The triumphant return of Beloved.
Title: Beloved ~ Chapter Fifty-two
Author: Sel selene_vidae
Pairing: Apollo/Paris, Hector/Paris and a smattering of others.
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: Aye? Nay? What say you?
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, Chapter Fifty-one
Manip courtesy of my lovey, punk_pony
FOR THOSE WHO NEVER GAVE UP HOPING. Thank you. I am humbled.
Beloved is the story of the men and women, mortals and immortals of the Trojan War. It speaks of love, war, betrayal, hope, life, and death. In the previous chapters, we've seen Alexandros, beloved of Apollo, seek his destiny and find it in Hector's arms as Paris, Prince of Troy. We've seen Helen brought to Trojan shores due to the machinations of three spurned goddesses. We've seen war following close behind with Agamemnon and Menelaus leading a thousand Greek ships. We've seen Achilles, Odysseus and a dozen other Greek heroes enter battle in the name of glory and destiny. We've seen hundreds of men die for the causes they held dear, the most familiar names being Ajax, Patroclus and yes, Hector. We've seen the end of the Trojan war draw near.
In the last chapter, we left Paris and Helen standing at the hidden tunnels that led out of Troy into safety, should the Greeks come and storm the city. Only hours before, Hector's funeral pyre had been lit, signalling the last night of the funeral games, and the last night of tentative, reluctant peace between the Trojans and the Greeks.
What does this mean? Read on and find out.
Chapter Fifty-two
The tent flap was pushed aside, Achilles entering to find Eudorus polishing his armor. The other man quickly stood, opening his mouth as if to apologize more but Achilles only shook his head, raising his hand to stem the flow of words. “Eudorus, my friend. Forgive me.”
“My Lord?” Surprise tinged Eudoros’ reply as apologies were not commonly heard from the Greek warrior’s lips.
“You have followed me faithfully all these years, proving to be a loyal friend on many an occasion. I should have never struck you. Patroclus’ death was not your fault. His, most certainly. Mine, even more. But yours? Never.”
“My Lord Achilles, I should have realized that he was not you---”
Achilles shook his head once again, a sad smile lingering on his lips. “No, Eudorus. Patroclus was like me in many ways, especially when it came to his stubbornness. I wish that were not so, but I wish many things.”
Silence fell between them as Achilles sat himself down on his bedding, a battled-roughened hand running over the soft furs as he thought of warm, smooth skin underneath his fingers. As the smaller man followed suit, Achilles murmured, “Eudorus,” the brown gaze turning to him instead of the polished bronze armor, “Rouse the men. You are taking them home.”
Eudorus’ eyes widened, clearly surprised. “And what of you?”
“I have one more battle to fight.”
There was a moment of hesitation before Eudorus said, “He is worth fighting for. We will march behind you.”
“No. All that is left is the slaughter.” A shadow flitted over the strong, handsome features. “I will not stain your hands with the blood of innocents. I will not have you killing children, not when there is no need. This is the last order I give you, Eudorus. Go.”
Eudorus hesitated, but only briefly. “I will do as you have commanded of me.” He stood, but not before grasping his commander’s shoulder. “My Lord, may the gods watch over you now.”
There was a sardonic chuckle that slipped past Achilles’ lips. “Eudorus, you of all men know my view on the gods.”
“But I pray all the same.”
Achilles smiled faintly, nodding once as Eudorus pulled back the tent flap to leave. His second-in-command paused though, turning to bow deeply.
“Fighting for you has been my life’s honor.”
“As it has been mine,” murmured the golden-haired warrior as the heavy cloth fell back in place, leaving him alone within his candle-lit surroundings and his own thoughts.
***
Those scant moments before dawn found a heavy fog settled over the field and sands beyond the gates and walls of Troy. Sentries warmed their hands above braziers, weary to the very marrow of their bones and to the very depths of their souls. They had lost so many brothers in battle and the end lingered in the air like the ashes of the funeral pyres. Their Champion had fallen and all thought the same thing---
How much longer?
How much longer till the Greeks invaded? How much longer would the walls of Troy stand? How much longer were their lives their own?
An aged soldier coughed, the wintry chill of the early morning doing little for his joints and the wracking cough that kept him off the battlefield. However, such hindrances could not keep him from doing his duty to Troy and that was why he stood with other men his age and with boys not even old enough for the marriage bed, keeping watch and standing guard.
These men, while they had been unable to join the fierce fighting that had raged on those very fog-covered sands now so vigilantly guarded and honored their slain and wounded kinsmen by watching for any type of movement from the Greek encampment.
Waiting apprehensively for any sign that Troy would soon be under attack again. The slightest forewarning was all they needed - it could be the difference between lives saved and lives lost.
That was what the soldier did now, his tired but determined gaze sweeping over the vista spread out before him, for all the good it did with the fog sitting as densely as it was. He sighed, in equal parts resignation and frustration when the first traces of dawn made itself known. There were murmurs of praise and worship, many lifting a prayer to the lightening skies as the Sun god raced his chariot across the sky. Prayers made to a patron god by the people who still worshipped him faithfully, prayers said in the hopes that they were not to be forgotten.
When the man turned back to his task, his eyes widened, disbelieving the scene that was spread out before him.
Apollo’s chariot had chased away the thick mist till there was nothing left upon the beach.
Nothing.
“They are gone,” he murmured.
His companion turned from his perusal of the morning sky, the spear held in his bandaged hand falling with a clatter to the ground.
The Greeks were gone.
Every boat, every tent. Fires banked and the remains of the funeral pyres blackened upon the golden sand. There was not a single living soul left on the beach.
All that was left was a strange wooden structure, giving the impression of some blackened creature standing sentinel.
***
The bells tolled, Troy’s citizens spilling out onto the streets, each one filled with dread and foreboding as soon as they heard the echoing peals filling the silent city. Once before those bells had tolled, only to bring with them such disastrous tidings. Why did they ring now? For what reason?
Those were the questions neighbor asked neighbor, mothers holding children close to their chests as wizened grandfathers looked towards the barred entrance of the city with grave faces. Whispers and murmurs soon reached all ears and it was with hopeful disbelief that Trojans received them ---
The Greeks were gone!
The sands that held the Greek encampments were empty, no traces of the men that tried to take away the lives and homes of those behind Troy’s walls. The boats had sailed away in the night for there was no other explanation for the endless blue horizon to be clear of even a single white sail.
Paris and his brothers were in the council room when the news broke. The atmosphere in the normally spacious room was edgy, strained.
There had been little sleep the night before and one by one, they had drifted into this cavernous hall. No torches had been lit, each prince finding his own space in the almost darkness to sit and brood. In the end, they had come to stand or sit before the large map of Troy, each mind thinking and rethinking of any possible way, any other battle tactic that might just save Troy.
News of the Greeks’ retreat culminating in a surprising disappearance was met with silence, not the frenzied celebratory glee one would have expected from a city whose safety had just been guaranteed. They were all wary, as was expected, and too much had happened for them to merely accept such news.
“Do you really think that they are gone?”
“I do not know.”
“But how do we know?”
“We need to see for ourselves.”
***
The horses’ whickering was all that could be heard, even the hoofbeats were silenced by the sand underneath them. The party that made its way to the beach moved slowly, cautiously. Priam and his sons rode in the center of the Apollonian guard that accompanied them, this defensive measure insisted upon by Glaucus, the general wary still of ambush and of the deaths of any more members of the royal family.
However, for all their worry, they were not disturbed once during their journey to the beach. Their only companion was the hulking structure that grew larger and larger as they approached.
Once close enough, they could tell that it was a wooden horse, fashioned together with rope and blackened wood made from the remnants of burnt ships - ships they had set fire to on that first day.
It all seemed so long ago.
Paris dismounted, eyes on the strange statue that towered above them. He was about to ask what it was for when a hand on his shoulder stopped him from moving any closer.
“What is it, Hipponous?”
His older brother merely nodded, gesturing to the sands before them and when Paris turned to look, he gasped. In his preoccupation with studying the wooden horse, he had missed the dozens of bodies that lay seemingly forgotten upon the sands.
The corpses had sores covering every inch of exposed skin, large, black sores that spoke of only one thing.
Deiphobus’ face was twisted into this grim smile, “The plague.”
“It is not like that they did not deserve it,” Polites murmured.
Priam took a step closer, as Paris did, but Archeptolemus held up a hand, warning them from moving too close. “It is best we stay away, your Majesty, your Highness. They were cursed and it is the will of the gods.”
That gained him the attention of their entire party, all other conversation dying down as they waited for the High Priest to speak again.
“They have been punished for their arrogance, for their desecration of the temple of Apollo.” Archeptolemus’ voice gained in volume and fervor. “Their spears and swords and arrows are no match against the fury of the Sun god!”
Paris shook his head. “No, Apollo would not have done this.” While this earned him an odd look or two, he was mostly ignored as the High Priest continued his tirade against the follies of men who thought themselves above the gods.
Glaucus swiftly interrupted the other man, “Plague or not, what matters is that the Greeks are gone.” There was a short bark of rough laughter heard from him. “They thought it would be so easy to defeat us, what with all their ships and all their men, and look at them now, using those ships to run home with their tails tucked between their legs like beaten dogs.”
“And what of this?” Priam asked, gesturing to the wooden horse whose shadow they now stood in.
“An offering to Poseidon, your Majesty. In hopes for a safe journey home,” Archeptolemus answered after a moment of contemplation.
Glaucus snorted. “I hope the Sea God spits out their offering and gives them new homes at the bottom of the ocean.”
The High Priest shook his head. “We must bring this to the Temple of Poseidon. It is a gift and must be offered to him.”
“No!”
Everyone present turned to Paris, surprised at his outburst.
Paris sought his father’s gaze, pleading and determined all at once. “We should burn it, Father.”
“Burn it?” Archeptolemus echoed. “It is an offering for the gods.”
“You do not know that,” Paris said in reply to the priest before turning his gaze towards the King once again. “Father, we must burn it.”
Hipponous spoke up. “Father, I agree with Paris. We should burn it. What if it carries the plague with it?”
“We cannot let it into the city,” Aeneas agreed. He did not like the look of thing.
Deiphobus approached it, drawing his sword and aiming it at the feet of the statue, swiftly chopping a piece with the force of his swing.
“Your Highness!” Velior called out, looking alarmed. “Do not do that! You might anger the gods.”
“I do not care what it is. All that matters is that the Greeks are gone and this is all that remains of them.” The Crown Prince nodded towards Paris. “I agree with Paris. Burn it.”
“We cannot!” Archeptolemus cried out. “I warn you all not to insult the gods. Prince Hector had sharp words for them and the next day Achilles’ sword was lodged in his heart.”
At those words, the Princes’ eyes flashed and an argument broke out then and there, not merely one but all of the Princes demanding Archeptolemus take back his words.
In the midst of all this, Paris laid a hand on his father’s arm. “Father, please. Burn it.”
Silence fell when Priam held up his hand, each one awaiting the decision of their King. After some time, Priam shook his head, resting his hand on where Paris still clutched on to him. “I will not watch another son die.”
***
Troy’s city square was crowded with people, the sounds of laughter and song being lifted up to the cloudless sky. The scene in front of Paris’ eyes was so vastly different from the scene of mourning he had seen twelve days ago and it sickened him.
“Look at them. It is like their Champion never died.”
“Paris…”
He ignored Briseis’ attempts to comfort him. All he could see was people singing and dancing in the streets, filling the great square in front of the palace stairs. Soldiers and citizens alike were making merry and fast becoming drunk. Little children raced to and fro playing games, pretending to be Trojan soldiers that chased away their Greek enemies. Even though night had fallen, every corner of the square blazed with light, a multitude of torches lit, some carried by people while Trojan flags were waved from balconies. And in the midst of this was that wooden monstrosity, standing near the Temple of Poseidon. It had been decorated with wreathes and garlands, with ribbons and shiny cloth. A monster under a façade of beauty. Unbidden, Paris raised his hand to have his fingers trace the curve of his own cheek.
“Paris?”
Shaking his head slightly, Paris turned to his cousin, reaching out to take her hand and pat it softly. “I am sorry, Briseis. I am not very good company this eve.”
“I do not need you to be good company, Paris. I wanted to stay with you as I did not want you to be alone.”
He canted his head, brows drawn together, lips forming a protest that never left his lips.
Briseis smiled softly, pulling him close until he could rest his head on her shoulder, tension leaving him as he realized with some surprise that she was right. He did not feel so alone with her there.
“Thank you, Briseis.”
“Oh, Paris. You do not have to thank me. You saved my life.”
“I would do it again and again if that was what was required to keep you safe,” he murmured.
She drew away then, taking both his hands as she stared into his eyes intently. “Would you? Would you do it again? Knowing all that would come to pass?”
Paris lifted her hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand. “It is as it was supposed to be.”
***
The only illumination came from the night sky, the moon and her stars lighting one of the many rocky paths that led to the cliffs that lined Hellespont. A lone rider rode away from Troy, towards the south. Despite the city’s joyous celebration, there were men like him still dispatched all over the surrounding countryside, scouting for the faintest signs of trouble. He was not expecting any, not with the Greeks halfway across the Aegean by now, but he had his orders and follow them he would.
He urged his horse into a trot, eyes merely sweeping over his dark surroundings before---
The horse was kicked into a gallop, the soldier guiding his mount towards the cliff’s edge. What he saw there had his breath being forced out of him in an exhalation of horror.
The Greek ships!
Every single Greek ship that not been burned waited in the deserted bay below. Nearly a thousand Greek ships waiting for the opportune moment.
The soldier did not waste his time, quickly forcing his mount away from the edge and riding hard and fast back towards the city, hoping he was not too late.
***
The streets of Troy were empty and still, the celebration having ended some time ago. All who participated had long gone home, now tucked safe and warm in their beds. Here and there, the remains of the victory celebration were present - the empty flagons of wine, the banked torches, the streamers lying on the ground, even a flag of Troy fluttering in the night breeze.
For all intents and purposes, Troy had been put to rest, finally given peace after so much bloodshed and heartache.
The wooden horse was a symbol of that, standing peaceably in its corner, bathed in moonlight.
A creaking sound was heard, faint and almost indiscernible, certainly doing nothing to stir the exhausted slumber of many a Trojan. There seemed to be no proof of such an insignificant sound, except for the---
Except for the ropes that dropped from the belly of the wooden horse, shadowy figures sliding down them. One, two…a dozen. Without armor, weapons wrapped in lambskin. Once they came out of the shadow of the horse they had hidden themselves in, it became clear that they were Greeks.
Achilles stood in the center of the city square, his bronze sword held tightly in his hand. He stayed where he was and watched as Odysseus split the small group into two, one headed towards the city’s main gates and the other toward the guard tower.
The Trojan sentries atop the gate were caught unawares, throats slit with nary a sound. The iron chains that were used to open and close the gates were pulled on, the massive bronze-banded wooden gates slowly opening.
In the distance, a lone rider could be seen galloping towards the city.
“The Greeks! The Greeks are still here! They sailed up the Hellespont! The Greeks are still here!”
Odysseus cursed and hurled his spear, the spear driving cleanly through the soldier’s body, knocking the dead man off his horse. The horse panicked, beginning to neigh and paw the ground restlessly.
Another sentry, this one stationed by the East gate was awoken by the commotion. He opened his eyes only to come face-to-face with a Greek soldier, his scream quickly silenced with a sword thrust into his belly.
There was little resistance to the gates being forced open, a torch waved as a signal and all too soon the entire Greek army was running up the beach and across the plains towards the defenseless and unprepared city.
Within moments, Troy was burning, screams of thousands of terrified Trojans ringing through the night air.
The slaughter had begun.
***
“Andromache! Helen!”
Paris’ yell preceded his figure all but crashing through the large wooden doors of Hector’s suite, only to find Briseis sitting on the floor with a crying Astyanax in her arms, Helen trying to calm a screaming Andromache.
He quickly strode towards the small group, pulling Andromache from Helen’s arms roughly enough that the other woman protested his treatment of his sister. He did not heed her though, shaking Andromache in an effort to get her to cease her screaming.
“Andromache!” he yelled. “Andromache!”
Frustrated, he brought his hand back and struck her. The screaming stopped, Andromache now looking at him in stunned amazement. She lifted a hand to her rapidly reddening cheek. “Paris?”
“Andromache, please get a hold of yourself. The Greeks have entered the city. Do you understand that? The Greeks have entered the city. They are going to kill every man they see, from the oldest man to the littlest babe. They are going to rape the women and make them slaves.”
Her eyes filled with tears but he continued on, “They are going to burn Troy to the ground.”
Brisies let loose a low, keening sound, one of horror and grief. Their city was burning. Their beautiful, golden city.
Paris raised his voice. “Stop your wailing!”
Surprised at the vehemence in his words, they did precisely that.
“Now is not the time to cry. Grieve later, be angry later. Now, you need to run.” He cupped Andromache’s cheek tenderly, the reddened hue of it already fading. “Do you understand? You have to run.”
“Leave Troy?” Briseis asked. She sounded even more horrified at the prospect. Troy was their home, their life. And a part of Paris could understand but a bigger part of him knew that Troy was Her people, not Her walls.
“Yes, leave Troy. If you stay here, you will die.” Paris took Andromache’s hands in his own. “And Hector did not die to watch you suffer the same fate, a worse fate. He wants you to live, Andromache. He wants Astyanax to grow into a man, to fall in love and have children. You must go.”
His brown eyes met her brown ones, locked in this silent conversation that only the two of them could understand. Helen and Briseis did not know how long they stood there, with the screams of the rest of the city filtering through the door, through the closed balcony doors.
“Paris,” Andromache whispered, before wrapping her arms around him, breathing in deeply as she struggled to pull herself together.
Paris held her close and they stayed in that pose before they eventually drew away, the tips of his fingers brushing away the stray tears that made it down her face. “It will be all right,” he murmured. “You will see.”
She laughed, the sound missed like parched ground missed rain. “Oh, Paris. Only you would have me believing that.”
The sound of something collapsing in the courtyard brought their minds back to the present though, as did the sound of Astyanax crying once again. Andromache moved to take her son, cradling the child to her chest. “What do we do now?”
Paris’ eyes met Helen’s. “What else is there to do? We escape Troy.” He reached out, one hand taken by Briseis, the other by Helen. “Helen knows the way. I will go with you as far I can---” He stopped, as if suddenly remembering something. Quickly tugging his hands away, he gestured them to continue on. “Go fetch my sisters. They will be in their rooms. Worry not about Greek soldiers. The palace is still being defended by the Apollonian Guard.”
“Paris,” Helen called, as she was ushered out of the room by Briseis, “What of you?” Already worry filled her breast, the resignation she remembered seeing in his eyes giving her cause for alarm.
“I merely have to fetch something,” he soothed her. “I will be with you shortly.”
Paris watched them leave the rooms and hurry down the hallway, reaching the stairs that would lead them to the floor housing the royal Princesses. Only when they were gone from his sight did he make his way to his own rooms, what he had gone back for still in its rightful place.
The sword of Troy.
Hector’s sword.
As long as a Trojan carries it, our people have a future.
How reverently Hector had said those words to him. It was a reverence borne of belief and faith - Hector believed the truth of those words and so did Paris.
The spirit of Troy lay within Her people and as long as Her people still lived, Troy would never be destroyed or enslaved. She would never be forgotten. Power-hungry tyrants would never be able to take away Troy’s greatest treasure. A treasure that could never compare to all the gold within Troy’s treasury or the precious stones that adorned the palace’s most richly-furnished rooms. It was a treasure that could not be measured or weighed - it was felt within the breasts of men, women and children, felt floating upon the sea breeze that twined around sleeping forms.
It was the soul of Her people.
Paris’ fingers curled around the hilt of the golden sword, the light of the moon glinting against its polished surface. Despite the fierce battles this sword had seen, there were no marks upon its blade, no way of chronicling the blood this sword had spilt or the blows it had received.
Paris brought the sword to his mouth, his lips pressing briefly against the flat of the blade, in salute, in a gesture that he had seen Hector once do. If he thought about it, perhaps the place his lips had touched was the same place that Hector’s lips had left a mark on. Some marks could not be seen, after all. Some marks did not need to be seen.
Author: Sel selene_vidae
Pairing: Apollo/Paris, Hector/Paris and a smattering of others.
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: Aye? Nay? What say you?
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, Chapter Fifty-one
Manip courtesy of my lovey, punk_pony
FOR THOSE WHO NEVER GAVE UP HOPING. Thank you. I am humbled.
Beloved is the story of the men and women, mortals and immortals of the Trojan War. It speaks of love, war, betrayal, hope, life, and death. In the previous chapters, we've seen Alexandros, beloved of Apollo, seek his destiny and find it in Hector's arms as Paris, Prince of Troy. We've seen Helen brought to Trojan shores due to the machinations of three spurned goddesses. We've seen war following close behind with Agamemnon and Menelaus leading a thousand Greek ships. We've seen Achilles, Odysseus and a dozen other Greek heroes enter battle in the name of glory and destiny. We've seen hundreds of men die for the causes they held dear, the most familiar names being Ajax, Patroclus and yes, Hector. We've seen the end of the Trojan war draw near.
In the last chapter, we left Paris and Helen standing at the hidden tunnels that led out of Troy into safety, should the Greeks come and storm the city. Only hours before, Hector's funeral pyre had been lit, signalling the last night of the funeral games, and the last night of tentative, reluctant peace between the Trojans and the Greeks.
What does this mean? Read on and find out.
Chapter Fifty-two
The tent flap was pushed aside, Achilles entering to find Eudorus polishing his armor. The other man quickly stood, opening his mouth as if to apologize more but Achilles only shook his head, raising his hand to stem the flow of words. “Eudorus, my friend. Forgive me.”
“My Lord?” Surprise tinged Eudoros’ reply as apologies were not commonly heard from the Greek warrior’s lips.
“You have followed me faithfully all these years, proving to be a loyal friend on many an occasion. I should have never struck you. Patroclus’ death was not your fault. His, most certainly. Mine, even more. But yours? Never.”
“My Lord Achilles, I should have realized that he was not you---”
Achilles shook his head once again, a sad smile lingering on his lips. “No, Eudorus. Patroclus was like me in many ways, especially when it came to his stubbornness. I wish that were not so, but I wish many things.”
Silence fell between them as Achilles sat himself down on his bedding, a battled-roughened hand running over the soft furs as he thought of warm, smooth skin underneath his fingers. As the smaller man followed suit, Achilles murmured, “Eudorus,” the brown gaze turning to him instead of the polished bronze armor, “Rouse the men. You are taking them home.”
Eudorus’ eyes widened, clearly surprised. “And what of you?”
“I have one more battle to fight.”
There was a moment of hesitation before Eudorus said, “He is worth fighting for. We will march behind you.”
“No. All that is left is the slaughter.” A shadow flitted over the strong, handsome features. “I will not stain your hands with the blood of innocents. I will not have you killing children, not when there is no need. This is the last order I give you, Eudorus. Go.”
Eudorus hesitated, but only briefly. “I will do as you have commanded of me.” He stood, but not before grasping his commander’s shoulder. “My Lord, may the gods watch over you now.”
There was a sardonic chuckle that slipped past Achilles’ lips. “Eudorus, you of all men know my view on the gods.”
“But I pray all the same.”
Achilles smiled faintly, nodding once as Eudorus pulled back the tent flap to leave. His second-in-command paused though, turning to bow deeply.
“Fighting for you has been my life’s honor.”
“As it has been mine,” murmured the golden-haired warrior as the heavy cloth fell back in place, leaving him alone within his candle-lit surroundings and his own thoughts.
***
Those scant moments before dawn found a heavy fog settled over the field and sands beyond the gates and walls of Troy. Sentries warmed their hands above braziers, weary to the very marrow of their bones and to the very depths of their souls. They had lost so many brothers in battle and the end lingered in the air like the ashes of the funeral pyres. Their Champion had fallen and all thought the same thing---
How much longer?
How much longer till the Greeks invaded? How much longer would the walls of Troy stand? How much longer were their lives their own?
An aged soldier coughed, the wintry chill of the early morning doing little for his joints and the wracking cough that kept him off the battlefield. However, such hindrances could not keep him from doing his duty to Troy and that was why he stood with other men his age and with boys not even old enough for the marriage bed, keeping watch and standing guard.
These men, while they had been unable to join the fierce fighting that had raged on those very fog-covered sands now so vigilantly guarded and honored their slain and wounded kinsmen by watching for any type of movement from the Greek encampment.
Waiting apprehensively for any sign that Troy would soon be under attack again. The slightest forewarning was all they needed - it could be the difference between lives saved and lives lost.
That was what the soldier did now, his tired but determined gaze sweeping over the vista spread out before him, for all the good it did with the fog sitting as densely as it was. He sighed, in equal parts resignation and frustration when the first traces of dawn made itself known. There were murmurs of praise and worship, many lifting a prayer to the lightening skies as the Sun god raced his chariot across the sky. Prayers made to a patron god by the people who still worshipped him faithfully, prayers said in the hopes that they were not to be forgotten.
When the man turned back to his task, his eyes widened, disbelieving the scene that was spread out before him.
Apollo’s chariot had chased away the thick mist till there was nothing left upon the beach.
Nothing.
“They are gone,” he murmured.
His companion turned from his perusal of the morning sky, the spear held in his bandaged hand falling with a clatter to the ground.
The Greeks were gone.
Every boat, every tent. Fires banked and the remains of the funeral pyres blackened upon the golden sand. There was not a single living soul left on the beach.
All that was left was a strange wooden structure, giving the impression of some blackened creature standing sentinel.
***
The bells tolled, Troy’s citizens spilling out onto the streets, each one filled with dread and foreboding as soon as they heard the echoing peals filling the silent city. Once before those bells had tolled, only to bring with them such disastrous tidings. Why did they ring now? For what reason?
Those were the questions neighbor asked neighbor, mothers holding children close to their chests as wizened grandfathers looked towards the barred entrance of the city with grave faces. Whispers and murmurs soon reached all ears and it was with hopeful disbelief that Trojans received them ---
The Greeks were gone!
The sands that held the Greek encampments were empty, no traces of the men that tried to take away the lives and homes of those behind Troy’s walls. The boats had sailed away in the night for there was no other explanation for the endless blue horizon to be clear of even a single white sail.
Paris and his brothers were in the council room when the news broke. The atmosphere in the normally spacious room was edgy, strained.
There had been little sleep the night before and one by one, they had drifted into this cavernous hall. No torches had been lit, each prince finding his own space in the almost darkness to sit and brood. In the end, they had come to stand or sit before the large map of Troy, each mind thinking and rethinking of any possible way, any other battle tactic that might just save Troy.
News of the Greeks’ retreat culminating in a surprising disappearance was met with silence, not the frenzied celebratory glee one would have expected from a city whose safety had just been guaranteed. They were all wary, as was expected, and too much had happened for them to merely accept such news.
“Do you really think that they are gone?”
“I do not know.”
“But how do we know?”
“We need to see for ourselves.”
***
The horses’ whickering was all that could be heard, even the hoofbeats were silenced by the sand underneath them. The party that made its way to the beach moved slowly, cautiously. Priam and his sons rode in the center of the Apollonian guard that accompanied them, this defensive measure insisted upon by Glaucus, the general wary still of ambush and of the deaths of any more members of the royal family.
However, for all their worry, they were not disturbed once during their journey to the beach. Their only companion was the hulking structure that grew larger and larger as they approached.
Once close enough, they could tell that it was a wooden horse, fashioned together with rope and blackened wood made from the remnants of burnt ships - ships they had set fire to on that first day.
It all seemed so long ago.
Paris dismounted, eyes on the strange statue that towered above them. He was about to ask what it was for when a hand on his shoulder stopped him from moving any closer.
“What is it, Hipponous?”
His older brother merely nodded, gesturing to the sands before them and when Paris turned to look, he gasped. In his preoccupation with studying the wooden horse, he had missed the dozens of bodies that lay seemingly forgotten upon the sands.
The corpses had sores covering every inch of exposed skin, large, black sores that spoke of only one thing.
Deiphobus’ face was twisted into this grim smile, “The plague.”
“It is not like that they did not deserve it,” Polites murmured.
Priam took a step closer, as Paris did, but Archeptolemus held up a hand, warning them from moving too close. “It is best we stay away, your Majesty, your Highness. They were cursed and it is the will of the gods.”
That gained him the attention of their entire party, all other conversation dying down as they waited for the High Priest to speak again.
“They have been punished for their arrogance, for their desecration of the temple of Apollo.” Archeptolemus’ voice gained in volume and fervor. “Their spears and swords and arrows are no match against the fury of the Sun god!”
Paris shook his head. “No, Apollo would not have done this.” While this earned him an odd look or two, he was mostly ignored as the High Priest continued his tirade against the follies of men who thought themselves above the gods.
Glaucus swiftly interrupted the other man, “Plague or not, what matters is that the Greeks are gone.” There was a short bark of rough laughter heard from him. “They thought it would be so easy to defeat us, what with all their ships and all their men, and look at them now, using those ships to run home with their tails tucked between their legs like beaten dogs.”
“And what of this?” Priam asked, gesturing to the wooden horse whose shadow they now stood in.
“An offering to Poseidon, your Majesty. In hopes for a safe journey home,” Archeptolemus answered after a moment of contemplation.
Glaucus snorted. “I hope the Sea God spits out their offering and gives them new homes at the bottom of the ocean.”
The High Priest shook his head. “We must bring this to the Temple of Poseidon. It is a gift and must be offered to him.”
“No!”
Everyone present turned to Paris, surprised at his outburst.
Paris sought his father’s gaze, pleading and determined all at once. “We should burn it, Father.”
“Burn it?” Archeptolemus echoed. “It is an offering for the gods.”
“You do not know that,” Paris said in reply to the priest before turning his gaze towards the King once again. “Father, we must burn it.”
Hipponous spoke up. “Father, I agree with Paris. We should burn it. What if it carries the plague with it?”
“We cannot let it into the city,” Aeneas agreed. He did not like the look of thing.
Deiphobus approached it, drawing his sword and aiming it at the feet of the statue, swiftly chopping a piece with the force of his swing.
“Your Highness!” Velior called out, looking alarmed. “Do not do that! You might anger the gods.”
“I do not care what it is. All that matters is that the Greeks are gone and this is all that remains of them.” The Crown Prince nodded towards Paris. “I agree with Paris. Burn it.”
“We cannot!” Archeptolemus cried out. “I warn you all not to insult the gods. Prince Hector had sharp words for them and the next day Achilles’ sword was lodged in his heart.”
At those words, the Princes’ eyes flashed and an argument broke out then and there, not merely one but all of the Princes demanding Archeptolemus take back his words.
In the midst of all this, Paris laid a hand on his father’s arm. “Father, please. Burn it.”
Silence fell when Priam held up his hand, each one awaiting the decision of their King. After some time, Priam shook his head, resting his hand on where Paris still clutched on to him. “I will not watch another son die.”
***
Troy’s city square was crowded with people, the sounds of laughter and song being lifted up to the cloudless sky. The scene in front of Paris’ eyes was so vastly different from the scene of mourning he had seen twelve days ago and it sickened him.
“Look at them. It is like their Champion never died.”
“Paris…”
He ignored Briseis’ attempts to comfort him. All he could see was people singing and dancing in the streets, filling the great square in front of the palace stairs. Soldiers and citizens alike were making merry and fast becoming drunk. Little children raced to and fro playing games, pretending to be Trojan soldiers that chased away their Greek enemies. Even though night had fallen, every corner of the square blazed with light, a multitude of torches lit, some carried by people while Trojan flags were waved from balconies. And in the midst of this was that wooden monstrosity, standing near the Temple of Poseidon. It had been decorated with wreathes and garlands, with ribbons and shiny cloth. A monster under a façade of beauty. Unbidden, Paris raised his hand to have his fingers trace the curve of his own cheek.
“Paris?”
Shaking his head slightly, Paris turned to his cousin, reaching out to take her hand and pat it softly. “I am sorry, Briseis. I am not very good company this eve.”
“I do not need you to be good company, Paris. I wanted to stay with you as I did not want you to be alone.”
He canted his head, brows drawn together, lips forming a protest that never left his lips.
Briseis smiled softly, pulling him close until he could rest his head on her shoulder, tension leaving him as he realized with some surprise that she was right. He did not feel so alone with her there.
“Thank you, Briseis.”
“Oh, Paris. You do not have to thank me. You saved my life.”
“I would do it again and again if that was what was required to keep you safe,” he murmured.
She drew away then, taking both his hands as she stared into his eyes intently. “Would you? Would you do it again? Knowing all that would come to pass?”
Paris lifted her hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand. “It is as it was supposed to be.”
***
The only illumination came from the night sky, the moon and her stars lighting one of the many rocky paths that led to the cliffs that lined Hellespont. A lone rider rode away from Troy, towards the south. Despite the city’s joyous celebration, there were men like him still dispatched all over the surrounding countryside, scouting for the faintest signs of trouble. He was not expecting any, not with the Greeks halfway across the Aegean by now, but he had his orders and follow them he would.
He urged his horse into a trot, eyes merely sweeping over his dark surroundings before---
The horse was kicked into a gallop, the soldier guiding his mount towards the cliff’s edge. What he saw there had his breath being forced out of him in an exhalation of horror.
The Greek ships!
Every single Greek ship that not been burned waited in the deserted bay below. Nearly a thousand Greek ships waiting for the opportune moment.
The soldier did not waste his time, quickly forcing his mount away from the edge and riding hard and fast back towards the city, hoping he was not too late.
***
The streets of Troy were empty and still, the celebration having ended some time ago. All who participated had long gone home, now tucked safe and warm in their beds. Here and there, the remains of the victory celebration were present - the empty flagons of wine, the banked torches, the streamers lying on the ground, even a flag of Troy fluttering in the night breeze.
For all intents and purposes, Troy had been put to rest, finally given peace after so much bloodshed and heartache.
The wooden horse was a symbol of that, standing peaceably in its corner, bathed in moonlight.
A creaking sound was heard, faint and almost indiscernible, certainly doing nothing to stir the exhausted slumber of many a Trojan. There seemed to be no proof of such an insignificant sound, except for the---
Except for the ropes that dropped from the belly of the wooden horse, shadowy figures sliding down them. One, two…a dozen. Without armor, weapons wrapped in lambskin. Once they came out of the shadow of the horse they had hidden themselves in, it became clear that they were Greeks.
Achilles stood in the center of the city square, his bronze sword held tightly in his hand. He stayed where he was and watched as Odysseus split the small group into two, one headed towards the city’s main gates and the other toward the guard tower.
The Trojan sentries atop the gate were caught unawares, throats slit with nary a sound. The iron chains that were used to open and close the gates were pulled on, the massive bronze-banded wooden gates slowly opening.
In the distance, a lone rider could be seen galloping towards the city.
“The Greeks! The Greeks are still here! They sailed up the Hellespont! The Greeks are still here!”
Odysseus cursed and hurled his spear, the spear driving cleanly through the soldier’s body, knocking the dead man off his horse. The horse panicked, beginning to neigh and paw the ground restlessly.
Another sentry, this one stationed by the East gate was awoken by the commotion. He opened his eyes only to come face-to-face with a Greek soldier, his scream quickly silenced with a sword thrust into his belly.
There was little resistance to the gates being forced open, a torch waved as a signal and all too soon the entire Greek army was running up the beach and across the plains towards the defenseless and unprepared city.
Within moments, Troy was burning, screams of thousands of terrified Trojans ringing through the night air.
The slaughter had begun.
***
“Andromache! Helen!”
Paris’ yell preceded his figure all but crashing through the large wooden doors of Hector’s suite, only to find Briseis sitting on the floor with a crying Astyanax in her arms, Helen trying to calm a screaming Andromache.
He quickly strode towards the small group, pulling Andromache from Helen’s arms roughly enough that the other woman protested his treatment of his sister. He did not heed her though, shaking Andromache in an effort to get her to cease her screaming.
“Andromache!” he yelled. “Andromache!”
Frustrated, he brought his hand back and struck her. The screaming stopped, Andromache now looking at him in stunned amazement. She lifted a hand to her rapidly reddening cheek. “Paris?”
“Andromache, please get a hold of yourself. The Greeks have entered the city. Do you understand that? The Greeks have entered the city. They are going to kill every man they see, from the oldest man to the littlest babe. They are going to rape the women and make them slaves.”
Her eyes filled with tears but he continued on, “They are going to burn Troy to the ground.”
Brisies let loose a low, keening sound, one of horror and grief. Their city was burning. Their beautiful, golden city.
Paris raised his voice. “Stop your wailing!”
Surprised at the vehemence in his words, they did precisely that.
“Now is not the time to cry. Grieve later, be angry later. Now, you need to run.” He cupped Andromache’s cheek tenderly, the reddened hue of it already fading. “Do you understand? You have to run.”
“Leave Troy?” Briseis asked. She sounded even more horrified at the prospect. Troy was their home, their life. And a part of Paris could understand but a bigger part of him knew that Troy was Her people, not Her walls.
“Yes, leave Troy. If you stay here, you will die.” Paris took Andromache’s hands in his own. “And Hector did not die to watch you suffer the same fate, a worse fate. He wants you to live, Andromache. He wants Astyanax to grow into a man, to fall in love and have children. You must go.”
His brown eyes met her brown ones, locked in this silent conversation that only the two of them could understand. Helen and Briseis did not know how long they stood there, with the screams of the rest of the city filtering through the door, through the closed balcony doors.
“Paris,” Andromache whispered, before wrapping her arms around him, breathing in deeply as she struggled to pull herself together.
Paris held her close and they stayed in that pose before they eventually drew away, the tips of his fingers brushing away the stray tears that made it down her face. “It will be all right,” he murmured. “You will see.”
She laughed, the sound missed like parched ground missed rain. “Oh, Paris. Only you would have me believing that.”
The sound of something collapsing in the courtyard brought their minds back to the present though, as did the sound of Astyanax crying once again. Andromache moved to take her son, cradling the child to her chest. “What do we do now?”
Paris’ eyes met Helen’s. “What else is there to do? We escape Troy.” He reached out, one hand taken by Briseis, the other by Helen. “Helen knows the way. I will go with you as far I can---” He stopped, as if suddenly remembering something. Quickly tugging his hands away, he gestured them to continue on. “Go fetch my sisters. They will be in their rooms. Worry not about Greek soldiers. The palace is still being defended by the Apollonian Guard.”
“Paris,” Helen called, as she was ushered out of the room by Briseis, “What of you?” Already worry filled her breast, the resignation she remembered seeing in his eyes giving her cause for alarm.
“I merely have to fetch something,” he soothed her. “I will be with you shortly.”
Paris watched them leave the rooms and hurry down the hallway, reaching the stairs that would lead them to the floor housing the royal Princesses. Only when they were gone from his sight did he make his way to his own rooms, what he had gone back for still in its rightful place.
The sword of Troy.
Hector’s sword.
As long as a Trojan carries it, our people have a future.
How reverently Hector had said those words to him. It was a reverence borne of belief and faith - Hector believed the truth of those words and so did Paris.
The spirit of Troy lay within Her people and as long as Her people still lived, Troy would never be destroyed or enslaved. She would never be forgotten. Power-hungry tyrants would never be able to take away Troy’s greatest treasure. A treasure that could never compare to all the gold within Troy’s treasury or the precious stones that adorned the palace’s most richly-furnished rooms. It was a treasure that could not be measured or weighed - it was felt within the breasts of men, women and children, felt floating upon the sea breeze that twined around sleeping forms.
It was the soul of Her people.
Paris’ fingers curled around the hilt of the golden sword, the light of the moon glinting against its polished surface. Despite the fierce battles this sword had seen, there were no marks upon its blade, no way of chronicling the blood this sword had spilt or the blows it had received.
Paris brought the sword to his mouth, his lips pressing briefly against the flat of the blade, in salute, in a gesture that he had seen Hector once do. If he thought about it, perhaps the place his lips had touched was the same place that Hector’s lips had left a mark on. Some marks could not be seen, after all. Some marks did not need to be seen.