No One But You

Chapter Eleven :Crying For No One

A/N : I love her so much

One by one
Only the good die young
They're only flying too close to the sun
Crying for nothing
Crying for no-one
No-one but you'

Queen, 'No One But You'

Odysseus pushed through the crowd of soldiers surrounding the body of Achilles, followed closely by Neoptolemus. The soldiers stood back a respectful distance, watching as friend and son approached the body of the man they had all thought of as invincible, ignoring the crumpled bodies of their king and his guards.

Odysseus dropped to his knees, checking for a pulse on his old friend's neck, while Neoptolemus carefully drew Briseis' unmoving body from where it was draped across Achilles' chest, revealing the arrow wounds in his armour.

"She's still breathing," Neoptolemus told Odysseus, and felt a strange emotion flood through his body: relief. Neoptolemus could not remember the last time he felt like he did knowing the pale girl lived, but the unfeeling side of him told him that it was just because he knew that Achilles, dead or alive, would find a way to kill him if he let any harm come to the former priestess.

"But only just," he added after a moment, listening hard to her shallow, uneven breaths.

"Is she injured?" Odysseus asked, his voice tight with grief.

"No," Neoptolemus said after briefly checking her. "It's probably just shock."

Odysseus nodded slowly. "Get her back to the camp. Put her in my tent if you want. I'll see to...to the body."

The younger man nodded, and rose, cradling the thin girl's body carefully in his strong arms. Another man may have thought that Odysseus was acting very callously over the death of his best friend, but Neoptolemus had seen many men die in battle, and had seen many reactions to death. Odysseus would grieve when he had the time, but he was a soldier first and foremost, and a soldier could not let emotion interfere when there were still battles to be fought.

Neoptolemus' face still wore its characteristic cruel sneer, but he held Briseis gently, almost protectively, as he walked slowly through the burning city and down towards the shore. Ignoring the screams of the dying and the pleas of womes chased by lust-filled soldiers, he looked down at her face as he walked, wondering what his father - the infamous womaniser - could have seen there to make him give up his own life.

Briseis stirred and murmured slightly as Neoptolemus shifted his grip of her, but she soon fell back into the light unconsciousness, making the new Lord of Phthia speed up his pace slightly. He had made his father and oath, and would not dare enter the underworld if he let anything happen to the girl in his arms, for fear of his father's wrath.

When Briseis woke, all she was aware of was an overpowering sense of loss, though for a moment, she couldn't understand why. She was laid out in a soft bed: warm furs tucked carefully around her, inside a tent. Early morning light streamed through the open flap, letting Briseis know that she had not been asleep long.
She couldn't see how anything could matter again: she supposed vaguely that she had been taken as a slave, but she didn't care. Nothing mattered, for he was dead. She was just about to roll over and curl up again, when a movement across the other side of the tent caught her eye, and, against her wishes, she propped herself up on her elbows to look.

Neoptolemus, who had been cleaning his father's armour, ready for the funeral later, saw his charge move slightly, and he glanced over at her to see her staring at him, her eyes wide with shock.

"But...you're dead," she whispered, her voice full of fear and panic.

Neoptolemus frowned slightly, before his eyes widened in understanding. "I'm his son," he told her, realising that she thought he was Achilles, and with good reason: he looked much like his father, and with Achilles' armour in his hands she could be forgiven for thinking so much.