorus, and he will show you."

Achilles drinks deeply of the wine in his goblet, nods, and walks away. As he leaves, he calls back, "Until tomorrow then." He is gone before Diomedes can reply.

As if slowly leaving a dark forest thick and overgrown, consciousness descends upon Briseis. First are the sounds she hears—mumbled chatter of men, the noises made by tools and metal—and then she becomes aware of her surroundings by touch: she lies upon the ground, her face half-pressed into soft fabric, her skin cool from the shade. Then vision returns, a slightly more sickening sensation, as a false bright light pierces her eyes momentarily before settling into normal colours and brightness. Everything she sees has a bit of a washed-out, blue tinge, and Briseis remembers that she lost consciousness at the feet of men she did not know. Briseis does not have the strength to wonder where she has been placed now: it cannot be worse than her standing with the Carthaginians.

Gingerly, she sits up, resting most of her weight on her arms before moving to sit leaning against a wall…because her arms are shaking with weakness. It has been a long time since she last ate, and her time spent in the sun did her ill indeed. Her gaze falls idly upon a small ceramic vase visibly filled with water. She stares at it without thinking for a few moments, before leaning forward—and snatching it off the ground. Drinking deeply, Briseis falls back against the wall for a few moments, before wiping her lips and drinking again, slowly. She knows that it is dangerous to drink water too quickly after great dehydration.

Thus sated, if for the moment, she begins her study of her surroundings. A warrior's tent, Briseis now recognizes, larger than Achilles' upon the beach of Troy. She supposes that she has been placed here to be interrogated by one of the Greek lords about the Carthaginian invaders. The expected items, however—a washing basin, woven robes, an unfilled food platter—are clean from lack of use, and she supposes that this lord has not yet returned from the battleground.

The minutes of waiting pass slowly for her. She feels these moments almost mirror those she experiences tied in Achilles' tent prior to their meeting, although the difference in her emotions between then and now is marked. In Troy, though she felt resigned to her fate as a Greek captive, the terror that had pervaded her bones so deeply had made her prone to lash out. Now, Briseis feels she has little to lose; certainly not her faith, or her virginity anymore. At the very least, she thinks to herself in a vague whisper of her old humour, that disgusting pig of a king, Agamemnon, is not on this side of Styx to make her life a living hell. Briseis even contemplates leaving the tent and attempting escape, since this time she has been oddly left unattended without bonds, but to what end? Her best chances are with the Greek lord who would eventually return to his camp. The waiting, it seems to her, is punishment enough. It fills her with a feeling of powerlessness, of passivity…and all through her journey, however hard the circumstances; she always had some measure of movement, of control. No longer.

In time, a set of voices draws near. Men, naturally, their voices deep and gravely from exertion and shouting in battle. Strange, really, how much Briseis recognizes and knows of men since knowing Achilles. It was as though a whole half of her social education was missing before having a lover. She cannot understand what the voices are saying as they draw nearer and louder, the sound muffled by the walls of the tent and the barriers at the entrance. It is of little import anyway, she'll soon be hearing what needs to be heard from the lord. She sits, legs curled underneath her, and waits, eyes resting upon the door for the moment to come when a man will push through those stiff leather flaps and lay eyes on her.

But when that moment comes, despite how prepared Briseis believes she is, her heart nearly stops.

The sheen of sweat resting upon golden, muscled flesh.

The dull gleam of armour, streaks of dirt and blood disguising its true appearance.

The two hands, large and powerful, the calluses from swordplay visible.

A flash of twisted, golden hair lit by Apollo's gift of sunlight.

And the blue eyes, as if cast from the ocean, travelling slowly up her body to meet her gaze, the emotions and surprise within reflecting her own.

And that name, shouted as a mantra by thousands for the ordinary men of the world.

Achilles.

Well?