A/N – Sorry it's been so long coming guys! I've just got back off camp, and have missed a whole week of potential revision because of it, so I've been having a minor panic attack – exams only being about a month away now. But still, I've managed to finish this chapter, though there will b one more, possibly two, after this. Now I know this doesn't follow either the Illiad or the film, so sorry about that, but I hope you guys like it anyway. As always, please review!

Chapter 10: Goodbye My Lover

'You touched my heart you touched my soul.
You changed my life and all my goals.
And love is blind and that I knew when,
My heart was blinded by you.

I've kissed your lips and held your head.
Shared your dreams and shared your bed.
I know you well, I know your smell.
I've been addicted to you.'

James Blunt, 'Goodbye My Lover'

Achilles stood on the beach of Troy, his hands on his hips, as he watched a great warship with black sails run up onto the beach. His eyes narrowed slightly when he caught sigh of the young man with golden hair and dark eyes standing at the bow of the ship, but this was the only sign of emotion he showed at seeing his only acknowledged son for the first time in four years.

Neoptolemus swung over the side of the ship as it drew to a halt: stopped by the rise of the sea bed, and he landed knee-deep in water, before striding up the beach to where his father waited for him.

Achilles smiled inwardly as he watched Neoptolemus approach: he walked with the same arrogance that his father did, the same careless superiority.

"Father," Neoptolemus said, nodding his head slightly, as he approached. Despite putting on a show of the obedience expected of a son to his father, there was no real respect in either his voice or his manner.

Achilles, however, did not mind this. He acknowledged that the boy had done enough to have at least some pride in himself: where Achilles was seen on a god on a battlefield, Neoptolemus ruled over sea battles with an equal ferocity. The name Achilles would send shivers up the spine of soldiers; the name Neoptolemus would do the same for sailors. They were equals, in their own right, and both knew it.

"You've decided to join us at last," Achilles drawled, looking his son over slowly.

"I have my own battles to fight," Neoptolemus said in a voice far from friendly.

Achilles finally grinned. "So I've heard. You've done well for yourself."

The praise seemed meagre, when it was given to a man who, before his twentieth summer, had sacked at least seven armed coastal cities, beaten some of the most renowned pirates of both the Achaean and of the Aegean seas in ferocious sea battles, making himself and his crew rich. However, from Achilles, even this grudging approval was something quite rare.

Neoptolemus' eyes widened slightly in surprise. "My father acknowledges my worth. Who thought I would live to see the day?" he asked, the sarcasm in his voice doing little to hide the fact that he spoke in the same drawling tones as his father.

Achilles raised one eyebrow at his impertinence, but then a frown furrowed his forehead. "We need to talk," he said, his tone no longer light.

Neoptolemus nodded, and followed the older man to his tent.

Briseis stood on her balcony, her hands gripping the railing so tightly that her knuckles were white as she stared out in horror at the scene that was unfolding before her. Trojan soldiers were dragging the great wooden statue of a horse through the gates of Troy from where they had found it on the Greek beaches, abandoned, when the Greeks 'fled' the Trojan shores.

Briseis did not actually realise that she was shaking until she heard Cassandra's calm voice behind her.

"There's really no point in getting so worked up about it," the priestess said in a serene, detached voice. "They'll never listen to us, so why waste your energy worrying?"

Briseis turned around with forced calm. Cassandra must have really lost it this time. To know that somehow this was a trick, and that it would likely result in the sacking of Troy, but to stand there so calmly: it had to be madness.

"But don't you see Cassandra?" Briseis begged. "They'll kill us all…or worse."

A faint smile was playing around Cassandra's mouth. "Oh it'll be worse," she said in a voice that was meant to sound reassuring. "I've always known my fate," she turned her large, hazel eyes to meet those of Briseis, and the former priestess shuddered as she met Cassandra's blank, empty gaze.

"No," Briseis said forcefully. "No, Cassandra. It doesn't have to be as you see it. We'll keep you safe. Paris will protect you." Briseis could see now that Cassandra was not mad. She had simply retreated to a place where, no matter what happened, they could not touch her. She did not know what scared her more: Cassandra going mad, or giving up hope.

Cassandra just smiled blankly at Briseis again, and then swept out of the room, leaving Briseis shaking even more than when she had arrived. She sank down into a huddle at on the floor, more afraid than she had ever been in her life. She knew that Paris had spoken against bringing the horse into the city, and so if the heir to the throne of Troy could not convince his father that it was a bad idea, Briseis knew that she never could.

She did not know exactly what the Greeks' plan was, but she knew that it was a trick. And she knew that it would not end well for her. She balled her hands into tiny fists, her nails biting down on her soft skin, and she tried to be brave: to prepare to meet death, or, as Cassandra had said, something even worse than that.

It was hot and humid inside the wooden horse. An uncomfortable silence reigned as each man contemplated how close he was to death. Usually, just before a battle the men would be laughing and joking with each other: 'don't wear your helmet tomorrow, maybe the Trojans will see your face and die laughing'. The younger ones looked to the veteransfor reassurance that it wouldn't be as bad as they feared. Some told of miraculous survival stories, others went through pre-battle rituals, as superstition dictated the way in which they would go through what may possible be their last few hours. But none of that could happen in the stifling atmosphere inside the horse.

Achilles sat away from the other men inside the horse. He distanced himself, not only physically but mentally as well. His mother had told him that he would die on the plains of Troy, and he had no reason to doubt her prophecy. Death did not scare him so much as the thought of not being able to reach Briseis before it took him. If he could only find her, then he would willingly give his life to keep her safe.

He was faintly amused by his own affection for the girl. He had seen, and had, the most beautiful women of Greece, but somehow every defence that he had ever created came tumbling down at the sight of one slender and frightened priestess.

And so he sat, alone with only his thoughts for company, in the bowels of a wooden horse, waiting for his death, just as Briseis did, not so far away.

Briseis had somehow managed to fall asleep, crunched up in the corner of the balcony, her head buried in her knees. When she woke, the first thing she was aware of was burning. It seemed, as she slowly pulled herself to her feet as if in a daze, that the whole world was burning.

Then the screams hit her.

As Briseis' ears were suddenly filled with high notes of pain and despair, she snapped out of her stunned state, and burst into action, her eyes suddenly burning with life. She spun sharply on her heels, running across her room in a few short steps. She paused at the door: inside her room she was safe. Outside was death, in the form of Greek soldiers. And yet they would eventually find her in her room. She would not wait for them to come to her. She was not like Cassandra: she could not block out the pain and the despair and hurt around her. If they caught her, she would suffer.

She steeled herself and pushed the door open slowly. She heard rushing feet when the door had only opened a crack, and pulled back quickly, safe in the shadows of her room, until the danger had passed. When the hallway was once more silent, Briseis pushed the door fully open. And threw up.

Slumped against the base of the wall beside the doorway was the mutilated body of the Trojan guard that kept a constant watch by her room. Briseis straightened up, wiping her mouth and deliberately keeping her gaze away from the body. This was no time for hysterics at the sight of the dead.

She took a few paces down he hall, and then paused, torn for a moment. Suddenly, in one fluid motion, she turned back, and, grabbing a knife from the belt of the dead man, spun back around before her stomach could protest again. She slipped the knife up her sleeve before continuing down the passageway.

She didn't entirely know why she had taken the dead man's knife, only that the weight of the metal in her hand was faintly reassuring, and though she did not doubt that she had little chance against fully armed soldiers, she felt very slightly safer with it.

She ran down the dark passageways, lit up only by the glow of the burning city, all the time cursing the material of her dress, which got caught around her legs, slowing her down. Men, women, and children ran in a panicked chaos around her, all intent on saving their own lives from the merciless invaders that were coming.

Briseis skidded to a halt outside the door of Paris' and Helen's rooms, but the door was wide open and the room was empty, apart from a sobbing servant, cowering in the corner. Briseis felt her gut twist in fear. She had been counting on Paris being here to save her.

The former priestess stood immobile as people swarmed around her, filled with a feeling of utter helplessness. There was nowhere to turn to, no one to run to and shelter behind. Briseis drew a steep breath, and counted out three long seconds. When she reached the end she pulled herself together: she had given herself three seconds to panic, and now she had to think calmly. Cowering in a corner would not save her, she doubted that anything would save her, but moving had to be better than staying, waiting to be discovered.

Filled with a resolve that she didn't know she possessed, Briseis moved off down the corridors once more, seeking a place that she had been outcasted from: a place dedicated to something she no longer believed in, a place that she had been dragged screaming and fighting from several weeks ago.

And in the temple, Briseis found some peace. Peace in the knowledge that the end was coming: the waiting would soon be over and she would know her fate. Peace, even through the frantic prayers to the gods that she was not sure even existed. Peace in the knowledge that noting mattered anymore: not love, not her pregnancy, not her shame. Soon, it would end, and she would be free.

Achilles ran through the city streets, his heart pounding and his mouth dry, only one thought in his mind: a desperate, urgent need to find Briseis and protect her. Nothing mattered anymore to him. He knew he would die this night, and as long as he saved her in doing it, then he could accept death. Everything was planned for after his death, everything was worked out, and he knew that he could welcome death in the knowledge that he was leaving nothing behind him undone.

And then he saw her: she was in front of the temple alter, her body pressed up close to Agamemnon's, his thick, fat hand wrapped around her neck. Achilles felt a wave of fear wash through him, followed by one of anger. He had vowed once that before the war was over, he would stand over Agamemnon's body and smile, but that victory would be nothing but bitter if his own lover's body lay there too.

He was running towards Briseis when he saw one slender hand come up and a brief flash as light caught the metal, before Briseis buried the knife in the king's neck with a force born from fear.

Even as she plunged the knife into Agamemnon's neck, Briseis felt her stomach heave with disgust and panic, and she was running as soon as the king hit the ground. Not soon enough though, for moments later she felt herself captured by strong hands as the two guards grabbed hold of her, and she was suddenly facing death head on.

And then Achilles was there, like and avenging angel, sweeping down to save her at what she had been sure was her last hour, and then she was in his arms, for what felt like the first time in an eternity of loneliness despair, and she was finally safe, protected, loved.

But nothing lasts, and the next thing Briseis knew, she saw Paris standing above them, slowly and deliberately notching and arrow onto his bow, his eyes trained on Achilles. Briseis heard a scream and realised it was hers, and Paris', put off by the cry from Briseis, sent the arrow through Achilles' heel, instead of his chesat. Achilles threw his head back as he was hit, and as the arrow pierced her lover's flesh Briseis felt the pain in her own heart.

And then everything turned into a horrendous blur. Briseis saw Achilles rise, and she was screaming at Paris to stop, but arrow after arrow was unleashed upon her lover, and still he kept moving forwards, raising his sword painfully.

Finally Briseis managed to get her legs to work, and she ran towards Paris, sobbing and pleading for him to stop. But it was not her beloved cousin who stood there: it was some monster, consumed by bitterness and a desire for revenge, and Briseis turned away, in time to see her lover slump down onto the grass, pulling an arrow from his chest.

And then she was by his side, overcome by a desperate need to feel his body against hers. She felt his arms come to hold her, and she could feel his muscles quivering slightly, although he was trying to not show the pain that he obviously felt.

Briseis was crying, but Achilles murmured soothing words in her ears. "It's alright," he said softly, breathing in her scent that always intoxicated him. "You gave me peace, in a lifetime of war."

Briseis buried her face in his shoulder, hardly understanding what was happening. Achilles could not die; she could not live without him.

And through her tears she heard a voice she hated.

"Briseis, come," Paris said urgently from where he stood some distance away, choosing to ignore the fact that Briseis was crying for Hector's murderer.

"Go," Achilles told her gently. "You must go."

Briseis shook her head stubbornly, and Achilles ran one finger along the line of her jaw, kissing her mouth softly, trying to implant every memory of the way that she smelt, felt, spoke, in his memory for the long years that he would have to wait on the far banks of the Styx for her.

"Briseis come," Paris' voice again. "Troy is fallen. I know a way out."

"No," Briseis murmured in a pained voice, unable to turn away from her dying lover. For he really was dying. Briseis knew it now, even if she could not understand it.

Achilles glanced up at Paris. He knew that Briseis would be safe if she stayed here: he would make sure that he stayed alive long enough to see her placed in safe hands, but if Prince Paris could get her away from the city, then it would be better for her to be with her own kin.

"It's alright," he told her. "Go. You must."

"Briseis come," Paris said once more, his voice more insistent this time: it was an order now, not a plea.

Perhaps that was what made something inside Briseis snap. The idea that he had the nerve to order her to do something after he had ripped her heart out, made a fierce fire burn inside her, and before she knew what she was doing, she turned towards him, her tear-stained eyes blazing fiercely.

"Get out of my sight," she hissed at him.

Paris said nothing: he had never seen Briseis angry, not really angry, and he did not know how to deal with it.

"Get out of my sight!" Briseis screamed at him this time. "You think I could stand being anywhere near you after you have done this to me?" her voice had dropped to a dangerous, low tone once more, but Paris did not seem to catch the threat in her voice.

"Come, Briseis," he tried once again. "They'll kill you if you stay here."

Briseis laughed, but it was a dry, harsh laugh, devoid of any humour. "Oh I'm already dead," she told him in a toneless voice. "You saw to that when you put an arrow through the man I loved."

Paris stared at her for a moment, and she stared back, daring him to make some comment, but then she heard a sound from Achilles behind her, and spun around swiftly to see his face contorted with pain.

Paris immediately forgotten, she dropped to her knees, her eyes immediately filling with concern as she pulled Achilles close to her. when she glanced backwards a moment later, Paris was gone.

"You didn't need to do that you know," Achilles' eyes were closed, and he was breathing heavily, but Briseis could just hear his pain-filled words.

"Ssh," she said reassuringly, it now being her turn to soothe him. "It doesn't matter. I'm not leaving you."

"I've made sure that you'll be safe," Achilles managed to say, stubbornly refusing to stop speaking. "You have no need to be afraid."

"I am afraid…of life without you," Briseis said in a small voice.

Achilles managed to smile through the pain, and one trembling hand reached out, drawing her closer to him, so that he was enveloped in her scent. "I…I love you," he told her, before his hand fell down with the effort.

"And I love you too Achilles," Briseis whispered fiercely, "Never forget that."

But he never heard her last words, for his body had slumped against hers and his eyes closed, never to open again.

Briseis sat, stunned by the pain racing through her body. As Achilles' last breath had left him, Briseis felt like her own heart had been ripped, still beating, from her chest. She could not breathe, she could not move. She could hardly see, for the scene around her was growing darker and darker, and then the shadows engulfed her, and she fell forwards over the body of her lover, her head resting on his bloody chest, her slender hand over his heart.