Mine was a consuming rage.
It has led me to commit atrocities I would not care to speak of. Not even to you. Especially not to you.
But here, as I lie, I must speak of them. They tumble from my lips like the seeds of a shattered pomegranate, drop by bloody drop, and if you cannot hear them, then it is only that you have more heart than you have hearing.
Do you remember? When I abandoned Agamemnon after the slight to my honor and yours, I vowed I would never lead his soldiers again. But Patroklos—living up to his name—damn that Patroklos! The centaur who provided our education rapped him with his hooves too many times and bruised his mind, so he fell in love with a married woman, the most beautiful woman in the world, said some men, too intoxicated by her face to notice her limp, her lisp, or her kindness. Patroklos was a good man. After I left Agamemnon, Patroklos was the one who came and sought me.
The tide of war has turned against us, he told me. The Trojans threaten our ships, and soon we Acheans will be lost.
You think so Patroklos? They do not fear to fight, and Agamemnon will herd them well to their deaths.
You should not be one to scorn such a death! I, too, will fight and die, and gladly, if such be the will of the gods! But would you have us die for nothing?
You are the last I would wish dead.
Give me your armor, he said. It is your choice to refuse combat, and I would be the last to defy your courage. But why do you deny our men the chance for victory? With your armor, I could trick them. They would mistake me for you, and they will find within them the strength to win.
You are a madman. Always you were.
For whom does your spear fly? he growled, and his eyes—as I had never seen them—hard and black like the talons of Athena’s owl. Whose side are you on?
I gave him my armor. The Greeks mistook him, hailed him as a savior. They unsheathed their swords and their souls, pierced the former into Trojan flesh and surrendered the latter to Hades. Patroklos led our men until they pushed the Trojans back from the beaches and our ships, but before they could begin an assault upon Troy, they slew him.
Hear me, for there is only you now. My men left to fight, I heard their distant cries; the battle continues elsewhere. It is hard to see you, Briseis. Your dark hair unbound floats as if it were a plume, and the bangles on your upraised arms take on the bronze gleam of helmets. Or is it that I am imagining you, love?
Yes. I love you. You think my wrath at Agamemnon for taking you away was one simply of pride? My bride un-wed, slave and queen and woman, brutal sweetness, man’s favorite foolish excuse for war. But you, my enemy, my love. You have come here to where all men have fled. And what have you found? An emptied battlefield stained red.
A mortal.
Do not move me. The ground serves well as my shroud. Do not roar like that, love, do not clang swords and shields with another. Your helmet blinds me. Listen, waves lap, perhaps our ships leave now for Greece, or Charion comes. Time has released its hold. And, at last, so has the rage.
"Angreek87"
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