 “Nothing exists except atoms and empty space; everything else is just an opinion.”
-Democritus
   The path widened and Myrah came forward, I, myself falling back, so we flanked Notos. It wasn’t intentional, but it made him shrink.
“She’s a witch!” A voice bellowed from a cacophony of sounds as the trees parted.
My, that sun is blinding. Also, the witch thing brings back some memories.
I glared at Myrah as her narrative thoughts flooded mine. Notos slowed his pace, turning rightward.
“Notos?” Myrah started.
“There should be a clearing we could set up camp somewhere by a river-“
Notos was cut off as a woman with long raven locks ran into him. She stumbled back, flustered. The woman dropped a weaved basket with a blanket over it. Myrah gasped, leaping to help the lady. The lady looked up, sharp ice eyes grazing mine. Her gaze hardened with defiance as she straightened her outfit. Her outfit, I noticed, was the not traditional Grece antique look. More like Maid for Some Rich Scotsmen.
Wow, Mr. Smith would be so very proud of you, Myrah recalled our shared ninth grade French teacher bitterly.
“Are you alright-” I attempted, kindly. She cut me off.
“Deepest apologies, kind sir!” She declared, although, her eyes glinted with dangerously suffocated bitterness at something I seemed to represent. Her all-but-Greek accent caught me off guard as she nodded curtly to a bewildered Myrah before grasping her weave once more and carrying on, hastily.
“Strange,” Notos breathed, “she didn’t even notice me.”
I rolled my eyes heavily, glimpsing Myrah pointedly.
“Carry on,” Myrah hummed, attempting the enigmatic lady’s accent.
We carried down the dusty, muddy in the center market of the main street of Troy. A large, malevolent castle loomed at the end of the rambunctious area. Many things, I considered, were more of a natural tone. Noticeably, the colors grew more livid or elegant as we walked towards the castle. Huts on the sidelines grew more to a royal abode, sturdy. The streets appeared cleaner, granted, we did pass several sweepers wearing soiled rags, as well as man-made streams, familiar to suburban ditches.
Laughter, sweet and graceful instead of drunken and rough, echoed the wider alleys. Yet another lady stumbled into our path. This time, she looked about 16, perhaps going on 17. She, too, had blue eyes, although they were softer, more caring. I hadn’t seen any other blue eyes. Her facial points, once it unscrewed from the initial near-impact with Myrah, seemed familiar, as well.
She immediately bowed her head, falling into a deep, resigned curtsy. Much like most of the women we had passed since we got to the more colorful side, she wore a hoop skirt and, clearly, a corset. Hers was a dusty pink that lit her face charminly. Her light dirty blonde hair fell off her shoulders. “I’m so so sorry!” Myrah pleaded helplessly.
The girl seemed to relax as she turned solely to Myrah, managing a smile.
“You seem to be in a hurry. Everything alright?” I asked, startled when she flinched, seemingly at the timbre of my voice. Myrah looked at me curiously.
The girl, soft eyes now further on guard, nodded violently. I frowned, catching Myrah’s imploring gaze. The girl staggered off, more hastily than the raven hair lady.
Less than an hour, and Troy had already presented that it bore secrets.Â
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