As always, thank you to everyone who's reviewed, and here's a lovely long chapter for you, because I was feeling very kind (and in a ramblish sort of mood. Don't you just love that word – ramblish?)
Some point about this chapter: firstly, in the film I absolutely hate both Paris and Helen and thought that they were stuck-up, selfish little (&#/s BUT I wanted to try and write them to be nice, because it's only fair, really isn't it? I don't know them, and therefore what right have I to judge? Anyway, enough of this deep moral stuff – onto point two! The second thing is that I know that Hector's body was all beaten up when they gave it to Priam in the film, but I'm going by the Iliad version that said the Gods had protected it. thinking about that, I came up with the solution presented before you today (you have to pronounce the last five words in a lawyer-type voice, lol). ANYWAY! I'm rambling now, a horrible disease that I am prone to I'm afraid, sorry about that :D
Ok, guys, another thing – I need some help as to the end of this story. Fear not (he said for mighty dread had seized their troubled mind…) I'm along way from the end, but I really need to start planning now, so here are the options: A - Briseis and Achilles return to Phthia (Achilles' home), B – Both of them die (very tragic I know, but at least then they'll be together in Elysium), or C – it ends the same as the film. It's your choice. Oh, and if you have any ideas of your own I'd love to hear them. The thing is, you see, I have 2 or 3 very lovely melodramatic endings to this which I could use, but I don't know which one would be best, so I'm leaving it up to you. Anywho, enjoy:
Chapter Four: Learning to Breathe
'Hello, good morning, how you been?
Yesterday left my head kicked in
I never, never thought that
I would fall like that
Never knew that I could hurt this bad'
Switchfoot, 'Learning to Breathe'
Paris stopped outside Briseis door the next afternoon, listening for a sound inside. He had left Briseis, guessing that she needed to sleep, but he heard nothing from within her room now, and so he put one hand out, and gently moved the door open. Inside, Briseis was sleeping in the centre of the large bed, curled up with a blanket wrapped around her, her tousled hair fanned out across the silk sheets.
Paris' heart went out to the girl as she lay there: she looked so young and innocent. Her face, illuminated by the golden glow of the rising sun, was placid and showing none of the pain of the night before. Paris hoped that she had found peace in sleep, for she seemed to have none in waking.
He moved into the room, closing the door behind him. The sound of it woke Briseis, who stirred, blinking sleepily and sitting up when she saw Paris was there.
"Sleep well?" Paris asked as he sat down on a chair beside the bed, knowing full well how feeble his words were.
Briseis shrugged. "Alright," she said, her voice small.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Paris offered, already knowing the answer he would receive, but needing to ask the question nonetheless.
Briseis shook her head. "No," she answered, but there was gratitude in her voice, and Paris knew that his rather pathetic efforts had been appreciated.
"Will you come to eat with the family?" Paris asked.
Uncertainty suddenly came onto the former priestesses face. "Will they have me?" she asked after a moment.
Paris understood her worry. By now Priam's large family would know that their cousin had been recovered, and would probably know too that she had come from the tent of the man who had killed their brother.
"You cannot be held to blame for anything that happened on the beaches," Paris told her earnestly. "They will rejoice that you have been brought back to them."
Briseis held Paris' gaze for a moment, before dropping her eyes. "I…I would rather be alone for a bit," she said softly.
"Briseis, they are glad that you have returned, no matter what has happened to you," Paris told her. His voice was gentle, but inside he was getting increasingly impatient with her. They had always been so close, and now, when she needed his love and support the most, she was blocking him out.
"I just want to be alone," Briseis repeated.
Paris sighed. "Alright," he said eventually. "Do you want me to send your maids?"
"No," Briseis said, her voice scarcely above a whisper. "I will dress myself."
Paris nodded, remembering how she had shied away from his touch the night before. "I will come back later and see how you are," he told her.
Briseis showed no signs of having heard him, and so Paris rose and made his way to the door. In the doorway he paused, glancing back at the girl who sat, huddled on the bed, the blankets pulled tightly around her. He sighed again, and then left, closing the door gently behind him.
Briseis made no move to get up after he had vacated her room. She sat in the middle of the large bed, her knees bent, and her arms hugging her legs tightly. She felt so out of place amid all the luxury and prosperity of Troy. It was as if she belonged in the rough comfort of Achilles' tent.
No! She thought sharply. She belonged here! She had been saved from the Greeks, and returned to her home. She had been nothing but a prize to Achilles, one that he would already have forgotten.
And with such thoughts in her mind, she rose, still clutching the blanket around her naked body, and made her way to choose a dress. But as she stood in front of the rack of clothes, her indecision returned. She could not bear to wear white again. She could hardly bear to look at it, knowing everything it symbolised: everything she no longer was. But appearing in a different colour would cause people to talk, and the last thing she wanted was to draw attention to herself.
Finally her gaze fell on a black robe, and for one long moment she remembered her lover in a black mantle, his golden hair tumbling down onto his shoulders. Briseis hesitated for a moment, and then took the robe down and, letting the blanket fall to the floor, slipped it over her body.
It was perfect: it hid the bruises and cuts on her skin, and, if questioned, she could say she was wearing black in Hector's memory. Though in truth, she did not know why she was wearing black: perhaps it was to symbolise her fall from the purity that white portrayed, perhaps it was because she was in grieving, though not only for Hector, or perhaps it was because Achilles had worn black, and Briseis was subconsciously trying to hang on to anything that reminded her of him. But whatever it was, Briseis felt safe in black: anonymous, and it suited her fine.
Briseis went out onto her balcony, and stood, looking out across Troy. The view that she had loved so much before seemed unimportant now. Everything seemed unimportant now. She hardly knew why she had bothered getting up, for what was she living for anymore? A failed priestess had no place in Troy.
She stumbled backwards slowly, as the realisation of her predicament hit her. She was in a city that hated the man who had taken her virginity from her. She could not return to the temple, she knew that, and no man in Troy would want her now. She had no future. Indeed, she was surprised that Priam had even brought her back to the city. She hit the wall behind her, and slid slowly down it, until she sat, crumpled at the bottom, her head in her hands.
She did not know how long she sat there, drowning in despair, but the sun was low in the sky by the time that she was startled from her reverie by a soft tap at the door. Helen entered after a moment, closing the door behind her, and she moved out onto the balcony as Briseis raised her ravaged face to behold a golden one. Helen, keeping her distance from the grieving girl, sat on the floor of the balcony facing Briseis, her back to Troy.
"Did Paris send you?" Briseis asked, her voice unduly bitter.
"He is worried about you," Helen explained, no reproach for the sharp welcome in her melodious voice.
Briseis turned her face away, angry about being disturbed.
"Briseis," Helen began. "Don't punish yourself for what happened there. It was not your fault," she repeated the words that Briseis had already heard so many times.
"Do not tell me it was not my fault!" Briseis snapped, raising her head angrily.
Helen looked down at her folded hands resting on her lap. "Briseis…I know what you are going through. Paris…he means well, but he does not know what it feels like."
Briseis' eyes softened at Helen's words. She had forgotten that the beautiful Queen had been raped when she was scarcely more than a child. And though Briseis did not speak, Helen saw the apology in her eyes.
"You have your whole life ahead of you," she continued. "Grieve for a while, but then put away your pain, and move on. It is the only way." Her eyes met Briseis', and for a moment they stayed that way: immobile, before Helen spoke again. "If you ever need to talk," she told Briseis. "Don't forget that I will listen."
Briseis said nothing, but then, slowly and uncertainly, she nodded her head. She had been scared of Helen when Paris had brought her to Troy, resentful even that the golden-haired woman had taken her cousin from her, but now, now she was grateful. She guessed, correctly, that Helen had not had to deal with grieving people before, and she knew how hard it was for Helen to offer to talk about what had happened, when she probably didn't want her own memories raked up.
"Well," Helen said, her voice practical. "Will you come to Hector's funeral?"
Briseis looked up sharply. To be honest, she had forgotten all about Hector in her own pain. Fear rippled through her body at the thought of having to appear in front of so many people, in front of Andromache, but she knew equally that she had to be there. She nodded her assent, not trusting her voice, and Helen rose from the floor with the inborn grace that she was blessed with, and held out a hand to help Briseis up.
Briseis looked at the hand, unwilling to offend Helen by rejecting it, but equally unwilling to taint another's flesh by the touch of her own. Helen, however, realised her mistake almost immediately, and drew her hand back. "Sorry," she said in her beautiful voice. "I forgot." She smiled at Briseis. "I was exactly the same when it happened to me. It was months before I could bear to touch anybody."
"What happened?" Briseis asked shyly.
"I was married to Menelaus," Helen told Briseis with a sad smile that would have broken Briseis' heart, had it not been shattered long before.
Briseis got up while Helen spoke, and followed her in from the balcony. It struck her, then, that the Queen of Sparta must hardly be used to squatting on a dusty floor, or to doing anything but giving orders to those beneath her, let alone trying to comfort them.
"Briseis," Helen began tentatively when they were inside. "You cannot…you should not wear black to Hector's funeral. It would be disrespectful."
Briseis nodded slowly. She understood what Helen said, but could not bring herself to find a solution.
"Why don't you wear blue?" Helen suggested, understanding Briseis' indecision. "It is the colour of the house of Troy."
Briseis nodded gratefully as Helen took a royal blue dress down and handed it to the dark-haired girl.
"Do you wish me to help you?" she offered.
Briseis shook her head, her eyes on the blue cloth as she let it run through her fingers.
"I will go and prepare then. Paris will come to escort you to the hall: I think Andromache might need me."
Briseis nodded again, too exhausted, both mentally and physically, to speak. Helen gazed at the younger woman for a moment, and then left the room on silent and graceful feet.
When, late that night, Paris came to escort Briseis to Hector's pyre, the girl was a nervous wreck. She wore a dark blue robe, trimmed with gold, and a laurel of dark blue on her head. She was painfully aware of the cut on her nose and the bruises on her wrists, but she had lived in court all her life, and if she had not learnt to hide her emotions, she had learnt nothing.
"Are you ready?" Paris asked, his voice concerned.
Briseis nodded. What else could she do? She could scarcely tell him that she was not ready, and that she would not be if she lived a thousand years.
As the two cousins walked side by side through the deserted passageways an uncomfortable silence fell. Paris, usually so easy-going and amiable, struggled to find something to say, but eventually he spoke, unwilling to let the silence grow.
"You know the gods have protected Hector's body," he told Briseis, offering up what he saw as comfort.
Briseis turned her head to regard him, not encouraging him to speak, but not objecting to it either, and so Paris continued. "His body was unmarked," he explained. "There was no blood on his armour, no sand on his skin, and his hair had been combed and braided with gold thread."
Briseis blinked slowly, to prevent tears from falling. How could she tell her cousin of the long hours she had spent by Hector's corpse, too scared to return to her lover's tent, and unable to leave the brave Hector in the state he was in? How could she speak of brushing the sand from his cold body, of washing his armour with seawater, and combing his hair with her own fingers? If Paris wanted to believe that the Gods protected Hector in death when they had abandoned him in life, then she would let him. Personally, Briseis did not know if she could find it in herself to even respect the Gods any more.
"Are you ready?" Paris asked her again, and Briseis glanced up, startled to find that they had come to the entrance to the huge, temple-like hall where Hector's body lay high on a pyre, bedecked in white and gold. Nodding tightly, Briseis followed Paris in, painfully aware of all the eyes on her.
"Go and sit beside Andromache," Paris whispered into her ear, nodding towards the platform where Andromache sat, Helen beside her with Astyanax on her lap.
Briseis made her way to her seat, avoiding the suffering eyes of Andromache, although she knew the princess was watching her as she sat down, firmly keeping her gaze towards the front.
What could Andromache be thinking now? She shuddered to think. To have to endure your husband's funeral beside a woman tainted by the hands of his murderer would have killed most women, but although Andromache's eyes were red, she showed no other signs of suffering, until Priam and Paris put the flames to the brave Hector's body.
Andromache's already thin face tightened in pain, and tears rolled silently down her taut cheeks. She watched the burning pyre as if she desperately wanted to look away but was unable to. And so she sat, watching her husband's body burn, listening to the cries of her fatherless child rocked gently in Helen's arms, and wondering what was left to live for.
Briseis was close to crying herself by the time the fire had burnt down. It would have been alright, she would have been able to endure it, had it not been for Astynax. The poor, innocent child had lost a loving father, because of her. He would never know the man who had loved him and his mother so much.
Briseis felt like she was going to break with the weight of it all. She was carrying the pain of all of Troy on her shoulders because she knew, as well as everyone else who watched the prince burn, that Troy would fall without him. But the worst thing was that, as she watched Hector burn, Briseis realised something. She realised that, could she go back and do it all again, she still would not have killed Achilles. She still would have surrendered to his touch and his love. She still would have let Hector die. She still would have let Troy fall.
She had cried, that first night when he had taken her, long after he had fallen asleep, his forehead almost touching hers, one arm thrown carelessly over her naked waist. She had lain awake for hours when the love and the passion and the desire had gone, and she was left with nothing but an empty feeling of guilt and loss. She had cried silently, scared to wake him, but crushed by the feeling of bitter defeat. And though she had accepted, no, she had even welcomed his touch the next night, it was not until the moment when she sat on the dais, watching Hector burn, listening to the cries of his child and sensing the tears of his wife, that she knew that it had all been worth it. That perhaps, it was not just gratitude that she felt towards him. Perhaps it was something bigger, something greater, something far more terrible.
Tears stung her eyes, but Briseis could not bear to cry in front of all the curious eyes before her. She knew that a princess would push back her own suffering until she was alone, and sit, impassive and unemotional, but, for the first time in her life, Briseis no longer cared. She had spent every one of the seventeen years trying to please those around her, and it all seemed so trivial now. What did any of it matter any more? They were all doomed, so why should she even bother pretending that they were not?
She stood, suddenly, aware of the glances that she was attracting, but no longer caring. She fled the dais, the eyes of the onlookers, the smoke of her cousin's body, and ran down the corridors, no longer about to cry, but instead about to erupt in a fierce anger. She did not stop until she reached her own room, and she entered it at a run, slamming the door behind her, but did not slow down until she hit the railings around her balcony, her upper body pushed over by the momentum. Her hands gripped the rail tightly as she pulled herself upright, and then, very slowly, slid down into a crumpled huddle at the bottom.
She did not know how long she sat there, weighed down by the realisation that she loved Hector's killer, but eventually exhaustion led her to rise and return to her room. She pulled off the robe, tossing t carelessly onto the floor, and pulled a plain black shift over her head before crawling into the large bed.
Briseis lay there for a long time, worn out, but unable to sleep. The satin sheets seemed cold and smooth in comparison to the rough, warm furs on Achilles' bed. And when she finally slept, she woke to find herself reaching out for a body that was not there.