Interlude

Aeneas looked into her limpid, searching eyes. Her face, so young, so eager, shone in the dusk of day. She was lovely and fragile; and he felt a sudden tenderness for her, touched by her willingness to share not only her sorrow and her affection, but even her own body with him. But he felt no desire, no romantic stirring, not even a physical response to her young, ripe beauty. The grief that chained him was unyielding; it wrapped his heart like bands of iron.

He took her hand in his. 'Mysia, I . . .'

She nodded, blushing a bright crimson. 'I understand. I'm sorry.' She looked down, flushed with the shame of rejection.

He lifted her face with his other hand until her eyes met his. 'It's not you. You are lovely. Any man would desire you.'

'It is because I am a slave,' she said, meekly.

Aeneas shook his head. 'Were you the queen of an empire, I could not love you.'

'My lord!' she gasped, her eyes wide with shock bordering on terror. 'I did not speak of love. I would never dare. You do not have to love me. It is only that I cannot bear to see you alone. And . . . and I do not want to be alone.'

Looking at her in the gathering mists of night, Aeneas realized for the first time how vulnerable, how alone she truly was in the world. He had his son, his friends, all the Dardanians. She had no one. Born into servitude, everyone she had known and loved had died in Ilion, in the fury and the fire of the Greeks.

He pulled her to him and folded her in his arms as a soft rain began to fall. Reaching behind, he wrapped his cloak around them. Mysia laid her head on the Dardanian's broad chest and they sat together in silence, their breathing united in rhythm. He felt the soft flutter of her heart beneath her breast like a dove's wing.

Night deepened. The last light of day vanished without a whisper.