A Gift from the Gods

10

How does one act in a situation like this? A captive saved by a captor and offered hospitality in his tent? In his bed? On her land? She pretended to sleep while he washed himself, intimidated by how open he was and nervous about any insinuations he might have. So, she laid on her side of the bed and closed her eyes, though too on edge to actually sleep, and listened.

The men outside were beginning to retire for the night, and the fires were dying down. If it weren't for the feeling of lying in a foreign bed, she could almost pretend she was in the palace, the courtyard clearing of servants and soldiers for the evening.

He sat next to the bed, watching her. She could feel his eyes on her body, but she wasn't worried anymore, just intrigued. He didn't seem ravenous or lustful; he was simply watching her sleep. Or rather, as she pretended to sleep. He soon came to bed, and Zephyra did all that she could to not twitch at sharing such close confines with a stranger. A naked stranger, at that. He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear and grazed her cheekbone with his thumb. In all her life she had never been touched so gently. So intimately. Her body physically relaxed at his touch, and he smirked at her.

It wasn't long before her captor was asleep, his breaths deep and eyes flicking under the lids. Instinct kicked in, and she began looking for a weapon without making any movements. If she killed him that night, she would be free, and Troy would be saved. The question was, could she do it? Could she do the one thing her brother never wanted for her? Could she be a soldier, just for one moment, and take a life?

She found an intricately designed dagger near the bed and gripped it, using it more as a crutch for her nerves than anything else. She knelt above him and placed the blade to his throat, but she found herself regretting the decision she had not yet made.

"Do it." His voice was firm and quiet, but he still starlted Zephyra. He opened his eyes. "Do it. Nothing is easier."

Zephyra swallowed, moistening her mouth, then said, "Aren't you afraid?"

"Everyone dies. Today or fifty years from now. What does it matter?" He grabbed hold of her arms and steadied her form over himself. "Do it."

"Y-you'll kill more men if I don't."

"Many."

She was frozen in his eyes. He truly wasn't afraid. She hovered above a man that lived his life so he could die in glory and grandeur, his name written in texts and told in stories to withstand time. What move could she make now? His permission changed everything. Or did it?

He reached for her, rolling her over so she was flat on her back, the knife still at his throat. But she wasn't worried for her life; nor he for his. She couldn't understand why, but she also didn't seem to care. Her breaths quickened, and she could feel the air drying in her nostrils. As she sought to calm herself, Achilles hooked on to the hem of her dress and lifted it as he tentatively placed his lips to hers. Zephyra didn't mean to be so receptive, but she embraced his action and lifted her body to his. She soon forgot about the dagger and let it clank to the dirt below them. His core was firm but his skin soft aside from the scars. She melted into him and was lost in his kiss.