A Gift from the Gods

9

There were no weapons in the tent, but even if there were, she was bound too tightly. She could have hit her head against the pole she was tied to, but she feared she would lose consciousness instead of meeting her death. The only other option was her tongue. Though she never shied from pain, she had never experienced any pain that required the amount of self-discipline that the act would take. She second-guessed herself, wondering if becoming Agamemnon's slave and meeting her end by his hand would be a better option.

She made a silent prayer of forgiveness to the gods she didn't believe in, but she hadn't come to a decision before the guards came and wrenched her from her bounds yet again. For a split second, she wondered if this was to be her fate during the war; being dragged to and fro with no real purpose, finding a moment of solace in that. But as soon as the thought slipped past her, reality showed what her fate truly was.

Greek soldiers half dressed in their armor, drenched in sweat and specs of blood, were gathered around a modest bonfire, mad with drink and notions of war. She was tossed to them before she could utter a word, and they attacked her like hyenas taunting their prey. Her only savior could be a lion, if memory of lessons past served were true, but no such creature existed among the Greeks. And if they knew she was a princess of Troy...

She was passed from man to man, touched in ways Diocles would not have dared. Even as her husband. But she refused to be broken by these men. She fought against them, scratching arms and biting fingers when they came near her. They tugged at her hair and forced her down, their strength overpowering her, but she wouldn't stop fighting, no matter how starved, dehydrated, and sleep deprived she was. A soldier next to the fire grabbed a branding iron and shouted at the other men to keep her steady. When he came close, she was able to strike his face, but his retaliation nearly knocked her down. They regrouped and forced her down, shoving her sleeve up her arm. She couldn't hear much over the soldier's cackling, but her heart leapt ever so slightly at Achilles' name spoken with dread and fear by one of her assailants. He was the only one who hadn't desired to harm her, and her body reacted as though she were in sanctuary.

In a moment, the man facing her was pulled away, the branding iron in his hand forced against his own neck. The two men holding her were struck down by the same weapon, and Achilles stood before her, weapon extended, ready at her defense. He threw the weapon in the sand and swooped Zephyra into his arms. She was grateful that she was no longer at his feet, but embarrassed at being in his arms, even if he had just saved her. She tried to be still as he took her back to his tent, but once in the private confines, she fought against his hold, regaining some sense of strength. He placed her on the pile of fur she had claimed as her own and brought a bowl of water and a cloth, dampening the cloth to wipe the blood from Zephyra's face.

"Are you hurt?" His words were gentler than she expected. "I watched you fight them. You have courage."

"To fight back when someone attacks me? A dog has that kind of courage." She didn't know where the bite in her words came from, but she felt safer behind them.

He crouched closer to her, holding the cloth to her face. She slapped his hand away, eliciting an eye roll from Achilles before he tried again.Her actions were childish, she knew, but her fear was slowly replaced with anger. At the war, at her brother for starting the war, the Greeks, Achilles, but most of all, at herself. If she had been patient, if she had been more respectful, Diocles would be alive, and she would be safe behind the city walls. Priam wouldn't be beside himself wondering where his daughter was, and Hector could fight and lead their army with a clear head.

At the second try, Zephyra let Achilles press the cool cloth to her stinging skin. Not even Hector had been as gentle as Achilles when tending to Zephyra's ailments. His calloused hands maneuvered the angles of her face gently, and she felt no more pain than already existed when he wiped the blood from her face. She looked him in the eye while he touched her, not sure of or familiar with the feelings stirring in her heart.

Achilles dropped the cloth into the bowl of water and reached for the platter of fruit and meat on his low side table. Achilles reached the platter out to her, taking a piece of chicken for himself.

"Eat."

She looked at him, her stomach panging in hunger, but her stubbornness outweighed her logic. He set the platter in front of her, a slight smirk tinging the corner of his mouth.

"I've known men like you my whole life." Her voice was barely above a whisper. Her courage was waning and fatigue set in.

"No, you haven't."

"You think you're so different from a thousand others? Soldiers understand nothing but war. Peace confuses them." As the words slipped past her lips, she was finally able to understand Hector providing her with the skills she needed to protect herself but refusing to let her have part in the practices of treaties and warfare.

"You hate these soldiers," Achilles said.

"I pity them." It wasn't untrue. She did pity them. Their inability to be men first and soldiers second.

Achilles set his jaw, turning to face her. "Trojan soldiers died trying to protect you, priestess. Perhaps they deserve more than your pity."

Her stomach clenched at the thought. Her men, and they were indeed her men, died trying to save her and Briseis. Dicoles one of the first. But maybe this man that specialized in death and war was right. Her soldiers deserved more than pity. Respect. They needed respect more than anything.

"Why did you choose this life?"

"What life?"

"To be a great warrior."

And that he was. Even before this war Zephyra had heard his name whispered among the people of Troy. The great Achilles who couldn't be tested by any man. The great Achilles whose mother dipped him in the river Styx to protect him against mortality. Zephyra's lack of faith in the gods made her disregard the story of his immortality, but she had no doubt he was skilled with a blade.

"I chose nothing. This is what I am. And you? Why did you choose to love a god? I think you'll find the romance one-sided."

Though not truly a priestess, Zephyra was almost offended at his statement. "Do you enjoy provoking me?"

"You dedicated your life to the gods. Zeus, god of thunder; Athena, goddess of wisdom. You serve them?"

Zephyra adjusted her position. "Of course."

"And Ares, god of war? Who blankets his bed with the skin of the men he has killed?"

Zephyra broke eye contact with him, searching for a viable response. Something Briseis would say. "All the gods are to be feared and respected."

He locked his eyes on her, making her uncomfortable under his stern gaze. He was smarter than she gave him credit for, and he could see through her façade.

"I'll tell you a secret. Something they don't teach you in your temple." He crouched closer to her, and it took all of Zephyra's restraint to not scoot back. "The gods envy us. They envy us because we're mortal. Because any moment might be our last. Everything is more beautiful because we are doomed. You will never be lovelier than you are now. We will never be here again."

Zephyra picked up a piece of fruit from the tray, if only to break the intensity of their interaction. "I thought you were a dumb brute. I could have forgiven a dumb brute."