A/N: Okay, this is a one-shot (probably), and it’s kind of fanfiction-y, but bear with it. Or don’t read it at all, whatever. I just wanted to put it out, because once it’s out and…basically off my mind, I can re-hatch my work on ‘Memory Lapse.’

Since I’m not sure on whether I want to add to this or not, a lot of it is left up in air; but it has sufficient ending to make, at least me, pleased. Enjoy.

My Name is, Bird.

Why do I feel like crying? I am not little, regardless of what they might think. I am twenty years old and I do not cry anymore! Except during ‘Bambi,’ but that’s acceptable. Everyone cries when the mom gets shot.

…I didn’t even cry when Jack died, because that’s what old people do.

He was my buddy, but he was also an 86-year-old with Parkinson’s. Come on.

And I didn’t cry when I washed up on some fucking shore like a gift from the Gods…or a beached whale…but a gift sounds infinitely more attractive. And I was taken in and given a home-out of charity and a little awe, I’m sure, but at least they didn’t burn me, and at least I didn’t cry. I was scared almost out of my mind then, but I didn’t cry.
But now, I feel like having a good whimper, pride be you damned.

‘The Iliad’ was always my favorite, but this is getting a bit in the ridiculous. HA! And it wasn’t already in the ridiculous? I woke up in freaking 1250 B.C.! As a boy!

Okay well, I’m actually a girl, but they thought I was a boy at first; my hair was so short and I am pretty tall with these atrociously broad shoulders; my breasts were also bound, so I guess it was an easy thing to do, mistaking me for a boy.

But this situation is ridiculous.

I’m playing the role of massive thirteen-year-old-priestess-girl, so my breasts are still bound, and I am a captive; I am someone’s slave.

Being someone’s slave is almost too ridiculous for words, but I’ll come back to that later.

My point was that I had some things going for me.

Also, to be completely honest, back before all this shit started, and I was just some lonely and disillusioned slacker, I had dreams-actual dreams-about living in Ancient Greece-or Ancient Troy, if you will. This sounds psycho, I know, but history has a way of sounding romantic, and since, well, reality is not romantic…

But now everything’s fucked up. I kinda’ liked how, when I first came here, none of this had turned nasty, yet. I kinda’ liked my second chance.

But now everything’s fucked up, and things have changed. And, I want out.

I’ve spent most of my time, cooped up in this tent here, dreaming of ‘out,’ but it’s probably not to be. Due to my former obsession with ‘Harry Potter,’ I know that ‘it does not do well to dwell on dreams and forget to live;’ so, I can’t dwell. I can’t.

…Because I have dwelled.

I have dwelled, and look where it got me. I’m in the enemy camp.

Words of wisdom only really help, in this moment, to make me think logically; so, what will happen when people enter this tent and the interrogation starts, I don’t know. I want to keep a cool head about me, but it might not happen. I am nearing the end of my tether right now, so ‘logic’ may not be in the books. I have to face facts. And facts say that no one but me is here to save me.

So I obviously must dig deep, find my inner Gryffindor-growl-and put up a good showing.

At least, that is what I intend to do.

And, I’m not crying yet.

My eyes are itchy and watering, but thankfully no tears have fallen, so maybe…even if some tears do fall however, I won’t be able to wipe them away, or cover my face to hide them; because my hands are tied. Literally, my hands are tied-tied to a tent post; and since I want to be prepared for any sudden entrances into my dirt paradise I am squatting on my heels like some bush-woman.

I feel very primitive, and very territorial.

I also feel very aware of what I consider to be my personal space, right now. And, I am probably about to get a little scary in my defense of that space, once someone comes in.

…I don’t know what the fuck is happening; what the fuck is going on; I have no clue. These stupid warrior-guys stuck me here, left me to seep in my own frustration and muscle soreness for probably half the day, and I now feel ready to explode…two parts of me feel ready to explode actually, my bladder-which, let’s be honest here, is going to have to keep its patience-and my anger.

I feel so apprehensive…

Because it’s also almost completely dark in here, my nerves are so shot to shit…and I can’t see two feet in front of me; but I still hear the occasional faint noise from outside, so anything could be happening, really, and I just don’t know it.

Where is my God now, I want to ask. Am I no longer ‘favored?’

The sounds I was hearing, are getting louder; they are becoming clearer…they are…coming closer, and approaching the tent.

Shit! Shit!

I hear footsteps; a rustling. I focus my eyes on the entrance, turning my head.

Oh geez, my neck hurts. But I have to hold it up, I have to.

The white flaps of the tent are lifted by an invisible hand and I get a glimpse of the light day outside, but then a shadow eclipses it and I have to squint through the darkness again.

“Ah, the young priestess.” A flap has been turned up and secured to the side of the tent and now I can see my greeter. He is tall with a wide frame. His longish dark hair brushes his shoulders in uneven strands and his face is unsmiling.

Dark Hair comes with a friend-this one blonde. They both are in warrior costume…bronze armor over leather vests, leather…skirts…leather shin guards, and leather sandals strapped across ankles. And they are male, if you get my meaning. The blonde one though, I must say, is the prettier of the two, but both look like you shouldn’t mess with them.

I give them my best glare.

Amusement flickers in their eyes. Well, they should be amused. I am a young and helpless captive who has nothing but her mind and false bravado to protect her. I am prey.

They have been walking…stalking towards me and the dark-haired one carries a blade in his hand.

Oh man! Oh man! Quick, don’t let them see your fear!

But the knife-wielder is walking behind me, and like any normal person I have a giant fear of getting stabbed in the back. I feel a slight pressure on my wrists, but no pain, because my hands lost feeling long ago.

The blonde one has squatted down in front of me. I have completely forgotten my own reason for squatting and am transfixed. He doesn’t need to stand to achieve whatever it is he exudes. He is power.

I want to look behind me to see whatever it is that Dark Hair…knife-guy is doing, but the man in front has captured my stare and is holding it. He has beautiful eyes…they are the kind of impossible blue that can only be reached…through…contacts…Ah crap. It’s the warrior from the temple…the one I threw an arrow at.

But, with his helmet off, he looks even more familiar…kind of like Brad Pitt’s character in ‘Troy.’

…SHIT…and suddenly, I know who he is.

“Achilles,” I whisper.

Achilles’ eyes widen and I realize that perhaps, I have made an error. Priestesses should know nothing of war. But then, Achilles is legend.

My mouth is very dry. This is fantastical. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Of course it’s Achilles. After all, why visit Ancient Troy and not meet the fabled warrior? I am filled with such awe and fear that spots dance in front of my eyes.

He could kill me so easily.

…But I’m also a little pissed…they tied me to a post like some young virgin sacrifice.

“What is your name?” The Great One asks me.

Does it really matter if I give one? A name has power, but I am not powerful. Anyway, my name is ‘Slave,’ now. And I can’t take the chance that word has reached Greece of the ‘Gift to Troy.’

“You may call me, ‘Priestess,” I mutter. He’s just a man, I tell myself. He deserves your lip.

The pressure on my wrists tightens and I hear what sounds like a snort, but my mind could be trying to make the situation feel better.

For the second time, I see amusement clearly on Achilles’ face.

He reaches up a hand and I flinch, but he is only running a long finger down the left side of my face. It makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up and I don’t like it. And why is he looking at me so intently? He is making my stomach all fluttery. Am I that interesting? Does he touch every strange person he meets?

I want to spit in his face, but that seems like a bad decision right now; better to wait until he really pisses me off.

“Your name,” he repeats like some sort of command. Obviously, it is. But I like my name stuck in my head, better than on his tongue. My name belongs to me and I think if I give it to any Greek, then he will have a part of me. They already own my body.

“Priestess,” I repeat. Now, he looks a little angry. Ooh boy. His finger is still on my cheek, but now it’s no longer caressing.

“Give me your name.”

“I cannot. But you may call me, ‘Priestess.”

“Give me your name and the man behind you will cut your binds,” Achilles says, reminding me of knife-guy. I was always aware of him, his presence just got pushed to the back of my mind when Achilles starting touching my cheek. It was a mockery of affection and yet for an instant, I felt beautiful. Stupid hormones.

I still couldn’t give him my name. If I backed down now, what would happen when they brought in the fancy torture devices?

…I am very uncomfortable. I think it’s time to rise up now.

Argh! I don’t know how long I was in that position, but I think when anyone is captured, sense of time is distorted; lovely that I can hear my joints pop. Achilles and knife-guy rise with me. I am moving slowly because the binds are pretty tight on the pole, but I make it up. It was hard without my arms to balance me, but I am proud of myself.

Achilles has a decent look of shock to him. Surprised, buddy? I don’t need my hands for everything.

I sneer at him, because he is back to the staring thing and it is making me uncomfortably aware of my situation. Why must he look at me so? And besides, I think something is wrong with his eyes…they won’t let go of mine. I have to look at them.

I try a civil tone.

“I would appreciate being released, but if I must give you a boon in order to do so, I’m afraid I cannot.”

Achilles’ lips quirk upwards, giving the impression that he is not all serious. But he still wants an answer, I can tell; my cooperation.

He had dropped his hand from my face and moved slightly back when I was rising-the better to avoid any wild feet, I assume. His arms now hang ready at his sides. I do not see a sword but I’m sure he has something hidden.

Knife-guy behind me is still putting pressure on my wrists. They have gained some feeling back, which I can attest to. They feel chafed and sore and not a little ill-used from my recent act of stubbornness.

Achilles has remained a couple steps away from me. He doesn’t know that it’s all my legs can do to hold my body up.

“Your name,” he repeats impatiently.

“No.” I like that word; I really, really do.

His scowl turns blacker and he steps toward me invading my space. Achilles is a big man…and I am a big girl, but I am not used to having my space crowded. I make my chin stay up; right now would be the worst time to back down.

So. It seems that he has decided he can risk getting in my face. Intimidating man.

He oh-so-casually brings his hand back up and I do not flinch. I have prepared myself for the sweet, butterfly caress, but he doesn’t stroke my cheek. Oh no. Achilles’ hand is now wrapped loosely around the front of my neck. He is not squeezing, but the potential is there.

I have been in this kind of situation before; with my brother, Adam. Well, I was never Adam’s captive, but he did use intimidation methods with me. Sometimes, he would wring my neck…not very hard…just enough for me to see that he was stronger and had some power over me.

I loved Adam to distraction. He was older and wiser and much, much cooler than I was, or could ever hope to be…and when you love someone, you see more of the good than the bad…you see what you want to see.

But I don’t love Achilles; I just ‘met’ the man.

Achilles could hurt me. He could give me pain and make me bleed and make me want to cry out…he could damage me.

He doesn’t care; I am his enemy, if only because I live on the wrong side of the sea. And the hand of an enemy around your neck is significantly more dangerous than the hand of a beloved-if misunderstood-brother.

I am frightened.

I have never, ever in my life, felt more frightened than I do in this one moment.

“No,” I whisper, though I don’t know anymore if it’s in response to his question, because right now, it feels too much like I’m chocking.

This is every girl’s nightmare…knowing that you are helpless and it doesn’t matter. You are fighting inside, but outwardly there is nothing you can do…you can’t win…outwardly, you have nothing to win with.

But, you still struggle. Fiercely.

My shoulders ache from trying to free my hands and I twist my head, but Achilles only squeezes more. I can’t breathe. I try to bring my legs up by supporting my back against the pole, but it’s awkward and my muscles aren’t strong enough to compensate for my arms anymore…I have to put my legs down before I fall down.

Achilles’ face is now by my ear. I can feel his uneven breath and wonder at why he is breathing so harshly. Is this exciting for him?! Does he like his game?!

I am the captive here! He doesn’t have someone trying to choke him! He isn’t scared shitless, a complete nervous wreck, so there is no reason why he should be out of breath.

“Your name,” he whispers and I have the odd thought that his breath smells of the salt from the sea.

I spit into the side of his face, and then, know a sharp pain on my cheek and that I am no longer looking into his eyes but at the white linen of the tent…the bitch just slapped me!

Oh fuck no!!

I feel so many things right now; not the least of which, is a high, sweeping rage…the kind of rage that is directed just as much at you as it is at the cause of the feeling.

…And I feel entirely scared and not a little helpless. It’s not like I can slap him back, even though my bound hands itch to do so. And I can’t kick him in the balls like I want to, because my legs would probably collapse on me if I lifted them. So my body is working against me, and I’ve found it’s the worst sort of betrayal.

…But, I also feel defiant. O Sweet Defiance, what a comfort you are to me!

Achilles is crushing me to the pole with his body, his left leg wrapped around my ankles, his right hand bruising my neck, and I feel slightly free. He does not have my name-because I have not given it-and…I just spit in his face. Fucker must be annoyed with me.

…Good.

“Do that again, and you will know more pain than that,” he says fiercely, and squeezes my neck as case in point. It was worth it, I think.

I turn my head slowly back around, and meet his eyes. They are cold and blue; and I think he is terrifying.

But I will not back down.

I will not back down, I repeat to myself. I will not break. You cannot break me, you big, giant oaf…you can make me piss my pants with fear…but you cannot break me. Stupid man. Stupid warrior. O Great Achilles, let us pay our homage to thee. O Wonderful Warrior, Favorite of the Gods on Mount Olympus, take my life, for I am unworthy to stand in your presence.

Unh-uh.

No fucking way.

I’m from the future, buddy. 2006. ‘The Gods’ don’t even get a full shelf in the bookstore. Harry Potter…and…unfortunately, George Bush, are the ‘Gods’ where I come from.

You’re not even close.

So, just because you’re all hot and intimidating and the son of a water nymph, doesn’t mean that this girl bows down to you. Pfft.

Go put on some pants, you cross-dresser.

“You know nothing of pain,” I spit overdramatically; thinking hopefully that it will shut him up. “Every day is pain. Every breath is pain. Every action, every word, every thought; pain.”

He’s staring me down now and it…oddly makes me feel like he can read the answers to the universe in my eyes…which is impossible; but he’s staring really hard. It’s disconcerting, but I am determined to stick it out, so I stare back; glare, really.

“…And yet, it is not so painful that you can speak of it,” he rejoins, finally.

…Oh, I wish the fucker could hear what I am thinking, because it is not nice, I will tell you that…he’s such a sick fuck. He’s such a sick, sick fuck…

Just you wait, I thought at him, Just. You. Wait.

I am Apollo’s blessed and you will know his wrath before I die.

…If I die.

…I think I’m going to die…and soon…so he really would do good to watch what he says to me…though I guess Achilles doesn’t know this.

It was also probably a little naïve of me to think that chivalry would extend to Mycenaean dealings with the enemy, but I wanted that hope, you see. I understand now, it’s not possible because I’m the conquered, that I shouldn’t be expecting any special treatment at all, holy-girl or not, but it’s a hard thing to deal with, knowing this; knowing the situation I’m in.

…All this is so unnerving.

I feel more pressure on my hands, so I look down. I’m reminded again, of how knife-guy is still, fucking at my back with his blade; I truly had put him out of my mind.

…Because he hasn’t really been doing anything except exerting this pressure, so it’s been kind of easy to forget that there’s this other person in the room aside from Achilles and me; but now, I’m aware…oh, fuck, am I aware.

Around the pulse point on my right wrist, there’s a slight cooling sensation…and I think it’s the blade knife-guy is holding…it has to be the blade; that’s the only explanation for what is happening to my wrist…unless knife-guy is actually tickling it with his fingers; but he doesn’t seem to be that type of inadvertent, fun guy-at least during interrogations-so it has to be the blade.

…So, of course I wince. Who fucking wouldn’t? There is a knife trained on me. I have been remarkably composed so far and…and as un-shrewish as it is possible for me to be, but really, abduction and incredibly believable threats to my sanity and person I am just not used to getting; so I am going to wince allllll I fucking want to, people. Allllll I fucking want to.

Because this knife is making me aware of how trapped I actually am. Cornered. Caged in, from back to front. Surrounded.

…Ready for the raping to commence.

I am not ready for a raping; I will not be raped; I refuse. But…I can acknowledge when I’m on the losing side. And, I think I am on the losing side right now; I will admit it, as much as it galls me. I know that since these fuckers refuse to leave me alone, escape isn’t in the cards just yet; but it will be.

It will be.

I will escape, because I have hope.

I have hope; and hope goes a long way in seeing that the girl sticks it through. So does prayer; but hope, more so.

So I will hope and pray and, in the meantime, while I bide my time, Apollo will send me some bit of luck; he will send me some bit of knowledge, and, once I find the opportunity to use that knowledge, I will escape this hell and be with my family again. That’s how it works. That’s how it ends. The good always triumphs over evil, by becoming sneaky. And the girl always kicks the dumbfuck boy’s ass, by using the resources presented to her. It’s just how it works.

But these guys really are a couple of bastards, I really must say. I really dislike that they get to disadvantage me like this.

It wasn’t enough that I was kidnapped from my once-safe temple, tied up, left tied up for, I…don’t know how long, and made to scrounge up enough bravado to watch as these macho guys, with their swaggering, and their condescending smirks, and their pretty blue eyes, lifted the tent and came into what I now thought of as my territory-in order to intimidate me by crushing my windpipe, and making it so I couldn’t breathe.

It wasn’t enough.

And it wasn’t enough that I was then made to feel the teasing run of a knife across my bound hands just so my captors knew I realized how well and truly caught I was.

No. It fucking wasn’t enough; they just had to see me lose it, as well.

These bastards just fucking had to receive the privilege of seeing me cowed; seeing me wince; knowing that the very fucking breath was currently being scared out of me

They had to witness that.

I will probably forever hate them just for this reason.

So I know it would be best all around if I wouldn’t try anyone’s patience again, especially since I’m in the presence of the most famous ancient warrior to ever grace a saga; but I just can’t bring myself to stop being annoying.

It’s all I have left. Annoying someone-even a smidge-is the only satisfaction I will be able to get out of this situation in the near future, and I know this. It’s completely unfair, but it’s the truth.

And I must have looked ready to spit again, because Achilles’ smile has dropped from his face.

Good, you bastard.

He opened his mouth to say, “You are female and a slave. I own you, and you will tell me your name.”

It…seems like I heard that from a haze.

I actually didn’t know anger could affect one’s hearing like that, but I guess now, I’m better informed, because I am literally hearing bees buzz around my eardrums. Literal bees.

So, I guess we’re getting down to ownership rights. That’s actually kind of fantastic, because I want to know where I stand; what my duties are; what to add to my list of grievances.

I am a female and I…basically, have no power, because I am a slave. That’s very interesting, jackass.

I am aware that I’m no longer in the 21st Century, and so, equal-rights doesn’t really apply…I know I’ve come off like I seem to not know that; but I do. I do. I get that there is a certain level of behavior that I need to abide by here; I actually adjusted pretty well to that realization; but I am in no means going to let Achilles dominate me fully.

Just because he’s captured me does not mean I owe him my loyalty. No fucking way. My loyalty-in this case-goes first and foremost to myself, and then to my family, and then to Troy…there really isn’t any left over for some upstart to grab onto.

…So Achilles, I may be female; I may be your slave; but you do not own my mind, you piece of shit. This is not ‘Big Brother.’ You do not own my thoughts. You will not ever know the full extent of what I am thinking, unless I voice it to you…and I can live with that. I can live knowing that you will never own all of me.

“Do you understand?” Achilles continues on through my pensive silence. “Your only redemption is that you are my slave…and as such, under my protection. Just as I would kill the man who stole my armor, I would kill any man who stole you.”

There is a grunt from behind me, which I’m taking to mean some kind of agreement from knife-guy.

But I’m still staring at Achilles. He’s paused, and his lips are pursed-like he doesn’t know quite what to say, and is thinking almost too hard. It’s okay, buddy.

“But do not be fooled into thinking you are as precious as my armor.”

Whoa.

Okay, I snort, and watch as Achilles blinks his eyes and re-focuses them on me…slightly suspiciously, actually. I have a right to my thoughts, you fool!

Look sharp, now.

I really am amazed, at just…everything. I want to go home-this is almost too much emotion for my brain to handle, but I will settle for getting released from these binds; because I realize deliverance is too much to hope for at this moment.

“…Bird,” I tell him. “My name is, Bird.”