Everyone was being slain around her. The scarlet blood of her fellow priests and priestesses stained the cool floors of the sacred temple. She waited for the final blow that would end her life as well, but it never came. She remained frozen in her hiding place, almost wishing that she'd been the first to fall so that she didn't witness this massacre. But something was holding her back, some invisible force that wouldn't allow her to reveal herself to the enemy. Some voice, faint but astoundingly powerful, forced her to keep still and persevere. She'd survive, it told her. She'd live, and the nightmares would eventually subside. She'd be almost pure once more and the temple of Apollo would once again glisten with pride. She almost believed that voice, until she turned her gaze to one particular warrior. Murderer would actually befit him more.

The Trojan priests fell around him with barely any attempt on his part. His movements were flawless, as if he'd been born to kill. His arms of steel cut down innocent men and women faster than he took in breaths. His long, golden hair peeked from under his helmet, and for a fleeting moment complete, absolute rage filled her. She wanted to take him by his godforsaken hair, wanted to pull his head back and slit his throat. In that moment she felt her soul leave her body, the calm, loving soul that could never hurt anyone. In that moment, as she watched him spill innocent blood over the sacred grounds, she became one of them. She became barbaric, unfeeling, and thirsty for revenge.

But the rage left her the instant it arrived, and the intensity of the moment caused her to rock back on her bare heels until her shoulders hit the wall behind her. She closed her eyes and tried to banish the screams of agony and defeat, tried to banish the image of him from her mind, but she couldn't. She saw gold and then she saw murder, and it burned her everywhere. It burned her to know that such a man existed in this world who was only designed to kill. She slowly slid down the length of the wall until she hit the ground, her whole body rocking violently with the sobs she tried to suppress.

Because her head was buried in her knees she didn't see them storming toward her, their hands bloody and their faces twisted in expressions of fury and victory. She only gasped when she felt a rough pair of fingers, almost like logs, lodge themselves underneath her armpits and lift her to her feet. She looked up at the soldier then, fear slicing down her spine when she read murder in his startling green eyes. A band of four or five more soldiers formed behind her captor, eyeing her furiously.

"Kill her!" One of them roared, and she shut her eyes to save herself a shred of dignity before she died.

"Kill the whore!" Someone else howled, but the blow never came.

The soldier shook her violently, forcing her to open her eyes. "Hello there, princess," he said with an evil grin.

Her eyebrows arched dangerously as anger filled her. "Just end it," she hissed, restraining herself from spitting in his face.

He shook his head. "Now that wouldn't be any fun, would it? I think you'd make a wonderful present for our leader."

"I'd rather burn," she drawled back at him.

"That can be arranged!" she heard a savage voice yell from somewhere around her.

"We'll let Achilles decide on that," her captor said finally, turning toward the doors and pulling her along.

She struggled against him, but he proved far too strong for her small body to overpower. She'd never known fear like she did at that moment because, from what she'd heard about Achilles, she knew he was a monster. As the bulky soldier dragged her across the beach she'd once ran around on, laughing happily with her cousins, she began to pray to the gods to save her from the predicament she'd soon find herself in, even if it was with death. She knew that even death would be better than being presented to Achilles so that he could do with her as he pleased.

As they neared the large, black tent, Briseis gave up on praying for death. The gods had decided to put her through this ordeal, she decided, for whatever reason and they would most definitely aid her. Somewhere between the temple and Achilles' tent, she'd been given newfound strength and defiance. She began to walk a little slower and twist a little more, until the soldier that held her finally turned around and slapped her across the face. She felt the sting course throughout her body, and after the shock of it subsided, she could feel a warm liquid trickling from her nose.

"You'd better behave yourself, Princess, cause he's a lot less patient than I am," the soldier told her, shoving her into the tent.

She froze when she saw him. His armored back was turned to her as he busied himself with a wash towel. She watched as every single muscle in his arms rippled while he washed away the dirt and the blood from his skin. She found her eyes wandering down his body, her mind outlining his powerful thighs and calves. Catching herself a moment later, a deep blush colored her face and she looked away, remembering that even in captivity she was still a priestess, devoted only to the gods. Besides, this man, this monster was responsible for the murder of so many...too many.

She stumbled forward as her captor pushed her suddenly, and Achilles jerked around to see who'd made the noise. His eyes locked with hers and his gut clenched. He couldn't look away for that deafening second when all he heard was his thundering heartbeat and all he saw were her glittering brown eyes.

"My Lord," the soldier who'd dragged her there began, jolting him out of his reverie.

Achilles looked away from the young woman, focusing his gaze on the man who'd spoken. "What's this?" he demanded.

"A prize. For you."

His eyes narrowed. "Where did you find her?"

"Apollo's Temple. She was the only woman there."

Achilles looked at the girl carefully. "A priestess," he murmured. He turned back to his soldiers. "What do you want me to do with her?"

The captor released her and smiled. "Amuse yourself," he said, and turned to leave.

He faced the girl again, who was now sitting in the farthest corner of the tent. She wouldn't look at him, and quite honestly he didn't know what to tell her when she did. He moved to the washbasin and splashed water on his sweaty face. He then removed the armor from his torso, too aware of the uncomfortable silence that enveloped them.

"What is your name?" he asked, looking at her, but she remained silent. He splashed water across his chest and arms, attempting to clean the dirt from the battle. "I asked you a question," he said after a while, yet he received no response once again. He took a handful of water and threw it in her direction, but she didn't even flinch. Shaking his head, he tried not to smirk at her stubbornness. "Even priestesses have names," he declared, mostly to himself as he loosened the armor around his waist.

"War is just a game to you," Briseis finally spoke, looking up at the exact wrong moment as he stood completely naked in front of her. Her eyes widened in shock as a deep blush crept up her face. Did he have no decency at all? Wasn't he aware that she'd never seen a man even half-naked, much less completely exposed? Or was he as used to shamelessness as he was to murder?

Achilles looked at her, amused. He reached for a black toga and tied it around his waist and then made his way to where she was sitting. He leaned over to stare into her face. "You're royalty, aren't you?" He inquired darkly. When she gave him no reply, he leaned in closer and took a lock of her long brown hair in his hand, lifting it to his nose. He felt her shiver, or thought that he felt her shiver, and when the scent of her brimmed in his nostrils, he almost shivered himself. He stood straight and stepped away from her. "Definitely royalty," he concluded.

Briseis kept quiet, her hands holding onto her knees so tightly that her knuckles had gone white. Achilles tried to suppress a small smile, but failed.

"Are you afraid of me?" He asked finally, and swallowed when she looked at him.

"Should I be?"

Her brown eyes bore into his, into him, and he looked away. She was making him feel something, something unfamiliar, and he didn't like it. "You don't have to be afraid. You're safe here." Realizing what he'd just said, he smirked. "You're the only Trojan who I can say that to."

"I am not afraid of you," she told him firmly, proudly. "I know the gods will protect me."

Achilles moved back to where he'd been sitting. "The gods?" He demanded doubtfully. "Where are they now?"

"The gods have their own will. They work in mysterious ways."

He nodded, not out of agreement, but out of habit. "Why did you choose to become a priestess? Serve the gods your whole life? Hmm?" He looked down at his hands for a moment, then back up at her. "You have devoted everything to them. Even your love. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I'm sure that you will find the romance entirely one-sided."

Briseis narrowed her eyes at him. "You know nothing about the gods. You are just a murderer."

The shock of her confession made him freeze and his hands clenched tightly at his sides. He stood up quickly, turning his back to her. "You need to learn to stop speaking down to men."

"Tell me something," she prodded, staring at his back. It was perfectly sculpted and defined, expanding each time he took a breath. And it did something to her insides that she dared not admit. "Why did you decide to become a soldier?"

He was unable to face her, unable to look into those accusing eyes that only told the truth. "I didn't choose it," he said at last, his voice gruff. "I was born, and this is what I am."

"Do you like to kill?"

He spun around with fiery eyes. "Do you like to provoke?"

Her mouth hung open as she fumbled to find a retort. He kept on looking at her, and something passed between them in that moment, something that sent a shiver down her back. Right there and then he looked almost human, and she could almost forget the blood she'd seen spilled by his hands. She saw him swallow slowly, the Adam's apple dancing in front of her eyes, and it made her nervous. She looked away, unable to be the victim of those piercing eyes for another moment. She'd never seen blue like them before, bluer than the Aegean, and she was afraid that she somehow found them beautiful. He was her enemy, she knew that, but her conscious grip on the fact seemed to loosen every time their eyes met and it terrified her.

Achilles looked at the top of her head. His eyebrows narrowed as he tried to process what had just passed between them, but he'd never felt anything like it before and so he couldn't understand it. She was the most defiant, most proud woman he'd ever seen, and he found that he liked it. She had life inside of her, even in captivity, and wouldn't accept the end until it swallowed her whole. He was afraid to admit it, but she reminded him of himself. Defiant, strong, proud. Only her traits were a little less rough around the edges. The speculation tugged at his lips, and a small smile enveloped them. She was a Trojan priestess, he a Greek warrior, and yet they stood on equal ground. Even if the world forgot this war, he now knew that he never would. He was about to turn back and say something to her when a soldier poked his head into the tent.

"My lord, your king wants to see you."

"He is not my king," Achilles said gruffly. "Tell him I'm coming." When the soldier left, he turned to the washbasin to clean himself. The Trojan woman was still huddled in the corner, her head turned away from him. He smiled as he washed the dirt from his skin, remembering that she'd probably never seen a naked man in her life. It was for shame, really, that such a beautiful woman should be deprived of all the pleasures she'd been created to enjoy. And she was beautiful, he could tell, even underneath the cuts and the fatigue that masked her face. Her innocence only intensified that beauty, unbeknownst to her. When he'd completely washed off all the marks from the battle and clothed himself, he turned to her.

"I will be back shortly. Nobody shall harm you while I'm gone." He stared at her, waiting for a response, but received none. Waving a frustrated hand in her direction, he dismissed her and left the tent.

Briseis looked up when he left. She had no idea what to do now, whether to flee or wait for him. Everything in her told her to run, even though she knew that she would probably meet a fate worse than this if she stepped foot outside the tent. But everything inside it terrified her. The Greek warrior, his ability to provoke her, and his impossible blue eyes. He was her enemy, and yet when he spoke to her she seemed to forget that. He made her feel something strange, something other than frustration and anger, and she didn't like it. But she had no other choice than to stay there. He'd promised her safety, and she believed him. She found, with a hint of fear, that she trusted him. And that was the worst part of it all.

Closing her eyes, Briseis leaned her back onto the pole and prayed. She prayed to the gods to protect her from the Greeks, and mostly she prayed to protect her heart from one particular Greek.