After a month of silence... Lez getz to updatez.
Title: Beloved ~ Chapter Forty-eight
Author: Sel selene_vidae
Pairing: Apollo/Paris, Hector/Paris
Summary: What if all that we believed to have been true - was not?
Rating: PG13.
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: Help a fellow author out and pretty please comment on this fic...
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
Manip courtesy of my lovey, punk_pony
Dedicated to all those who have been waiting.
Chapter Forty-eight
“Tell me, Archeptolemus, did your prophecies speak of this?”
Deiphobus looked up from his wine goblet, slamming it down with enough force that the wine spilled, staining a map of Troy and its neighboring lands.
The advisor shook his head, still dignified even with the venomous glare shot at him from Troy’s now oldest Prince. “No, my Prince. My prophecies said nothing of this.”
“Then maybe you should have a talk with the crows, or the eagles or whatever it is that give you the signs because maybe then, my brother would not be lying dead in the middle of a Greek encampment where a certain Greek hero,” Deiphobus spat out the word viciously, “is no doubt enjoying his victory.”
“It is not Archeptolemus’ fault that Hector is… That Hector is…”
“Dead!” Antiphus yelled, hitting the table with enough force that it shuddred. “He is dead! Hector is dead! Why can you not say it, Hipponous?”
Hipponous’ jaw twitched. “Antiphus, control yourself.”
“No! I do not want to control myself! My oldest brother is dead! And unlike you, I have enough emotion in me to express it! To cry and rage and not stand there like some unfeeling object!” the distraught Prince cried out.
His older brother blanched before stepping forward, brown eyes blazing, the cool exterior replaced with a maddened one that had Troilus backing away as he was too close to the pair.
“Antiphus, you did not just say that.”
“What if I did?” Antiphus challenged.
“Then you will sorely regret it!”
Hipponous moved in closer to his younger brother but a vase shattering on the wall behind them gave them pause. They turned to see a furious Helenus picking up another vase.
“Stop it! Both of you, stop it!” the prophet yelled. “Yes, Hector is dead! But all this fighting will not bring him back! Please, please. Just…stop.”
Polites frowned and placed a hand on his brother’s back, rubbing it to soothe him.
“Nothing will bring him back,” came a tired voice from the shadows. “Nothing.”
Pammon held up a hand. “Father?”
Priam sighed, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “My boys, please. Not tonight.”
“No more fighting,” Aenas whispered.
The once squabbling siblings glanced at one another before Hipponous held out a hand and Antiphus took it, burying his head in his brother’s chest as he was held tight.
Someone cleared their throat and Glaucus stepped forward, a pained look on his face. “Your Majesty, I hate to be the one to speak of this but…”
“Then do not speak of it, Glaucus,” Deiphobus ordered, tone frosty.
“My lord, now that Hector has fallen…”
The general trailed off but they all thought the same thing.
What would become of Troy?
“Who will lead the army?” Velius asked.
“What army?” Glaucus replied. “The men’s morale… Hector’s death affected us all. The soldiers think that Troy is doomed.”
“Because Her Champion is dead.”
“Yes.”
“Then we should jump off the walls now? Is that your suggestion?”
“Deiphobus, stop it!” Polites hissed. “You are not helping.”
“I apologize. Was I supposed to?”
Archeptolemus sighed, standing slowly. “Your Majesty, we all had an exhausting day. Perhaps we should talk more tomorrow?”
“We did not all have an exhausting day,” Deiphobus said snidely. “The only one who did anything exhausting was Hector and look where it got him.”
“Deiphobus! What is the matter with you? You are the eldest now! You must lead us!”
Deiphobus stood, throwing the goblet against a far wall. “What is the matter with me? What is the matter with me? Let me enlighten you, dear brother! Hector is dead and you all expect me to take his place but I cannot! I cannot take a place because no one can! He is…he was Hector! He was supposed to be…”
“Invincible,” Aenas finished for him.
Helenus shook his head. “Not even the gods are invincible.”
“That is blasphemy, Helenus!” Archeptolemus chided, but their father’s religious advisor only sounded tired.
“No. It is the truth. I serve them,” the young royal replied, staring out the window at the rapidly darkening sky.
“Your Majesty?” Glaucus asked again. “What do we do now?”
“What can we do?” Pammon replied, leaning against the large oak table.
“We have to retrieve Hector’s body,” Hipponous said quietly, still holding a quiet Antiphus to him.
“How do you propose we do that? We cannot storm the encampment.”
“They would not be expecting it,” Polited pointed out. “They would be overjoyed and celebrating.”
Troilus looked out, eyes on the flickering lights of the fires from the beach. “It does not look like they are celebrating.”
“A small contingent of fast, able soldiers will be just the trick,” Deiphobus decided, looking at the maps of the beach and the area surrounding it. He pointed to a point on the map, his brothers moving closer to him. “We could travel along that path, only shepherds use it and the Greeks know nothing of it. Bring arrows and bows and swords. No heavy armor.”
“We?” Aenas echoed.
“Yes, we.” The Prince flashed a cold smile. “A chance to avenge our brother, as small as the vengeance is.”
“Do we bring spears?” Antiphus asked.
“Cumbersome. Only swords. We are to go in swiftly without anyone noticing ---”
“My Princes!” Velius interjected.
As one they turned to look at him.
“You cannot go!”
“And why not?”
“I am sorry but Troy cannot afford to lose any more Princes. The people would lose all hope.”
Polites shook his head. “No. You do not see, Velius. We go to retrieve Troy’s hope. When the people learn that we have returned Hector’s…body to its rightful place within Troy so he may be given an honorable burial… That is all the hope they need.”
“You cannot go,” Glaucus. “We will not allow it.”
“Who are you to say what we can or cannot do, Glaucus?” Deiphobus asked, jaw set and anger written on every line of his face. “As you have made it clear to everyone in this room, I am Crown Prince. You cannot tell me what to do.”
“But I can.”
Priam stood, walking out of the shadowed corner where he had seated himself. “I am still King of Troy, Deiphobus, and I will be until my last breath.”
“Father, please…”
“Listen to me, my sons. No one will be leaving Troy to retrieve Hector’s body.”
“Father!”
“You cannot possibly mean that!”
“We cannot leave his body with those animals!”
“No!”
“I will go.”
A sudden silence filled the cavernous room, shadows caused by flickering tapers appearing like large beasts on the roof and walls.
“You cannot be serious.”
“I am very serious, Deiphobus. I will retrieve my son’s body.”
“Father ---”
“And no one will go with me.”
“No!” Troilus protested. “No! Father! That is an act of suicide!”
Priam smiled sadly, reaching out to pat his son’s face tenderly. “No, my boy. That is a father’s last act for his dead son.”
***
The King of Troy made his way through the palace’s empty corridors, walking towards the temple of Apollo found within. His sons, advisors and generals had been dismissed to their chambers. A group of guards awaited him at a smaller outer gate but for now, he walked towards the temple.
Where his wife prayed unceasingly to the god that had always protected their firstborn.
And now, would no longer need to.
Hecuba’s figure was a streak of white against the swirling black and greys of the night. He knelt beside her and neither spoke, eyes on the statue of the Sun god, the moon of his sister shining in place of his own orb.
His prayers had never failed him and he could only ask the silence inside of him why it had failed him now.
Why did his prayers fail to save his son? His Hector? His blood and flesh?
Closing his eyes, he could see a pregnant Hecuba singing to her large belly as she rubbed it with a radiant smile on her face. He could see Hector as a babe, curled up within a womb of blankets; see Hector as a rambunctious toddler that laughed and cried at a moment’s notice. Hector as an older child assuming the maturing of being the eldest so effortlessly it surprised many.
But Hector was always surprising.
Priam could see the love Hector had for an infant Paris, the heartbreak upon discovering his little brother was gone forever. He could see the affection Hector had for a young, lovely daughter of Eetion, the passionate love for a woman who was his equal in every way. He could see the awe Hector had for his son, the light in his eyes as he held the small child as gently as one would hold a flower.
And always, always, Priam would see the image of Achilles dragging his child’s body behind a chariot in the dust.
“Where did we go wrong?”
Opening his eyes, he saw Hecuba still staring up at the statue of Apollo, eyes rimmed red and swollen from weeping. He reached out to take her hand. “My love…”
“Where did we go wrong? Why did you take him from us? Why, Apollo? Why? We have served you faithfully all our years. We have worshipped you and respected you! Why? Why take our son?” she cried out, prostrating herself before the marbled object representing all their hopes and tragedies.
He embraced her, pulling her slack form towards him, trying to soothe her but there were no words to make easier or better the grief a mother has when her son dies.
Or the grief a father has when his son dies.
“We did not go wrong. Perhaps, it was merely his time.”
“Why, up to now, do you still trust in them? They have taken Hector from us!”
“And they could still save Troy!”
“Troy! Troy! Is that all you care for? Troy! Our son has died! For Troy!”
“He died for us,” Priam said, blue eyes looking into her brown ones. “He died for us. Not merely for Troy.”
She began to sob again, clutching to him desperately as he rocked her.
“Troy loved him. And he loved Troy.”
Hecuba said nothing, continuing to weep.
It was only afterwards, when he stood to leave for the city gates that he heard her voice again, hoarse from crying, still filled with an infinite amount of sadness - but there was a strength there, the same strength that drew him in all those years ago when she had smiled at him and not once looked away as their gazes met.
“Bring my son home.”
***
A cloaked figure made its way through the tall weeds ringing the grassy plain at the edge of the beach. The moon’s light guided the stranger’s step, shafts of silvery light filtering through the clouds that graced the night sky.
The figure stumbled once or twice but kept walking, in the distance was the encampment where thousands of Greeks lay sleeping.
Plain turned to beach and the tread of steps could hardly be heard, sound muffled by the shifting sand.
The temple of Apollo stood silently, an abandoned sentinel having done its duty and falling afterwards. There was a darker pattern against the stone’s lighter shade, dried blood creating a waterfall that ended at the bottom of the steps, sands swallowing all that was once there.
There was nothing but darkness seen from the temple’s yawning mouth, a beast waiting to devour its victims.
Apollo was a God of light but in this night’s darkness, his temple was a place of shadows, and death.
Stopping at the first step, the figure, still hidden by the folds of its cloak, stared up at the temple. A moment later it began its journey upwards, disappearing into the darkness of the temple’s interiors.
The bodies of the slain priests and acolytes were gone, given burials in a manner that was befitting them was all one could for. Blood still stained the floors and walls, the offerings of days before withered or rotting.
This was not worthy for the gods.
But were the gods ever worthy of them?
No sand muffled the steps of the stranger and it echoed eerily, seeming to grow and fade all at once. One step and another and another and another till the figure stepped out of the shadows into a patch of moonlight that bathed the majestic statue of Apollo.
This statue was undamaged, unlike its headless counterpart before the temple’s entrance. It stood, unseeing and uncaring of all that died and all that would die. It was made of stone and marble and an artist’s vision made real.
But it was not real.
That did not matter to the stranger, no longer a stranger when the hood was pulled down, the cloak thrown aside.
“Why?” was the anguished whisper, lost to the indifference of the walls that surrounded him.
Moonlight only made the upturned face more beautiful, no tear tracks lining the youthful face but a grief that spoke of different ravages.
“Why?” he repeated.
There were no answers to his second question but still it was asked again.
“Why?”
Paris grabbed a burned down taper and threw it at the statue, ashes making an ugly streak on the marbled façade.
“WHY?” he screamed, voice ringing out, no longer caring if all the Greeks on the beach heard him.
“Why? Why? Why? Why? Answer me, Apollo! Answer me! Why did you take him? Why did you kill him? Was it because of me? Because I loved him and you could not share, would not see me happy? Why?”
A pot full of dried flowers was thrown against the statue, dirt and broken pottery pieces flying every which way. “I will not have your silence! You will answer me!”
A basket of rotting fruits was next. The sickly splat that came from the first apple thrown only encouraged him, Paris throwing another one, a pear, olives, another apple till the basket was empty and he threw that, too.
There was such anger in him, rage coupled with the untempered sorrow and violent disbelief that his brother, his lover was dead and no one could give him answers.
“Why? Answer me! Why? Apollo!” Paris screamed, throwing something else, no longer knowing or caring what it was.
He screamed and raged and threw things as the maddened urgings inside him grew and grew till there was no energy left inside him and nothing more to throw.
Collapsing onto to the warm sand, he grabbed fistfuls of sand and that he threw, too, with fading strength but unchecked, roiling emotions.
“Why?” he whispered, throat aching from screaming.
“Paris.”
He froze, every line, every part of him stilling and unable to move. There was no forgetting that voice, those mellifluous tones that once sung him lullabies until he was lost to the lands of Hypnos.
“Paris.”
“Bastard!” he screamed, standing and intending to throw something, anything at the approaching god who knew only smugness and derision and betrayal but there was nothing left to throw!
Paris settled for throwing himself, fury replacing the tiniest bit of hope that he had come ---
“I hate you!”
Their bodies met with a muffled thud and there was a flare of surprise as they actually toppled over and fell to the sand filling the worshipping pit. The surprise faded and he began to hit the immobile form underneath him, again and again and again, the god doing nothing to stop him although there was no doubt he would have been easily subdued.
“I hate you!” Paris screamed, again and again with each blow he gave until there was truly no strength left in arms despite the desire to keep on hurting the one person that hurt him more than anyone would think possible.
“I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.”
Even his profession of hatred faded to a near whisper and he slumped on top of the form he had hit so violently moments ago, barely flinching when arms circled his waist and held him close.
“Paris,” was the whisper in his ear and he began to cry, to finally cry since he had seen Achilles strike down his beloved Hector and end all hope of a future for Troy.
End all hope of a future for them both.
“I hate you.”
“I know,” Apollo replied quietly.
Author: Sel selene_vidae
Pairing: Apollo/Paris, Hector/Paris
Summary: What if all that we believed to have been true - was not?
Rating: PG13.
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: Help a fellow author out and pretty please comment on this fic...
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
Manip courtesy of my lovey, punk_pony
Dedicated to all those who have been waiting.
Chapter Forty-eight
“Tell me, Archeptolemus, did your prophecies speak of this?”
Deiphobus looked up from his wine goblet, slamming it down with enough force that the wine spilled, staining a map of Troy and its neighboring lands.
The advisor shook his head, still dignified even with the venomous glare shot at him from Troy’s now oldest Prince. “No, my Prince. My prophecies said nothing of this.”
“Then maybe you should have a talk with the crows, or the eagles or whatever it is that give you the signs because maybe then, my brother would not be lying dead in the middle of a Greek encampment where a certain Greek hero,” Deiphobus spat out the word viciously, “is no doubt enjoying his victory.”
“It is not Archeptolemus’ fault that Hector is… That Hector is…”
“Dead!” Antiphus yelled, hitting the table with enough force that it shuddred. “He is dead! Hector is dead! Why can you not say it, Hipponous?”
Hipponous’ jaw twitched. “Antiphus, control yourself.”
“No! I do not want to control myself! My oldest brother is dead! And unlike you, I have enough emotion in me to express it! To cry and rage and not stand there like some unfeeling object!” the distraught Prince cried out.
His older brother blanched before stepping forward, brown eyes blazing, the cool exterior replaced with a maddened one that had Troilus backing away as he was too close to the pair.
“Antiphus, you did not just say that.”
“What if I did?” Antiphus challenged.
“Then you will sorely regret it!”
Hipponous moved in closer to his younger brother but a vase shattering on the wall behind them gave them pause. They turned to see a furious Helenus picking up another vase.
“Stop it! Both of you, stop it!” the prophet yelled. “Yes, Hector is dead! But all this fighting will not bring him back! Please, please. Just…stop.”
Polites frowned and placed a hand on his brother’s back, rubbing it to soothe him.
“Nothing will bring him back,” came a tired voice from the shadows. “Nothing.”
Pammon held up a hand. “Father?”
Priam sighed, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “My boys, please. Not tonight.”
“No more fighting,” Aenas whispered.
The once squabbling siblings glanced at one another before Hipponous held out a hand and Antiphus took it, burying his head in his brother’s chest as he was held tight.
Someone cleared their throat and Glaucus stepped forward, a pained look on his face. “Your Majesty, I hate to be the one to speak of this but…”
“Then do not speak of it, Glaucus,” Deiphobus ordered, tone frosty.
“My lord, now that Hector has fallen…”
The general trailed off but they all thought the same thing.
What would become of Troy?
“Who will lead the army?” Velius asked.
“What army?” Glaucus replied. “The men’s morale… Hector’s death affected us all. The soldiers think that Troy is doomed.”
“Because Her Champion is dead.”
“Yes.”
“Then we should jump off the walls now? Is that your suggestion?”
“Deiphobus, stop it!” Polites hissed. “You are not helping.”
“I apologize. Was I supposed to?”
Archeptolemus sighed, standing slowly. “Your Majesty, we all had an exhausting day. Perhaps we should talk more tomorrow?”
“We did not all have an exhausting day,” Deiphobus said snidely. “The only one who did anything exhausting was Hector and look where it got him.”
“Deiphobus! What is the matter with you? You are the eldest now! You must lead us!”
Deiphobus stood, throwing the goblet against a far wall. “What is the matter with me? What is the matter with me? Let me enlighten you, dear brother! Hector is dead and you all expect me to take his place but I cannot! I cannot take a place because no one can! He is…he was Hector! He was supposed to be…”
“Invincible,” Aenas finished for him.
Helenus shook his head. “Not even the gods are invincible.”
“That is blasphemy, Helenus!” Archeptolemus chided, but their father’s religious advisor only sounded tired.
“No. It is the truth. I serve them,” the young royal replied, staring out the window at the rapidly darkening sky.
“Your Majesty?” Glaucus asked again. “What do we do now?”
“What can we do?” Pammon replied, leaning against the large oak table.
“We have to retrieve Hector’s body,” Hipponous said quietly, still holding a quiet Antiphus to him.
“How do you propose we do that? We cannot storm the encampment.”
“They would not be expecting it,” Polited pointed out. “They would be overjoyed and celebrating.”
Troilus looked out, eyes on the flickering lights of the fires from the beach. “It does not look like they are celebrating.”
“A small contingent of fast, able soldiers will be just the trick,” Deiphobus decided, looking at the maps of the beach and the area surrounding it. He pointed to a point on the map, his brothers moving closer to him. “We could travel along that path, only shepherds use it and the Greeks know nothing of it. Bring arrows and bows and swords. No heavy armor.”
“We?” Aenas echoed.
“Yes, we.” The Prince flashed a cold smile. “A chance to avenge our brother, as small as the vengeance is.”
“Do we bring spears?” Antiphus asked.
“Cumbersome. Only swords. We are to go in swiftly without anyone noticing ---”
“My Princes!” Velius interjected.
As one they turned to look at him.
“You cannot go!”
“And why not?”
“I am sorry but Troy cannot afford to lose any more Princes. The people would lose all hope.”
Polites shook his head. “No. You do not see, Velius. We go to retrieve Troy’s hope. When the people learn that we have returned Hector’s…body to its rightful place within Troy so he may be given an honorable burial… That is all the hope they need.”
“You cannot go,” Glaucus. “We will not allow it.”
“Who are you to say what we can or cannot do, Glaucus?” Deiphobus asked, jaw set and anger written on every line of his face. “As you have made it clear to everyone in this room, I am Crown Prince. You cannot tell me what to do.”
“But I can.”
Priam stood, walking out of the shadowed corner where he had seated himself. “I am still King of Troy, Deiphobus, and I will be until my last breath.”
“Father, please…”
“Listen to me, my sons. No one will be leaving Troy to retrieve Hector’s body.”
“Father!”
“You cannot possibly mean that!”
“We cannot leave his body with those animals!”
“No!”
“I will go.”
A sudden silence filled the cavernous room, shadows caused by flickering tapers appearing like large beasts on the roof and walls.
“You cannot be serious.”
“I am very serious, Deiphobus. I will retrieve my son’s body.”
“Father ---”
“And no one will go with me.”
“No!” Troilus protested. “No! Father! That is an act of suicide!”
Priam smiled sadly, reaching out to pat his son’s face tenderly. “No, my boy. That is a father’s last act for his dead son.”
***
The King of Troy made his way through the palace’s empty corridors, walking towards the temple of Apollo found within. His sons, advisors and generals had been dismissed to their chambers. A group of guards awaited him at a smaller outer gate but for now, he walked towards the temple.
Where his wife prayed unceasingly to the god that had always protected their firstborn.
And now, would no longer need to.
Hecuba’s figure was a streak of white against the swirling black and greys of the night. He knelt beside her and neither spoke, eyes on the statue of the Sun god, the moon of his sister shining in place of his own orb.
His prayers had never failed him and he could only ask the silence inside of him why it had failed him now.
Why did his prayers fail to save his son? His Hector? His blood and flesh?
Closing his eyes, he could see a pregnant Hecuba singing to her large belly as she rubbed it with a radiant smile on her face. He could see Hector as a babe, curled up within a womb of blankets; see Hector as a rambunctious toddler that laughed and cried at a moment’s notice. Hector as an older child assuming the maturing of being the eldest so effortlessly it surprised many.
But Hector was always surprising.
Priam could see the love Hector had for an infant Paris, the heartbreak upon discovering his little brother was gone forever. He could see the affection Hector had for a young, lovely daughter of Eetion, the passionate love for a woman who was his equal in every way. He could see the awe Hector had for his son, the light in his eyes as he held the small child as gently as one would hold a flower.
And always, always, Priam would see the image of Achilles dragging his child’s body behind a chariot in the dust.
“Where did we go wrong?”
Opening his eyes, he saw Hecuba still staring up at the statue of Apollo, eyes rimmed red and swollen from weeping. He reached out to take her hand. “My love…”
“Where did we go wrong? Why did you take him from us? Why, Apollo? Why? We have served you faithfully all our years. We have worshipped you and respected you! Why? Why take our son?” she cried out, prostrating herself before the marbled object representing all their hopes and tragedies.
He embraced her, pulling her slack form towards him, trying to soothe her but there were no words to make easier or better the grief a mother has when her son dies.
Or the grief a father has when his son dies.
“We did not go wrong. Perhaps, it was merely his time.”
“Why, up to now, do you still trust in them? They have taken Hector from us!”
“And they could still save Troy!”
“Troy! Troy! Is that all you care for? Troy! Our son has died! For Troy!”
“He died for us,” Priam said, blue eyes looking into her brown ones. “He died for us. Not merely for Troy.”
She began to sob again, clutching to him desperately as he rocked her.
“Troy loved him. And he loved Troy.”
Hecuba said nothing, continuing to weep.
It was only afterwards, when he stood to leave for the city gates that he heard her voice again, hoarse from crying, still filled with an infinite amount of sadness - but there was a strength there, the same strength that drew him in all those years ago when she had smiled at him and not once looked away as their gazes met.
“Bring my son home.”
***
A cloaked figure made its way through the tall weeds ringing the grassy plain at the edge of the beach. The moon’s light guided the stranger’s step, shafts of silvery light filtering through the clouds that graced the night sky.
The figure stumbled once or twice but kept walking, in the distance was the encampment where thousands of Greeks lay sleeping.
Plain turned to beach and the tread of steps could hardly be heard, sound muffled by the shifting sand.
The temple of Apollo stood silently, an abandoned sentinel having done its duty and falling afterwards. There was a darker pattern against the stone’s lighter shade, dried blood creating a waterfall that ended at the bottom of the steps, sands swallowing all that was once there.
There was nothing but darkness seen from the temple’s yawning mouth, a beast waiting to devour its victims.
Apollo was a God of light but in this night’s darkness, his temple was a place of shadows, and death.
Stopping at the first step, the figure, still hidden by the folds of its cloak, stared up at the temple. A moment later it began its journey upwards, disappearing into the darkness of the temple’s interiors.
The bodies of the slain priests and acolytes were gone, given burials in a manner that was befitting them was all one could for. Blood still stained the floors and walls, the offerings of days before withered or rotting.
This was not worthy for the gods.
But were the gods ever worthy of them?
No sand muffled the steps of the stranger and it echoed eerily, seeming to grow and fade all at once. One step and another and another and another till the figure stepped out of the shadows into a patch of moonlight that bathed the majestic statue of Apollo.
This statue was undamaged, unlike its headless counterpart before the temple’s entrance. It stood, unseeing and uncaring of all that died and all that would die. It was made of stone and marble and an artist’s vision made real.
But it was not real.
That did not matter to the stranger, no longer a stranger when the hood was pulled down, the cloak thrown aside.
“Why?” was the anguished whisper, lost to the indifference of the walls that surrounded him.
Moonlight only made the upturned face more beautiful, no tear tracks lining the youthful face but a grief that spoke of different ravages.
“Why?” he repeated.
There were no answers to his second question but still it was asked again.
“Why?”
Paris grabbed a burned down taper and threw it at the statue, ashes making an ugly streak on the marbled façade.
“WHY?” he screamed, voice ringing out, no longer caring if all the Greeks on the beach heard him.
“Why? Why? Why? Why? Answer me, Apollo! Answer me! Why did you take him? Why did you kill him? Was it because of me? Because I loved him and you could not share, would not see me happy? Why?”
A pot full of dried flowers was thrown against the statue, dirt and broken pottery pieces flying every which way. “I will not have your silence! You will answer me!”
A basket of rotting fruits was next. The sickly splat that came from the first apple thrown only encouraged him, Paris throwing another one, a pear, olives, another apple till the basket was empty and he threw that, too.
There was such anger in him, rage coupled with the untempered sorrow and violent disbelief that his brother, his lover was dead and no one could give him answers.
“Why? Answer me! Why? Apollo!” Paris screamed, throwing something else, no longer knowing or caring what it was.
He screamed and raged and threw things as the maddened urgings inside him grew and grew till there was no energy left inside him and nothing more to throw.
Collapsing onto to the warm sand, he grabbed fistfuls of sand and that he threw, too, with fading strength but unchecked, roiling emotions.
“Why?” he whispered, throat aching from screaming.
“Paris.”
He froze, every line, every part of him stilling and unable to move. There was no forgetting that voice, those mellifluous tones that once sung him lullabies until he was lost to the lands of Hypnos.
“Paris.”
“Bastard!” he screamed, standing and intending to throw something, anything at the approaching god who knew only smugness and derision and betrayal but there was nothing left to throw!
Paris settled for throwing himself, fury replacing the tiniest bit of hope that he had come ---
“I hate you!”
Their bodies met with a muffled thud and there was a flare of surprise as they actually toppled over and fell to the sand filling the worshipping pit. The surprise faded and he began to hit the immobile form underneath him, again and again and again, the god doing nothing to stop him although there was no doubt he would have been easily subdued.
“I hate you!” Paris screamed, again and again with each blow he gave until there was truly no strength left in arms despite the desire to keep on hurting the one person that hurt him more than anyone would think possible.
“I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.”
Even his profession of hatred faded to a near whisper and he slumped on top of the form he had hit so violently moments ago, barely flinching when arms circled his waist and held him close.
“Paris,” was the whisper in his ear and he began to cry, to finally cry since he had seen Achilles strike down his beloved Hector and end all hope of a future for Troy.
End all hope of a future for them both.
“I hate you.”
“I know,” Apollo replied quietly.