A is for Achille/Aissa

That fool scribbler, how dare she forget me! I am the mightiest of the Achaens! Well, I am here now, apart from the rabble from that Blogging From AZ April Project: Character Conflicts. I never cared to be associated with most of them, yet being separated from my sweet Troile was intolerable. I’ve gone through many labour to win my Trojan beauty, battling his brother, found myself pitted against one whom I once loved with all my heart, risked shame by brokering a peace between Achaens and Trojans, only to be stopped by that sniveling coward Paris…I cannot believe he is of the same stock as my beloved. Not to mention slipping on a skirt in public, although that was not nearly as humilating as I feared. It brought me surprising enlightenment and insight into the ways of women, which is one of the reasons I persuaded Troile to do the same. What kind of a lover would I be, if I didn’t share my insight with my beloved? It was well that we had Briseis, otherwise known as Cressida aiding us under the guise of being my spoil of war. Thus the legend of Princess Polyxena of Troy began, with few guessing she was also Prince Troile. I wasn’t half as convicing when I played the role of Aissa on the Isle of Scyros. This is our story, Troile’s and mine, told in Aissa and Polyxena, which is not a Work in Progress, but a finished, mythical tale of cross-dressing, searching for a place of publication. Our fool of a scribbler has yet to do anything but collect rejection slips thus far. As if I would ever accept rejection for myself, let alone Troile! The mightiest of the Achaens is certainly equal to harrowing to any dwarf in a crystal coffin when it comes to harrowing absent-minded scribblers! I shall bear down upon her addled wits, not relenting until she finds us a publisher! If necessary, I’ll go to the very gods, see if they can persuade her to self-publish. I will not be pushed back into a jumble of unfinished stories, forgotten! I shall slash, kick, and fight my way through those insubstantial phantoms cluttering up the scribbler’s imagination, even if they have no form to slice.

By Zeus’s beard, they are impossible to cut! No matter. I shall make enough noise, breaking and slicing, so the scribbler can’t ignore me. Our story will be heard! By the gods, I swear it!

I may be up here for some while. Doesn’t the scribbler ever get her imagination in order? What a disorganized creatrix. She ought to thank me. By kicking things over, I’m remind her of what’s here. Be grateful, scribbler. Be very grateful.


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