Between Lions and Men

1: sing, goddess

Briseis

Light only bothered break through the clouds. As if it were too lazy to show its soft face and bring us dawn.
That moment wasn't good.
But when you've been beyond the brink of great tragedy, even little moments of peace can feel something close to absolute euphoria. Because otherwise there's nothing at all. This may not be good. But if we live in a world where good doesn't exist. Where happiness long since fled. Then I must take these few soft moments. Treasure them as they happen. Because even then, I knew that there was much worse I would have to pass through. So a pause. I had that. I could keep it in my heart forever. I didn't know I'd want to. I suppose I did. That's why I saved it. I didn't think then that every moment was worth saving. Fewer were as painful as I imagined. So I let them all slip by me like water.

But then, with the early morning light just daring to creep in past the dusty curtains. I know I had something like peace. Something I didn't dare to hope I'd hold again. So I let myself wake for it. Sleep held no relief for me. Only a softening of the cares of the world because I could pretend the dreams were just that. Dreams. When in fact they were a stark, pure reflections of my reality.

I opened my eyes, watching the light come in and change the shadows on his face as he slept. I didn't move. I didn't want to wake him. Even if morning was coming. I didn't care. I didn't care to hear him speak, even. Maybe I loved him. I liked thinking about that. I did that before, with my husband. I pretended to love him. Because I would rather feel something than nothing at all.

Of course he's dead, my husband. I would care about that. But it takes too much energy to care about everything. If I mourned him. Then I'd have to mourn my brothers. And my father. And every other man in my village. And if I mourned all of them. Then I wouldn't have anything left to mourn myself. And I want that there. The rock of sadness that sits in the back of my chest. It's mine to hold. They were done wrong yes, but they all got the chance to die. Not me. I had to stay here. For whatever it is we call this.

He stirs next to me. Deep gold, so gold they're nearly bronze, curls, mussed and thick on the pillow. A few hang over his closed eyes. A soft face, boyish though he's probably a couple years my senior. No hint of a beard either, to his discredit I suppose. It would be among the men. I touch the smooth cheek and then chest, equally smooth and soft like a teenager, and not the man he is.

"It's morning, Captain Peleus," I whisper, not in his tongue, he's not awake to hear it. But he knew his own name and my voice. He shifts now, smiling a little but turning his face into the pillow.

I don't want him to wake. If he does that means we all go on, and back to life. And I don't care to now. I stay there next to him, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing. Comforting in a way.

The door creaks a bit. My bedroom door opening, with me here only half clothed in bed, should start me a bit. It does not. I do not care to keep living enough. And the man I lie with has a temper like no other. I've seen his rage only twice, and there is nothing to bring him back out of it. He has such an ill temper not even wild things dare cross him. It was as though even the war horses and dogs new better than to test him. So in his bed I knew no fear.

Light dips in from the hallway then out again, as the door closes. This should be an odd occurrence. It is not. And I know the soft footsteps as well as the sound of my own name. Too many mornings like this.

I move, but only enough to see the silhouette in the morning shadows. Tall, lean, stealthy and smooth as an old tom cat. Returning again for his bowl of milk after a night fighting badgers. A bit bloodied and more broken than when he went away, but an oddly comforting fixture returning once more. So sure and arrogant, that I too believed he'd materialize yet again. And I would spend too many moments waiting to hear those footsteps in the darkness.