It was war. Not only for the soldiers but for everyone in the village. Men had to fight, women had to take care of the wounded and serve the great warriors such as Achilles himself.
Achilles was the greatest. He leaded the attack as the man who calls himself their King didn’t fight himself. Coward. That was the only thing he is in Achilles opinion. In a day they would storm the Trojan castle and Achilles knew they’d be losing a lot of men, but so would the other Kingdom.
Power, that was what every King seemed to want. And more land. Pathetic. Achilles couldn’t care less about a King or land. He went were he wanted to go and didn’t care about anyone. If he wished to fight for the other King, he could and he would. No one would stop him. But being on this side of the war seemed to be the best place to be at the moment and this King offered him more than the other did.
He waited for one of the women to come and serve his meal and help him get on is armory as he would discuss the plan for the morrow one more time with his men. Of course he could do it himself, but where is the fun in that?
They were caught in the cusp of victory or defeat. The villagers had taken arms to assist in the upcoming battle, the women and daughters had busied themselves in attending to them. Every moment, of the time they were given, was well spent in preparations. As mothers cooked meals and helped dress the wounded, the daughters had been taking food to hungry men and assisted in releasing pent up aggression.
Some simply refused to give in to such acts, one in particular was the young daughter of a former priest. Everyone knew he had not been bound to her directly by blood, for she held no semblance to him. The woman’s origins were often questioned by the others, but for one who loved her dearly, it mattered not what whispers still fell from curious lips.
Her father attempted to persuade her from involving herself with the warriors, but she knew of her duties and would not simply give her back to those who fought bravely. Thus, she too began delivering meals to the wounded, but was then directed to a tent further along the way. It was one that Achilles was known to be in.
When entering his tent, the young woman walked with her head held up high and tried not to let her gaze linger long on those present. Her chiton allowed her to move around easily until she had come close to the famed warrior himself.
With hair that rivaled the rays of sunlight and yet skin that has hardly been kissed by them, she appeared completely out of place here. Peach freckles delicately left a trail across her cheeks and nose, peppering her visage lightly with a youthful appearance.
Her attention went to Achilles, whom she had delivered the meal for initially. Words were not shared, especially since she had no need to question about the on-goings of battle, the strategies discussed. A woman in her place had to remain in her place. But, there was no masking the hint of excitement that crossed her fair countenance when her eyes lifted to gaze upon the armor on display.