Mass fic spamming once again...
OMG! It's back. Loves, so sorry for not replying to my comments for the last chapter but do not worry, I have read them all and I just want to thank everyone who's read this and commented.
Title: Beloved ~ Chapter Fifty-one
Author: Sel selene_vidae
Pairing: Apollo/Paris, Hector/Paris
Summary: What if all that we believed to have been true - was not?
Rating: PG13-NC17.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to history, to myth, to legend. I make absolutely no money from this and live off on my reviewers' love.. *flutters eyelashes prettily* Some dialogue taken directly from film but twisted to suit my needs. Some descriptions taken from the first draft of the movie's screenplay.
Feedback: Yes, please. With nekkid HectorParisAchillesOdysseus (take your pick) on top.
Previous Chapters: Prologue, Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six, Chapter Seven, Chapter Eight, Chapter Nine, Chapter Ten, Chapter Eleven, Chapter Twelve, Chapter Thirteen, Chapter Fourteen, Chapter Fifteen, Chapter Sixteen, Chapter Seventeen, Chapter Eighteen, Chapter Nineteen, Chapter Twenty, Chapter Twenty-one, Chapter Twenty-two, Chapter Twenty-three, Chapter Twenty-four, Chapter Twenty-five, Chapter Twenty-six, Chapter Twenty-seven, Chapter Twenty-eight, Chapter Twenty-nine, Chapter Thirty, Chapter Thirty-one, Chapter Thirty-two, Chapter Thirty-three, Chapter Thirty-four, Chapter Thirty-five, Chapter Thirty-six, Chapter Thirty-seven, Chapter Thirty-eight, Chapter Thirty-nine, Chapter Forty, Chapter Forty-one, Chapter Forty-two, Chapter Forty-three, Chapter Forty-four, Chapter Forty-five, Chapter Forty-six, Chapter Forty-seven, Chapter Forty-eight, Chapter Forty-nine, Chapter Fifty
Manip courtesy of my lovey, punk_pony
Chapter Fifty-one
It was the silence that unnerved him most. A city that housed thousands upon thousands of people and there was not a whisper of sound. It was as if someone came and stole their voices - the high, innocent tones of laughing children; the hoarse, papery sounds that came from old ones; the sweet, delicate melody of girls on the cusp of womanhood.
Paris rested his head against the worn façade of a marble pillar, his own voice lost to some place inside him. He lost it twelve nights ago in the yawning darkness of the Thunderer’s temple.
It was a silence borne from loss.
Troy had lost her favorite son, most favored, most cheered, most Loved.
And Paris had lost his brother. His beloved. Tonight was the ending scene to their shared loss - all would be finished and there would be nothing more. It made his heart ache all the fiercer.
He could see it all from where he stood, half-hidden in the shadows outside of the Thunderer’s temple.
He could see the Apollonian guard where they stood in full battle armor, arrayed in ranks around the funeral pyre that towered higher than the roofs of houses. They had come to pay their last respects to their general…and their friend.
He could see his sisters and his mother seated on a dais, their black robes and golden crowns a contrast against pale faces. They had long ceased their prayers - they had come instead to offer words of love to the winds, in the hopes that it would reach a brother’s ear, a son’s ears.
He could see his brothers standing at the base of the steps - steps that led to the top of the pyre and that final act. They had come to honor the greatest man they knew, second once to their father but equal now, and this perhaps was too late an epiphany.
He could see the people of Troy. They had come for Hector because Hector belonged to them in ways not even he could truly comprehend.
And Paris? Why did he come? Why did he dress in robes of mourning with a crown of golden laurel leaves upon his head? Why did he hide behind a pillar when all others who loved Hector stood before the pyre that would devour the remains of Troy’s Champion?
Why?
“Paris, it is time.”
Paris lifted his head, gaze landing upon his father’s form.
How old he looked, aging a lifetime in the past several days. He wanted nothing more than to take that weight off his father’s shoulders, make it his own and shoulder it as Hector once did. But he was not Hector ---
Priam placed a hand on his shoulder and smiled wanly, “I am tired, Paris, but I will muster the last vestiges of my strength to say a goodbye fitting Troy’s greatest son.” The King of Troy looked out towards the plaza where all the citizens of their great city now waited. “We have all come to say our goodbyes. Hector lived with strength and he died with strength. It is only right that we remain strong for him.”
Murmuring, “You are right, Father.”
He placed a hand on his father’s arm and began to lead him towards the pyre.
Why?
To be strong. To live strong.
They came to a stop before the dais, Hecuba stepping forward to embrace her husband, shutting out all those who did not belong in their own created world for the moment. Paris’ eyes looked at each of his sisters in turn before finally resting on Andromache’s silent, unmoving form. Her eyes were clear but red-rimmed, a testament to the tears shed in the darkness of her empty rooms, the only remains of a sorrow borne in the coldness of an empty bed.
She never looked more fragile.
She never looked more broken.
All that he knew of Andromache was tied to her unending well of courage and strength, and the woman that sat before him now was a pale shadow compared to that smiling, kind-hearted creature who took pity on him that first day in Troy. Paris believed with everything in him that Death was hardest on the ones left behind, those who were left to pick up the broken pieces and struggle on. Grief affected everyone differently, each soul bearing an imprint of that missing face, that missing love, that missing piece.
His hand reached out for her but hesitated when she did not even acknowledge the minute movement. Paris swallowed hard, dropping his hand, gaze now falling on Helen. Helen lifted her head and nodded to him once, bottom lip trembling. Astyanax sat on her lap, playing with the wooden horse that Paris saw Hector carve one day while in their hidden place.
It is for Astyanax. When he is old enough, I will give him a real horse and teach him to ride.
He turned away, Hector’s proud smile on his mind and Astyanax’s cooing laughter in his ears. Those few steps towards the pyre, towards the line of soldiers, towards the grim features of his brothers, towards his father’s frozen figure --- they were the hardest he ever had to take.
Priam stood at the base of the pyre, eyeing the wooden staircase. He reached out to clasp Paris’ arm when the younger man came to stand beside his father. They stood in silence for what seemed like an infinite amount of time, each one delaying the inevitable, for reasons all his own. But death was inevitable and it had already come.
“Paris.”
He looked down at the two coins placed in the palm of his hand. He did not understand. “Father?”
It was a father’s duty, a father’s right.
“It is fitting,” was all Priam said, squeezing his hand briefly before going to stand with Troy’s remaining Princes.
It is fitting.
There were so many ways to take that.
It was fitting because Hector loved him, always and forever. The infant brother slumbering quietly in a wooden cradle, the babe lost to the wilderness of Troy, the shepherd returning to reclaim his heritage, the Prince that stole Sparta’s Queen. Hector loved him and it was fitting.
It was fitting because Hector fought for him, more than he fought for Troy, different from how he fought for Andromache and Astyanax. The wounds on sun-burnished skin and the endless tide of blood spilt on their golden shores - all bore Paris’ name, and it was fitting.
It was fitting because Hector died for him. A war brought upon their people in exchange for his brother’s love, his brother’s flashing brown eyes and the stubborn tilt of a chin. Hector died for him, once, twice, a thousands times over, his body desecrated and defiled.
And it was fitting.
Taking a deep breath, Paris made his way up the rickety, hastily-built steps, a prayer started on each one and forgotten with the next. All too soon he stood before Hector’s body. Not Hector, but his body. His Hector was gone.
He did not linger, placing the coins upon closed eyelids and walking carefully down. He did not linger. All that needed to be said had been said.
There was nothing left.
Paris took the torch from Priam’s hand, trembling ever so slightly. His brothers did not stop him when he placed it against the pitch-soaked wood - they understood.
The kindling was soon ablaze and smoke filled the night as the fire rose to immense proportions. The heat was immense, palpable and it surged and rolled through the assembled crowd like a hungry beast. It fed its hunger on the people’s tears, coming swiftly, coming slow, but the tears still came. It fed its hunger on the grief as palpable as the monstrous flames.
He did not know how long he stood there but eventually people began to drift away, tired and weary. But still he watched, watching sparks and embers drift upwards until the fire grew quiet. It would not be long before the winds would pick up the ashes and carry them away.
Not long at all.
***
“Did you hear?” was the breathless greeting of a young soldier, a long gash on his forehead from where a sword had missed in nearly slicing his head off.
Those that were seated around a small fire turned to look at the new arrival. “Hear about what?”
“Achilles returned Hector’s body to Priam.”
“He did?” Incredulous murmurs were heard just as well as the repeated, disbelieving denials.
And then the questions and the arguing began.
“How did Priam enter the camp?”
“Did he have an escort?”
“The sentries simply let him through on his way out?”
“How did Priam enter the camp?” someone asked again.
“Does it matter how he entered?”
“Yes! It means that he somehow managed to slip by those guarding us and if Priam, who is quite an old man, can do it, then his soldiers certainly can. Hector might be dead but the rest of his soldiers, and his brothers, are not.”
“But they have no one to lead them. Troy should fall soon.”
“Yes, but listen! That is not all Achilles gave the Trojan King.” There was moment of silence, the suspense steadily building. “Achilles has promised twelve days of peace!”
“For the funeral games?” someone asked.
“Yes.”
The Greek soldiers looked at one another over the campfire, flames leaving unknown shadows to cross over their pensive faces and motionless figures.
“What did Agamemnon have to say?”
“He raved and raged when he discovered it. He is furious that Achilles had the audacity to promise something that only a king can give. In truth, it was something only the King of kings can promise.”
One of the soldiers chuckled, eyeing the flagon of wine that lay untouched beside him. “Details such as that do not stop Achilles.” There was a note of admiration in his tone, but half of them living admired the Golden Lion. The rest hated him. And it was same for those who died, by Achilles’ hand and not.
“And do you not think that things are the same for Agamemnon? He will stop at nothing to have Troy.”
“Nothing?”
No one replied and a sudden silence befell them, disquiet seeping into their very bones.
“Where is Achilles now?”
“He is by the beach, brooding perhaps.”
“He does too much brooding. He should fight more.”
“He fought Hector.”
“And defeated him.”
“Where was he when we needed him? So many lives would have spared if only he had come.”
As the others continued to bicker, voices rising in disagreement, there was one warrior that sat away from them, eyes flicking towards his companions every so often, but his concentration rested solely on one task. So engrossed was he in what he was doing that he did not notice when Odysseus came to sit beside him, gazing speculatively at him for some time. Especially at the wooden figure he held carefully in his hands.
He looked away from the toy horse he was carving, finally noticing the Ithacan’s intent perusal of his work. His fingers stilled, as did the knife’s graceful, careful movements. “It is for my son back home.”
Odysseus nodded, eyes glittering in the light of the campfire.
***
Helen watched Astyanax play contentedly on the furs, tiny hands reaching out for nothing in particular with a sweet smile on his cherubic face.
Astyanax made her want to smile, the very innocence that surrounded him refreshing to her somber self. She knew it was an innocence borne from ignorance. He did not know what had passed. He did not know that his father had passed on to the Elysian Fields, never to return. But it was innocence still, tainted or not, and his light laughter seemed to chase away the despairing mood that filled the palace.
It could not have been any more evident than within these walls, the torchlight casting lonely shadows on lonely walls and the silence that seemed to stretch from the sleeping quarters to where she sat beside Astyanax.
She carefully did not look in that direction, not wishing to see Andromache’s broken figure, seated as regally as any queen upon the too large bed.
The doors to the chambers opened and she almost jumped in fright, heart beating more fiercely when Paris entered.
Paris.
It was foolish of her to love him still, to hope and wish and want him still when it was so clear that he loved only one. Had loved and always would love only one. But the Paris she first fell in love with and the Paris that walked towards her with pain written in stark clarity on his face and the very line of his figure, were one and the same. One made promises of love and passion, the other made promises of security and faith. In a way, neither set of promises would be kept, but she loved him still. It was a love she bore with the certainty that it would never be returned, but it hardly mattered.
With Paris, things rarely did. One loved him till his, her last breath and beyond.
“Helen, how does she fare?”
She tried to smile but it came out too weary, too pained. “I do not know. She has not spoken.”
“Since when?”
“Since Hector died.”
Paris frowned and she was struck with an urge to reach out, to caress the lines on his brow till they faded away. But she would never have that right. Instead, she clasped her hands tightly and placed them on her lap.
“Come, there is something you must see.”
“What of Andromache? And Astyanax?”
“Take Astyanax. I will speak with Andromache.”
She nodded, scooping the child into her arms as Paris went to Andromache and knelt beside her. She could not hear what was being said but it was with surprise that she noted Andromache’s hand resting on the top of Paris’ head as he spoke. They stayed in that intimate tableau for several moments, fitting together so well within their shared grieving.
“Will you come with us?”
“No,” Andromache murmured. “I think I shall stay here.”
Paris nodded and stood, hesitating only briefly before he placed a gentle kiss on his sister’s lips. “We will return shortly,” he said quietly before turning towards Helen and holding out his hand to her.
She would be lying if she did not admit that her heart skipped a bit when she took the offered hand, but upon gazing at Paris’ determined countenance it was made clear that there were no fluttering butterflies within his stomach. He took a torch from one of the sconces and continued on.
She fought down the rising tide of disappointment. Now was not the time.
They walked in silence, Helen cradling a now slumbering Astyanax to her chest as Paris led her to one of the lower gardens, the shrine of Apollo before them. The silence was eerie and she repressed a shiver as they descended an unlit staircase, the torch in Paris’ hands the only illumination and that was barely enough. She was cautious with where she placed her steps, mindful of the child in her arms.
There was a door half-hidden by vines at the bottom of the stairs, Paris pausing briefly to open it, careful not to tear away the plants that hid it from sight. Once within, they walked on, Helen guessing they were somewhere deep inside the palace’s dark recesses.
“Where are we?” she finally asked, although with every step she took the answer became clearer.
They came to a standstill before a bronze-banded door, Paris releasing her hand to open it.
Helen stared at the mouth of a dark tunnel, the butterflies in her stomach dying, only to be replaced by a leaden weight. “Paris?”
“Do you remember how to get here?”
She nodded hesitantly. “Yes.”
“The next time you come, follow the tunnel. There is nowhere to turn so you will not get lost. Keep going and do not stop, no matter what. Do not turn back.”
“Paris ---”
“The tunnel ends on the south side of the Scamander River. Follow the river till you reach Mount Ida. Then keep Ida to your west, walk south and you will reach Lyrnessus.” He paused before murmuring, “The Greeks will not follow that far inland.”
“Paris, what is happening? You are frightening me.”
Paris licked his lips, brow furrowed once again as he stared into the darkness of the tunnel. She reached out to him, placing a hand on his arm.
“Paris? Why are you telling me this?”
“So you can escape.”
“Escape? Why?”
“Hector is dead, Helen. He is dead.” His voice broke upon saying that last word and it took him some time to collect himself before he could speak again. “The city will not stand long without him. Father bargained for twelve days and tomorrow is the thirteenth. Nothing will stop Agamemnon now.”
“Why does he persist? Menelaus is dead! Hector is dead. So many are dead!”
“Do you think that matters to him?” Paris replied harshly, eyes flashing. “He does not carry how many are dead or how many more die. He has come too far to stop now. He will stop at nothing to gain Troy. Nothing.”
“No. No. Paris…”
He continued to speak, voice low and forbidding, gaze burning into hers until all she wished to do was turn away. “The Greeks will find a way to get inside these walls and then they will slaughter every man they come across, every man they find. Grandfathers sleeping in their beds will be hauled out of them and gutted like fish. Children slumbering in their cradles will be thrown from the city walls ---”
“Paris, stop!” she pleaded, clutching a now stirring Astyanax closer to her.
“And the women…” Paris paused, face shadowed. “The women they will take as slaves and that is a fate worse than death. It is much, much worse than dying because you will wish for death.”
Helen moaned lowly in her throat, the urge to vomit coming to her too easily. “Why? Why do you say this?”
“I want you to be ready. I want you to save yourself, to save Andromache and Astyanax, to take my sisters and my mother and run. Save as many as you can but you get here,” Paris whispered intently, hand cupping her face, “and you go down these stairs and you run.”
“What about ---”
“Do not turn back for anything,” Paris murmured, eyes losing their feverish glow, dimming and being filled again with that infinite sadness that was different from before. There was tinge of joy within them, tempered with resignation and knowing.
She did not understand. She could not.
“Paris, what of you?” she asked again, pulling her to him till Astyanax was cocooned within the embrace of their bodies.
“Do not turn back,” was all he said before he brought his lips to hers.
Helen closed her eyes and cried.
Title: Beloved ~ Chapter Fifty-one
Author: Sel selene_vidae
Pairing: Apollo/Paris, Hector/Paris
Summary: What if all that we believed to have been true - was not?
Rating: PG13-NC17.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to history, to myth, to legend. I make absolutely no money from this and live off on my reviewers' love.. *flutters eyelashes prettily* Some dialogue taken directly from film but twisted to suit my needs. Some descriptions taken from the first draft of the movie's screenplay.
Feedback: Yes, please. With nekkid HectorParisAchillesOdysseus (take your pick) on top.
Previous Chapters: Prologue, Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six, Chapter Seven, Chapter Eight, Chapter Nine, Chapter Ten, Chapter Eleven, Chapter Twelve, Chapter Thirteen, Chapter Fourteen, Chapter Fifteen, Chapter Sixteen, Chapter Seventeen, Chapter Eighteen, Chapter Nineteen, Chapter Twenty, Chapter Twenty-one, Chapter Twenty-two, Chapter Twenty-three, Chapter Twenty-four, Chapter Twenty-five, Chapter Twenty-six, Chapter Twenty-seven, Chapter Twenty-eight, Chapter Twenty-nine, Chapter Thirty, Chapter Thirty-one, Chapter Thirty-two, Chapter Thirty-three, Chapter Thirty-four, Chapter Thirty-five, Chapter Thirty-six, Chapter Thirty-seven, Chapter Thirty-eight, Chapter Thirty-nine, Chapter Forty, Chapter Forty-one, Chapter Forty-two, Chapter Forty-three, Chapter Forty-four, Chapter Forty-five, Chapter Forty-six, Chapter Forty-seven, Chapter Forty-eight, Chapter Forty-nine, Chapter Fifty
Manip courtesy of my lovey, punk_pony
Chapter Fifty-one
It was the silence that unnerved him most. A city that housed thousands upon thousands of people and there was not a whisper of sound. It was as if someone came and stole their voices - the high, innocent tones of laughing children; the hoarse, papery sounds that came from old ones; the sweet, delicate melody of girls on the cusp of womanhood.
Paris rested his head against the worn façade of a marble pillar, his own voice lost to some place inside him. He lost it twelve nights ago in the yawning darkness of the Thunderer’s temple.
It was a silence borne from loss.
Troy had lost her favorite son, most favored, most cheered, most Loved.
And Paris had lost his brother. His beloved. Tonight was the ending scene to their shared loss - all would be finished and there would be nothing more. It made his heart ache all the fiercer.
He could see it all from where he stood, half-hidden in the shadows outside of the Thunderer’s temple.
He could see the Apollonian guard where they stood in full battle armor, arrayed in ranks around the funeral pyre that towered higher than the roofs of houses. They had come to pay their last respects to their general…and their friend.
He could see his sisters and his mother seated on a dais, their black robes and golden crowns a contrast against pale faces. They had long ceased their prayers - they had come instead to offer words of love to the winds, in the hopes that it would reach a brother’s ear, a son’s ears.
He could see his brothers standing at the base of the steps - steps that led to the top of the pyre and that final act. They had come to honor the greatest man they knew, second once to their father but equal now, and this perhaps was too late an epiphany.
He could see the people of Troy. They had come for Hector because Hector belonged to them in ways not even he could truly comprehend.
And Paris? Why did he come? Why did he dress in robes of mourning with a crown of golden laurel leaves upon his head? Why did he hide behind a pillar when all others who loved Hector stood before the pyre that would devour the remains of Troy’s Champion?
Why?
“Paris, it is time.”
Paris lifted his head, gaze landing upon his father’s form.
How old he looked, aging a lifetime in the past several days. He wanted nothing more than to take that weight off his father’s shoulders, make it his own and shoulder it as Hector once did. But he was not Hector ---
Priam placed a hand on his shoulder and smiled wanly, “I am tired, Paris, but I will muster the last vestiges of my strength to say a goodbye fitting Troy’s greatest son.” The King of Troy looked out towards the plaza where all the citizens of their great city now waited. “We have all come to say our goodbyes. Hector lived with strength and he died with strength. It is only right that we remain strong for him.”
Murmuring, “You are right, Father.”
He placed a hand on his father’s arm and began to lead him towards the pyre.
Why?
To be strong. To live strong.
They came to a stop before the dais, Hecuba stepping forward to embrace her husband, shutting out all those who did not belong in their own created world for the moment. Paris’ eyes looked at each of his sisters in turn before finally resting on Andromache’s silent, unmoving form. Her eyes were clear but red-rimmed, a testament to the tears shed in the darkness of her empty rooms, the only remains of a sorrow borne in the coldness of an empty bed.
She never looked more fragile.
She never looked more broken.
All that he knew of Andromache was tied to her unending well of courage and strength, and the woman that sat before him now was a pale shadow compared to that smiling, kind-hearted creature who took pity on him that first day in Troy. Paris believed with everything in him that Death was hardest on the ones left behind, those who were left to pick up the broken pieces and struggle on. Grief affected everyone differently, each soul bearing an imprint of that missing face, that missing love, that missing piece.
His hand reached out for her but hesitated when she did not even acknowledge the minute movement. Paris swallowed hard, dropping his hand, gaze now falling on Helen. Helen lifted her head and nodded to him once, bottom lip trembling. Astyanax sat on her lap, playing with the wooden horse that Paris saw Hector carve one day while in their hidden place.
It is for Astyanax. When he is old enough, I will give him a real horse and teach him to ride.
He turned away, Hector’s proud smile on his mind and Astyanax’s cooing laughter in his ears. Those few steps towards the pyre, towards the line of soldiers, towards the grim features of his brothers, towards his father’s frozen figure --- they were the hardest he ever had to take.
Priam stood at the base of the pyre, eyeing the wooden staircase. He reached out to clasp Paris’ arm when the younger man came to stand beside his father. They stood in silence for what seemed like an infinite amount of time, each one delaying the inevitable, for reasons all his own. But death was inevitable and it had already come.
“Paris.”
He looked down at the two coins placed in the palm of his hand. He did not understand. “Father?”
It was a father’s duty, a father’s right.
“It is fitting,” was all Priam said, squeezing his hand briefly before going to stand with Troy’s remaining Princes.
It is fitting.
There were so many ways to take that.
It was fitting because Hector loved him, always and forever. The infant brother slumbering quietly in a wooden cradle, the babe lost to the wilderness of Troy, the shepherd returning to reclaim his heritage, the Prince that stole Sparta’s Queen. Hector loved him and it was fitting.
It was fitting because Hector fought for him, more than he fought for Troy, different from how he fought for Andromache and Astyanax. The wounds on sun-burnished skin and the endless tide of blood spilt on their golden shores - all bore Paris’ name, and it was fitting.
It was fitting because Hector died for him. A war brought upon their people in exchange for his brother’s love, his brother’s flashing brown eyes and the stubborn tilt of a chin. Hector died for him, once, twice, a thousands times over, his body desecrated and defiled.
And it was fitting.
Taking a deep breath, Paris made his way up the rickety, hastily-built steps, a prayer started on each one and forgotten with the next. All too soon he stood before Hector’s body. Not Hector, but his body. His Hector was gone.
He did not linger, placing the coins upon closed eyelids and walking carefully down. He did not linger. All that needed to be said had been said.
There was nothing left.
Paris took the torch from Priam’s hand, trembling ever so slightly. His brothers did not stop him when he placed it against the pitch-soaked wood - they understood.
The kindling was soon ablaze and smoke filled the night as the fire rose to immense proportions. The heat was immense, palpable and it surged and rolled through the assembled crowd like a hungry beast. It fed its hunger on the people’s tears, coming swiftly, coming slow, but the tears still came. It fed its hunger on the grief as palpable as the monstrous flames.
He did not know how long he stood there but eventually people began to drift away, tired and weary. But still he watched, watching sparks and embers drift upwards until the fire grew quiet. It would not be long before the winds would pick up the ashes and carry them away.
Not long at all.
***
“Did you hear?” was the breathless greeting of a young soldier, a long gash on his forehead from where a sword had missed in nearly slicing his head off.
Those that were seated around a small fire turned to look at the new arrival. “Hear about what?”
“Achilles returned Hector’s body to Priam.”
“He did?” Incredulous murmurs were heard just as well as the repeated, disbelieving denials.
And then the questions and the arguing began.
“How did Priam enter the camp?”
“Did he have an escort?”
“The sentries simply let him through on his way out?”
“How did Priam enter the camp?” someone asked again.
“Does it matter how he entered?”
“Yes! It means that he somehow managed to slip by those guarding us and if Priam, who is quite an old man, can do it, then his soldiers certainly can. Hector might be dead but the rest of his soldiers, and his brothers, are not.”
“But they have no one to lead them. Troy should fall soon.”
“Yes, but listen! That is not all Achilles gave the Trojan King.” There was moment of silence, the suspense steadily building. “Achilles has promised twelve days of peace!”
“For the funeral games?” someone asked.
“Yes.”
The Greek soldiers looked at one another over the campfire, flames leaving unknown shadows to cross over their pensive faces and motionless figures.
“What did Agamemnon have to say?”
“He raved and raged when he discovered it. He is furious that Achilles had the audacity to promise something that only a king can give. In truth, it was something only the King of kings can promise.”
One of the soldiers chuckled, eyeing the flagon of wine that lay untouched beside him. “Details such as that do not stop Achilles.” There was a note of admiration in his tone, but half of them living admired the Golden Lion. The rest hated him. And it was same for those who died, by Achilles’ hand and not.
“And do you not think that things are the same for Agamemnon? He will stop at nothing to have Troy.”
“Nothing?”
No one replied and a sudden silence befell them, disquiet seeping into their very bones.
“Where is Achilles now?”
“He is by the beach, brooding perhaps.”
“He does too much brooding. He should fight more.”
“He fought Hector.”
“And defeated him.”
“Where was he when we needed him? So many lives would have spared if only he had come.”
As the others continued to bicker, voices rising in disagreement, there was one warrior that sat away from them, eyes flicking towards his companions every so often, but his concentration rested solely on one task. So engrossed was he in what he was doing that he did not notice when Odysseus came to sit beside him, gazing speculatively at him for some time. Especially at the wooden figure he held carefully in his hands.
He looked away from the toy horse he was carving, finally noticing the Ithacan’s intent perusal of his work. His fingers stilled, as did the knife’s graceful, careful movements. “It is for my son back home.”
Odysseus nodded, eyes glittering in the light of the campfire.
***
Helen watched Astyanax play contentedly on the furs, tiny hands reaching out for nothing in particular with a sweet smile on his cherubic face.
Astyanax made her want to smile, the very innocence that surrounded him refreshing to her somber self. She knew it was an innocence borne from ignorance. He did not know what had passed. He did not know that his father had passed on to the Elysian Fields, never to return. But it was innocence still, tainted or not, and his light laughter seemed to chase away the despairing mood that filled the palace.
It could not have been any more evident than within these walls, the torchlight casting lonely shadows on lonely walls and the silence that seemed to stretch from the sleeping quarters to where she sat beside Astyanax.
She carefully did not look in that direction, not wishing to see Andromache’s broken figure, seated as regally as any queen upon the too large bed.
The doors to the chambers opened and she almost jumped in fright, heart beating more fiercely when Paris entered.
Paris.
It was foolish of her to love him still, to hope and wish and want him still when it was so clear that he loved only one. Had loved and always would love only one. But the Paris she first fell in love with and the Paris that walked towards her with pain written in stark clarity on his face and the very line of his figure, were one and the same. One made promises of love and passion, the other made promises of security and faith. In a way, neither set of promises would be kept, but she loved him still. It was a love she bore with the certainty that it would never be returned, but it hardly mattered.
With Paris, things rarely did. One loved him till his, her last breath and beyond.
“Helen, how does she fare?”
She tried to smile but it came out too weary, too pained. “I do not know. She has not spoken.”
“Since when?”
“Since Hector died.”
Paris frowned and she was struck with an urge to reach out, to caress the lines on his brow till they faded away. But she would never have that right. Instead, she clasped her hands tightly and placed them on her lap.
“Come, there is something you must see.”
“What of Andromache? And Astyanax?”
“Take Astyanax. I will speak with Andromache.”
She nodded, scooping the child into her arms as Paris went to Andromache and knelt beside her. She could not hear what was being said but it was with surprise that she noted Andromache’s hand resting on the top of Paris’ head as he spoke. They stayed in that intimate tableau for several moments, fitting together so well within their shared grieving.
“Will you come with us?”
“No,” Andromache murmured. “I think I shall stay here.”
Paris nodded and stood, hesitating only briefly before he placed a gentle kiss on his sister’s lips. “We will return shortly,” he said quietly before turning towards Helen and holding out his hand to her.
She would be lying if she did not admit that her heart skipped a bit when she took the offered hand, but upon gazing at Paris’ determined countenance it was made clear that there were no fluttering butterflies within his stomach. He took a torch from one of the sconces and continued on.
She fought down the rising tide of disappointment. Now was not the time.
They walked in silence, Helen cradling a now slumbering Astyanax to her chest as Paris led her to one of the lower gardens, the shrine of Apollo before them. The silence was eerie and she repressed a shiver as they descended an unlit staircase, the torch in Paris’ hands the only illumination and that was barely enough. She was cautious with where she placed her steps, mindful of the child in her arms.
There was a door half-hidden by vines at the bottom of the stairs, Paris pausing briefly to open it, careful not to tear away the plants that hid it from sight. Once within, they walked on, Helen guessing they were somewhere deep inside the palace’s dark recesses.
“Where are we?” she finally asked, although with every step she took the answer became clearer.
They came to a standstill before a bronze-banded door, Paris releasing her hand to open it.
Helen stared at the mouth of a dark tunnel, the butterflies in her stomach dying, only to be replaced by a leaden weight. “Paris?”
“Do you remember how to get here?”
She nodded hesitantly. “Yes.”
“The next time you come, follow the tunnel. There is nowhere to turn so you will not get lost. Keep going and do not stop, no matter what. Do not turn back.”
“Paris ---”
“The tunnel ends on the south side of the Scamander River. Follow the river till you reach Mount Ida. Then keep Ida to your west, walk south and you will reach Lyrnessus.” He paused before murmuring, “The Greeks will not follow that far inland.”
“Paris, what is happening? You are frightening me.”
Paris licked his lips, brow furrowed once again as he stared into the darkness of the tunnel. She reached out to him, placing a hand on his arm.
“Paris? Why are you telling me this?”
“So you can escape.”
“Escape? Why?”
“Hector is dead, Helen. He is dead.” His voice broke upon saying that last word and it took him some time to collect himself before he could speak again. “The city will not stand long without him. Father bargained for twelve days and tomorrow is the thirteenth. Nothing will stop Agamemnon now.”
“Why does he persist? Menelaus is dead! Hector is dead. So many are dead!”
“Do you think that matters to him?” Paris replied harshly, eyes flashing. “He does not carry how many are dead or how many more die. He has come too far to stop now. He will stop at nothing to gain Troy. Nothing.”
“No. No. Paris…”
He continued to speak, voice low and forbidding, gaze burning into hers until all she wished to do was turn away. “The Greeks will find a way to get inside these walls and then they will slaughter every man they come across, every man they find. Grandfathers sleeping in their beds will be hauled out of them and gutted like fish. Children slumbering in their cradles will be thrown from the city walls ---”
“Paris, stop!” she pleaded, clutching a now stirring Astyanax closer to her.
“And the women…” Paris paused, face shadowed. “The women they will take as slaves and that is a fate worse than death. It is much, much worse than dying because you will wish for death.”
Helen moaned lowly in her throat, the urge to vomit coming to her too easily. “Why? Why do you say this?”
“I want you to be ready. I want you to save yourself, to save Andromache and Astyanax, to take my sisters and my mother and run. Save as many as you can but you get here,” Paris whispered intently, hand cupping her face, “and you go down these stairs and you run.”
“What about ---”
“Do not turn back for anything,” Paris murmured, eyes losing their feverish glow, dimming and being filled again with that infinite sadness that was different from before. There was tinge of joy within them, tempered with resignation and knowing.
She did not understand. She could not.
“Paris, what of you?” she asked again, pulling her to him till Astyanax was cocooned within the embrace of their bodies.
“Do not turn back,” was all he said before he brought his lips to hers.
Helen closed her eyes and cried.