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Twist of the Fates	By : Sagittarius Category: S through Z > Troy Views: 32712 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Troy, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 4
- 5
- 6
Title: Twist of the Fates

Author: Sagittarius325

Email: Sagittarius325@hotmail.com

Chapter: 5

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: Achilles/Paris, Achilles/Patroclus implied

Warnings: This fic depicts graphic m/m interaction, consensual and non-consensual activities of varying and sordid kinds. If any of these subjects offend you, if you are underage or the laws of your country prohibit you from reading such material, then look away.

Summary: When Achilles and his Myrmidons win the Trojan beach, what if it had been Paris, not Briseis, captured in the temple that day.

Disclaimer: No infringement is intended, no money is to be made.
******
Fragile was the gift of Thetis as it clinked delicately on its twisting twine, cupped between Patroclus� reverent hands. Redolent of the salt laden winds that stroked the shores of Greece, it evoked images of deep and unfathomable waters far beyond the knowledge of mortal men, as cold and mysterious as the gods themselves.
Patroclus caressed one lustrous shell, marvelling at Thetis� craft, each taken from the glistening waters not to fade in the sun but shimmer brighter still as they lay cradled in the hollow of her beloved son�s throat. For Achilles to have gifted him with the necklace as a balm for his wounded heart was enough to bring tears to Patroclus� eyes. The warrior prince loved him, of that he did not doubt. But now it was a love bereft of passion, fit only for cousins, for Paris had stolen the one treasure Patroclus had ever craved.
Achilles� heart.
Contemplating the pearlescent sheen of the tinkling shells, Patroclus knew it would take but an angry clench of his fist to destroy the exquisite gift, crushing the necklace to ruined shards as thoroughly as Achilles� had shattered his heart and hope. Salt water pricked once more at his eyes at the very thought of the mindless destruction and he wiped them away, glad to be alone in the dark tent lest any were present to witness his childish weeping.
If only he could destroy Paris as easily, he wished fervently, knowing it was a futile and bitter hope. Achilles would kill whoever harmed his royal captive, so enraptured as he was by the devious prince. A part of him was angered too by Achilles� foolishness. Could he not see how the Trojan had bewitched him with his pretty looks, his willing ass, his eager and perverse whoring? Paris could not possibly love Achilles as Patroclus loved him, but was instead manipulating the warrior to his own selfish, potentially ruinous ends.
But Achilles was blinded by desire, by pure lust for his pretty bed warmer and nothing Patroclus could say to him would open his eyes to the truth. The ship had already been prepared and they would sail the following morn for Larissa, where Achilles would make a place for Paris as his new lover and Patroclus would be cast aside.
Had Achilles but given him a chance to prove his worth in battle, Patroclus was certain he could have regained his place in the warrior�s heart, and swayed Achilles from the cunning, no doubt deadly wiles of the Trojan whore. On the plain before the city�s walls, Patroclus would have demonstrated his mettle, slaying the foes of Greece to litter their corpses before the feet of his cousin, a feat the weakling Paris could never achieve for the warring son of Peleus.
Ready to weep once more in frustration, Patroclus pressed Thetis� gift to his mouth and breathed in deeply, and although it was perhaps his imagining that conjured the scent of the warrior prince, it was a comfort nonetheless.

If only you had given me the chance, cousin, he thought, bitterly. If I could but fight on the morrow, even if for a single day, you would see the depths of my love for you and cast away your Trojan whore.

But Achilles had forbidden his men to join the battle and no Myrmidon would dare go against such orders for they were as loyal as they were fierce. And unless their Lord changed their mind, doubtful with the treacherous prince of Troy whispering into his ear, Patroclus� opportunity to reclaim his rightful place at Achilles� side would be forever lost.
The beaded curtain was drawn aside and Patroclus caught a glimpse of evening sunset before his sight fell upon a startled Eudorus.
"Forgive me Lord�" Achilles� captain began, surprised.
Patroclus mutely shook his head and sat back with a sigh as Eurdorus came to realise his mistake. The second in command chuckled, wild eyes bright in the darkness and took a seat by the dead fire.
"You look exactly like him," he said, reaching for a flask, "away from the light of the sun. And when I saw that trinket�"
He inclined his head to the shells held loosely in Patroclus� clasp and the younger man quickly tied the twine behind his neck, possessively concealing the gift within his tunic. Eudorus regarded him curiously but said nothing, instead taking a long draft of wine.
"This war is over for us boy," he said at length, words coloured with disappointment. "We return home on the morn."
"While our countrymen remain to be slaughtered at the hands of the Trojans," Patroclus could not help but add, caustically.
"We cannot go against Achilles� orders," Eudorus replied, with a careless shrug.
"He is bewitched by that Trojan whore of his," Patroclus spat, unable to conceal his impotent fury. "If Paris had not come here, we would still be in this war."
"And you would still be at Achilles� side," Eudorus finished, quietly. He held up his hand when Patroclus would have spoken, "No boy, I know what he means to you, I have seen it in your eyes these past few years as you have grown. It is not an easy thing to be discarded by one such as Achilles. But there are others," he paused, took a careful breath, before turning a strange and intent look upon the younger man. "Others who would not cast you aside for another, who would long for you to look upon them as you do him."
"I see only Achilles," Patroclus replied, and he heard Eudorus sigh.
"Mayhap it will not always be so," the older man said, quietly, something wistful in his tone, before he took another draft of the wine. "But for now, the Myrmidons will not enter this battle without Achilles to lead us and so we must return home."
The older man would soon be into his cups, Patroclus knew, as would many of the Myrmidons. No victory celebration would it be, but a morbid farewell to their fellow warriors whose ashes tainted the winds of Troy, whose blood still stained the shifting sands.
It was not right or fair. They had sailed for immortality, only to abandon their countrymen to bloody death. If only Achilles would agree to lead the men for but one day then the Myrmidons could crush the mighty defences of Troy to give the Greeks a chance for victory. Patroclus himself would lead them if Achilles preferred to remain a fool, for he had studied under the Great Lion, knew his moves, his strategies, his courage. But Achilles would not be swayed, not with the viper he nursed within their midst.

You look exactly like him, away from the light of the sun.
Eudorus� words returned to taunt him. With helm and breastplate, Patroclus would indeed resemble Achilles, alike as they were in form and grace.
Heart beginning to pound in a growing, heady excitement, Patroclus contemplated the incredible possibility that Eudorus had so unwittingly planted within his mind. If he could lead the Myrmidons into battle on the morrow, then not only would he secure victory for Greece, but would show Achilles the true meaning of his devotion and love! His cousin would not be able to refute his prowess or his courage and was sure to quickly abandon his fleeting fascination with Paris when he saw the man his cousin had become.
"Eudorus," Patroclus said, barely able to keep the elation from his voice, "would you fetch Achilles� armour for me?"
Eudorus frowned in confusion. "There is no battle to be fought, lad. His armour needs no tending."
"Yet I would see that it is safely stowed," Patroclus replied, pouring just the sweetest amount of honey into his words. "It would be a great prize for many of our Greek countrymen and I would not see it missed when we sail."
Eudorus sighed and nodded, pushing to his feet and reluctantly setting his wine aside. "As you wish."
As the captain left, Patroclus gave little thought to why the older man was so quick to accede to his wishes, instead touched the hidden necklace below his tunic.
"I will make you proud of me, cousin," he whispered, determinedly. "And I shall win you back."
*****
As promised, not once did Achilles leave Paris� side throughout the day but remained close, sometimes holding the slender youth as he slumbered, or sitting within reach should Paris awaken, watching over him with a tender smile. The Trojan prince slept long and deeply and it was not to be wondered at, for his trial at Agamemnon�s hands, then the Greeks, not to mention their lustful coupling, had at last taken its toll.
At times Paris would rouse and Achilles was quick to soothe him with his presence, stroking a hand through the sable ringlets or kissing the soft, bruised lips. When Paris voiced his confusion over Achilles� continued presence, asking why the warrior was not leading his men into battle, Achilles hushed him, fed him and gave him water, before urging the prince to return to his much needed rest.
And although the son of Peleus burned to impart his news, that he would not fight Hector and his Trojans, that for the first time in his warring life he would forsake his mistress War and return to his home, he would wait until Paris was lucid enough to understand. The prince could not return to his city, not until the Greeks were wholly driven back and from the shores of the Troy. Which meant he would sail with Achilles and his Myrmidons on the morrow, even if it meant Achilles must throw him over one shoulder and imprison him below decks on the journey over the seas.
And perhaps once they were settle in Larissa, Paris would come to love Achilles� homeland, the sweeping shores abundant with creatures of the sea, the verdant fields in which Achilles� villa rested. It was not a Trojan palace, but it was lined with comforts befitting a prince nonetheless and Paris would find he wanted for very little.
Wearied by his thoughts, his constant vigil, Achilles doused the small fire when the sun had finally set far beyond the shores of Troy. Laying aside his clothes, he slipped, nude, beneath the thin sheet to gently cradle Paris� warm, lax body in his arms.
The prince came alive almost at once, dark eyes alighting upon the warrior, a pleased smile curving his sweet lips. He entwined his limbs within Achilles�, pressing a kiss to the warrior�s lips in welcome.
Achilles stroked back the dark ringlets from the prince�s face, marvelling once more at the boy�s fragile beauty. If Aphrodite had carved for herself the perfect bedmate, he would have taken the form of Paris of Troy.
"Why do you stare so?" Paris asked, huskily and Achilles grinned.
"You are fair to see prince," he replied, delighting in the rosy hue that bloomed on Paris� high cheekbones. He touched the prince�s cheek, wonderingly. "I sometimes wonder if the gods themselves have gifted you to me."
"So you once said, when you compared me to my brother Troilus."
Achilles paused, then sighed. "Whatever tales are told of that meeting, they are false. There is so much I wish for you to know, beloved, so much to tell you�"
Paris reached up and pressed a finger to his lips, hushing him. "And I will hear it all," he promised. "But one thing I must know, what has become of the war? Of my people, my city?"
"Troy still stands, stronger than ever," Achilles replied, taking Paris� hand, turning it upwards to kiss his palm. "The Greek army has no hope of breaching your walls. Your people are safe."
"But you did not fight."
"I did not, nor shall I. In the morn, we sail for Larissa, my home. We shall not return here again."
To his surprise, Paris pulled away at that, frowning, before looking aside. "This is what you were reluctant to tell me," he perceived, quietly. "That you were leaving."
At once Achilles discerned the reason for his subdued response and his heart fairly sung with joy. "My hands are the Gates to the Underworld," he told the prince, gravely, recapturing Paris� hand to place it over his beating breast. "All my life I've walked with Death. I grow tired of his company." He smiled. "Come with me to Larissa."
*****
Paris started at Achilles� words, eyes wide and shocked. "How can I?" he whispered, as if to voice this very illicit desire aloud would carry it to his father, to his brother in the city. "All the destruction here I have wrought...How can I abandon my people, Helen, to their Fates when I have been the cause?"
"Was it not love that compelled you to capture the Spartan Queen?" Achilles demanded, lifting Paris� chin. "Menelaus need not have gone to his brother. Agamemnon�s greed should not have brought us here to this place. Your King could have returned Helen to her husband. No, you are not solely at fault for this and at least your deeds, however misguided, were governed by love."
"But it will be cowardice to leave now!"
"Menelaus is dead. The Myrmidons will not fight and your brother still stands for Troy. The war is over whether Agamemnon wills it or not. There is nothing here for you now."
There was a truth in his words Paris could not deny, indeed did not wish to deny. The thought of leaving all that he had known behind was frightening, but if he meant he would be with Achilles�
"And if I wish to return to Troy?" Paris asked, allowing a playful tone to creep into his words. Already, he was yearning for the morn, for the wind in the sails and Poseidon�s blessing for a swift voyage away from the bloodshed.
Achilles smiled, a flash of white teeth that gave him a predatory air. He pulled Paris closer, ran a possessive hand down the prince�s bare flank to cradle one buttock. "I will not allow it."
"So I am still your prisoner then?" Paris teased, a little breathless at the warrior�s intimate touch.
"A guest," Achilles returned, fondling the firm flesh beneath his hands.
"In Troy a guest can leave whenever he wishes." Paris felt his hips surge forward as Achilles� hot hardness met his own.
"Strange custom," the warrior replied, shortly, then rolled atop Paris, silencing whatever comeback the prince was about to let fly with a passionate and hungry kiss.
Wet tongues met and battled for dominance as Paris, no longer willing to play the passive partner, equalled Achilles� ardour, grasping the warrior�s shoulders even as his hips thrust wantonly upwards. Both men moaned at the pleasuring contact and Achilles ground downwards, sucking wetly upon Paris� tongue, before moving on to voraciously suckle at his throat.
Dazed by lust, Paris cried out when a hot mouth descended upon one nipple, a callused hand stroking the other to hardness. The contrast between the soft suckling and rough caresses was stimulating him beyond all self-control. Should Achilles desire anything from him, he knew he would grant it just to see a fulfilment of the delicious torment.
He grasped Achilles� hair when the older man laved his navel just shy of Paris� erect phallus, urging him downwards and the warrior complied at last, kissing the head of his weeping cock, strongly sucking away the glistening fluid that had oozed forth. Paris gasped, caught between an in drawn breath and the need to cry out his pleasure, and arched towards the teasing mouth.
Achilles used this distraction to pull away from his convulsing grip, blowing a cool breath onto Paris� straining length, before grasping the prince�s hips and flipping him over onto his front.
Paris shuddered as his aching flesh touched the furs and reached for his cock, only to be stopped by a firm hand from Achilles in the small of his back. He writhed against the pallet, grinding his hips downward in an effort to relieve the building pressure and heard a swift intake of breath from the older man.
"By the gods," Achilles husked, placing his hands beneath Paris� hips and lifting him away from the pallet. "You would tempt a temple priest boy."
Paris ground his teeth in frustration, head hanging limply between his shoulders as sweat began to bead from every pore. Achilles kneed his thighs further apart, settling between to fondle and squeeze his bared buttocks, before pulling them apart. Paris sighed when he felt the blunt nudge of the warrior�s thick flesh demanding entrance and he acceded with a throaty moan as Achilles mounted him in one swift move, sinking himself deeply into Paris� ass.
Paris threw back his head and howled at the sudden penetration. The ointment Achilles had applied eased the way enough for the warrior�s phallus to slide arrogantly in to the hilt, stretching Paris almost beyond his endurance to bear. He heard Achilles groan lustily behind him, felt the warrior�s fingers digging into his thighs hard enough to bruise in order to hold him still.
Whimpering, caught between the desire for more, for less, he did not know, Paris felt the other�s grip loosen at the last and realised Achilles had mastered his lust enough so that one bull thrust would not send both men over the edge. He should have expected no less from the disciplined warrior, for like his warring, Achilles would know nothing less than complete control, even in his bed chambers.
Strong hands left his thighs, instead stroked his flanks, his buttocks, the last eliciting an appreciative sigh from Achilles, before the warrior leaned over him to bestow a gentle kiss upon his nape. Caught between this solicitous loving and the hard length that still impaled him, Paris moaned and shifted his hips. Achilles chuckled against the back of his neck, skilful hands reaching under to tweak Paris� nipples until the prince reared back once again.
"So beautiful," the warrior murmured into his ear, "so responsive." His hand ghosted over one buttock, "So tight�"
"Please," Paris begged, stirred by the words, beyond shame, beyond thought. "Take me Achilles."
The warrior wrapped an arm about his chest and slowly, pulled him backwards until he was straddling the older man�s thighs and the cock inside him had impaled him so deeply he could do naught but pant his desire between gasping breaths. Achilles nuzzled the side of his throat, hands constantly moving about his body, touching his nipples, his belly, his spread thighs and still the warrior would not move nor touch Paris� straining length.
Indeed, all it would take would be a single stroke to find his completion and Paris reached for himself, only to be thwarted by a strong grip on his wrists and a single, commanded "No," from Achilles. He could have wept then, but Achilles took both his thin wrists into a single iron grip, holding them against Paris� chest, and used his other arm to wrap about the prince�s waist.
He began to move then, little more than a flexing of his hips, the barest withdrawal, requiring the smallest of nudges to embed himself once more. And on each pass his length brushed across that incredible, wondrous place that Paris had found within himself, forcing a sigh of pleasure to escape the prince�s lips on each minute thrust and his cock to twitch at each feathery stroke.
And Achilles whispered into his ear, sweet nothings of how good his body felt, how tight and hot, and always how beautiful he was, until Paris was constantly sighing out his need in a litany of begging pleases, certain he was about to spill himself whether the warrior touched him or no.
Yet not even the mighty Achilles could sustain the moment and Paris felt the warrior�s thrusts grow more determined, more deeper and harder until he was sure he would split from each rapid, ragged movement, in the most delicious way imaginable.
At last Achilles released his wrists, but before Paris could touch himself, the warrior had grabbed his length, tugging urgently. Paris fell away, caught himself on hands he was vaguely amazed had supported him and cried out in release as he came, the warrior still pounding into him, squeezing his length to milk it of every drop. Muscles clenched, he felt the moment Achilles achieved his own culmination, spearing into him so hard it sundered Paris� very breath from him. He felt the wash of hot liquid, the convulsion of the Great Lion as Achilles roared out, hard hands gripping his hips, pulling him backwards onto the spilling cock�
Hands no longer able to support his weight, Paris collapsed face down, shuddering, heart slow to cease its racing rhythm. Achilles rested awhile behind him, before withdrawing his softening flesh, a sigh of reluctance escaping his lips. He bathed them both with a cloth soaked in seawater, stroking Paris� sweat slicked back when the prince hissed as the salt stung his sore entrance, then laid down beside his lover, pulling Paris to his chest.
"That was�" Voice rendered husky and low by his cries, Paris hesitated. He felt Achilles wrap a possessive arm about his waist, nuzzling at his hair. Then, abruptly, "Yes."
"Yes?" he heard the warrior echo, puzzled.
The satiated, honey tones streaked down to taunt Paris� limp cock and he took Achilles� hand, kissed its palm before replying. "I will go with you to Larissa."
*****
They slept then, limbs entwined beneath the dark sheets, rendered blissful by the closeness of the other and what future bright dawn would bring them. Achilles woke only when the night began to wane, disturbed not by any sound or movement, but by a prickling along his senses, his warrior�s instinct roused to alertness.
Paris slumbered on in childlike oblivion, respiring softly, eyes flickering beneath closed lids as he wandered in dreams of Morpheus� gifting and it was a wish not to awaken him that gave Achilles pause. Slowly, carefully, he unwrapped his possessive arm from the prince�s waist, hesitating when Paris moaned and shifted at the absence of the comforting warmth.
Yet his care of his lover was for naught, as shouts of alarm suddenly rent the still night air, shredding it as the entire Greek encampment came alive at once. Man and beast screamed alike as balls of flame shattered the darkness, turning night to near day as the fiery projectiles fell upon the camp with a hunger to consume all before them.
Paris awoke at the wailing sounds of pain and despair and panic, bolting upright into Achilles� steadying arms who caught and held him fast.
"What is happening?" the prince gasped, turning to the warrior, eyes wide and frightened.
Achilles frowned, glancing towards the beaded curtain where blazing fires could now be seen, shadows of men alight and dying in the raw agony of burning. "Troy attacks," he replied, simply.
"No, Hector would not," Paris protested, shivering, and Achilles rubbed his arms. "It is not his way. He would wait for the Greeks to depart�"
"Hector is Troy�s champion, the general of its armies. But even he can be overruled by your King." And a foolish plan their father had concocted, destroying his enemies only means of flight by burning their ships, leaving ten thousand desperate, armed men on the beachhead with no option to retreat. Hopefully Agamemnon would be slain foremost, ridding Greece of his ruinous ambitions, but knowing the King as Achilles did, he would seek to save his own hide, lying low until all was dust.
"But what shall we do?" Paris asked, face pale, his frame trembling beneath Achilles� handling. "If they come here to find me in your keeping�Hector will kill you!"
Achilles lifted Paris� chin with one finger, caught his eyes. "He will not. The Myrmidons stand guard upon us. Should Troy come this way, we will sail."
"We should go now," Paris breathed. He took Achilles� hand. "Please, let us sail now. I know you think me craven and pathetic for this, but I could not bear to lose you now."
"Hush prince, hush," Achilles soothed, running his fingers through Paris� hair, cupping his cheeks. "You are no coward, yet we cannot sail with any surety until the tides turns. But we are safe here, that I promise you. The Greeks are fierce, they will not fall easily. And neither will I."
When Paris made to speak again, Achilles kissed him, long and deeply, silencing his words and his fears as he pressed the prince down onto the pallet. Mistress War was calling to him as the screams rose higher, flames burning brighter still, heating his blood, making it thunder through his veins. Yet he could not leave to fight, not with his promise to Paris binding him more strongly that iron, and not with the threat hanging over his lover despite the Myrmidons who stood guard.
"But�" Paris began, before Achilles feasted upon his lips once more, hands moving rapaciously over his nude body, the skin beneath rippling to gooseflesh at the warrior�s touch.
And Achilles felt a thrill of possessiveness as the prince responded, nibbled upon one shell like ear to hear his moans, Paris� words of warning slowly turning to gibberish as he melted beneath the warrior�s forceful lust.
Now the shouts and calls to battle seemed to fade as tremulous dawn appeared on the far horizon. The mighty surge of power that had run through Achilles upon hearing the breakout of war, calling him to fight, to kill, to slaughter, was now directed upon his pretty bedwarmer and he fell upon Paris with the urge to subdue, to conquer and dominate�to thrust wide open.
He roughly kneed Paris� legs to part, pushed them back near to touching the sheets so the prince�s buttocks were opened before him, revealing the tiny ring of tender flesh, a challenge to be overcome, to be plundered. One thrust of his male hardness saw him disappear into the hot, encircling depths, still slick with his seed, still so tight despite coupling thrice now. And Paris screamed unrestrainedly beneath him, arching and clawing at the furs as his own length of flesh leapt unbidden at the swift and brutal conquering.
A thunderous pounding from without had taken root within Achilles� mind, a thousand Trojan spears clashing against shield in murderous rhythm and it was how he now claimed Paris, gripping the boy�s hips hard and bruisingly, thrusting in time with the sound and just as fiercely.
A sudden, vice-like clench closed upon his phallus, a splash of hot seed against his chest, the body beneath shuddering and Achilles was dimly aware his lover had found his peak. Yet this was not enough to secure Achilles� own release and when greedy, grasping muscles had released his length, he began to pound into the lax body once more. Through the delirium that had claimed him, Achilles could hear Paris� soft whimpers at the thrusting, heard as they turned to pretty pleas and desperate begging, yet he heeded nothing but his own, irrevocably mounting pleasure.
Outside and within, Achilles could sense the clash of sword against shield, spear against breastplate, taste the splash of heated blood, feel the furnace of his own life fluids pulsating through his veins. A second clenching and a hoarse howl of release told him Paris had spilled his seed a second time and this time it was enough. Thrusting as deep as he could, Achilles near wept at the bliss of his eventual release, so strong had it came to him. The shiver of pleasure began at the base of his neck, thrilling down his spine to pool in the pit of his belly, and all the way to the tip of his cock, held in the convulsing, encircling grip of Paris� ass.
He surged forward at each spurt of pleasure, twice, thrice, before finally coming to collapse on the flushed, sweaty body beneath, exhausted in both mind and spirit, blackness from the powerful climax flickering at his vision, but infinitely sated. He was vaguely aware of Paris, the boy rendered unconscious from the thorough, fierce coupling, and moved so as to not crush the delicate ribs, slipping free of the wet and clinging warmth of Paris� entrance.
Outside, Achilles could hear the battle still raging, the ragged cheers of bravado and bloodlust, and he listened intently, waiting for his cold mistress to beckon him onwards once again. Yet her siren call was diminished almost beyond recognition, impotent against his desire to remain with Paris. He kissed the boy�s lips before rolling onto his back to stare at the sparse ceiling. And slowly a triumphant smile curved his mouth.
*****
"We were going to sail home today."
Eudorus gently stroked the boy�s pale spun hair, as if the lifeless body could still feel, could sense his heartbreaking touch. Emotion caught in the jaded warrior�s throat and he blinked back wetness from his eyes, looking away from the ruined corpse, the gaping cut that had killed Patroclus long before the boy had even realised he was soon to be dead.
Around them, the Trojans were leaving quietly, Hector�s will enough to overcome their reluctance to withdraw from a battle they were certain to win, but Eudorus paid them no heed. Drained of his courage in the face of Patroclus� death, he could summon no hatred, no desire for vengeance, could only sense a gaping hole over his heart, twin to the death stroke the boy wore.
Too, the Greeks were leaving, although relief and weariness coloured their movements. They would be stronger on the morrow, and the day after, would not be taken at unawares again. Ithaca�s King, Achilles� war brother Odysseus crouched by Eudorus, his gaze mournful yet not without a glint of cunning as he looked upon the bloodied corpse.
"I don�t think anyone is sailing home now," he replied to Eudorus� words.
Eudorus nodded. Achilles would soon know of his cousin�s death and then Achilles would demand vengeance. The war against Troy was not over, the Myrmidons would be required to fight.
Hector would die.
That thought brought no joy to Eudorus, for Patroclus would still lie dead. The beautiful, fierce youth he had come to care for more than he would have believed.
Eudorus� hands clenched into fists as he regarded the dead boy once more. No peaceful lines smoothed Patroclus� pained face, yet he still looked so young�too young. Achilles had been wrong to bring his cousin to such a place of bloodshed, but he was not alone in blame. If Eudorus had only recognised the boy dressed in Achilles� armour, if only he had not been distracted, elated that his Lord had finally decided to lead them into battle...
And too, he felt guilt for the brief instant of relief when Hector revealed the dying Patroclus. Achilles still lived and Eudorus had been thankful, then crushed moments later when he realised it was Patroclus who was about to meet his Fate beneath Troy�s scorching sun.
There was nothing he could have done to stop Hector�s hand from delivering the final, fatal blow, the sword puncturing the metal of Achilles� breastplate to spear the heart. The boy had been beyond saving and in great pain, indeed it was a mercy stroke, quick and thorough, something Eudorus would not have had the courage to bestow.
Odysseus departed soon after, rallying his men, while the subdued Myrmidons stood around Patroclus� body and Eudorus kneeling frame, heads bowed in mourning for their youngest, most innocent comrade. Stirring only once the dust had settled about them and the sun was passing high through the cerulean sky, Eudorus rose and instructed the Myrmidons to bring the boy�s body back to their camp, watching as they did with utmost care and gentleness and reverence.
Which left Eudorus the most painful task of all. To inform their Lord of the loss of his cousin, his precious and most beloved Patroclus.
*****
"It seems a pity that I must at last clothe you, prince. Had you naught to cover that pampered royal hide of yours, the long return to my homeland would no doubt be made all the sweeter."
Achilles smirked as Paris sent him a wicked look, before the prince pointedly returned to dressing, the pale blue of the robes a fair colour indeed for his skin.
"Of course, I would be forced to kill each and every one of my loyal Myrmidons for daring to touch you," Achilles continued, with a sigh. "For they would become hopelessly bewitched by your naked beauty and seek the pleasures I have found in your considerable favours." Lounging on the furs, clad in a dark, rich robe, Achilles feasted on the sight of Paris as much as he feasted on the sweet fruits he plucked from the bowl at his side. He grinned as the dark-haired youth bent to snatch his sandals not quick enough to hide a pretty blush.
"The fighting has ended," Paris said, softly and Achilles gave the beaded curtain a careless glance, shrugging.
"A lull in the battle is not uncommon," he replied, easily, popping another berry into his mouth, chewing slowly, his eyes travelled up the length of one shapely calf as Paris laced his sandals. "The Greeks have not yet been defeated."
Perhaps Agamemnon had been slain, though he doubted the gods would be so benevolent. Achilles wondered instead if he had time before they sailed for a final tasting of the succulent flesh now hidden most cruelly from him. Though he would not abstain from taking his lover on the long journey over sea to Larissa, his cabin was cramped and the tent in which they currently resided was veritably spacious. Enough for more�luxurious pursuits.
"If you do not find the strength to restrain yourself," Paris said, suddenly, catching his lecherous eye, "I will be ridden raw by the time we reach your homeland."
Achilles grinned again as Paris gave a long-suffering sigh. "I did not hear your complaints this morn," he pointed out.
And Paris snorted. "If you had but allowed me one moment of sanity from your ravishment�"
"You would have begged me for more," Achilles finished and laughed aloud, ducking as the indignant prince threw a damp cloth at his head.
"Perhaps you should use that to cool your ardour, arrogant barbarian," Paris said, archly, nodding regally to the cloth, though his eyes were twinkling.
"I have other, more thorough ways of dousing my lusts, princeling," Achilles retorted and grabbed Paris around his slim waist, dragging him down despite his protests and struggles, covering his mouth until both were gasping in renewed passion.
A noise drew Achilles� attention away from his desire to claim the prince once and he raised his hear, feeling Paris grow still beneath him.
"My Lord Achilles," he heard Eudorus� call again, and Achilles growled in frustration, lowering his forehead to touch Paris� in mutual disappointment.
"I will be but a moment," he promised his lover with a swift kiss, rising and striding for the curtain.
Paris� muttered retort to return with more ointment made him snort in amusement and Achilles stepped out into dazzling sunshine with a lazy smile with which to greet his captain.
What he saw made his smile falter and fade, his swift temper to rise and drown his pleasant mood. A dusty Eudorus stood before him, bloody sword in hand, signs of battle upon his armour. None of the bedraggled Myrmidons, who waited a safe distance beyond, fared any better and their subdued demeanour gave Achilles no satisfaction.
"You violated my command," he told Eudorus, for none other could have led the men into such mutiny and war. Disappointment and fury coloured his words, not only for the disobedience but for Eudorus� betrayal. The man had served him long and loyally, did he not realise his treachery would rob Achilles of his captain, the man of his very life?
"No my Lord," Eudorus replied, quickly and there was a desperate look in his wild eyes. "There was a mistake."
"I ordered the Myrmidons to stand down," Achilles rebuked, paying him no heed. There could be no excuses, no reprieve. "You led them into combat."
Sensing his Lord�s displeasure, perhaps realising his folly at the last, Eudorus fell to his knees before Achilles, dropping his sword in silent submission. Behind him, Achilles heard Paris emerge from the tent, no doubt drawn by the confrontation, and he silently willed the boy back. What happened here today would be�unpleasant.
"I didn�t lead them my lord," Eudorus said, suddenly, voice near breaking and it was that which made Achilles listen at last, to hear the damning words, "We thought you did."
Eudorus did not lie. He was a good captain, loyal, brave, skilled and honest, and it was his inability to speak falsehoods no matter the cost to himself that had secured his place at Achilles� side. Yet what madness did he speak, for if Eudorus had not led them, if they had indeed believed it was Achilles himself they followed, then who�
No trick of the gods was this, Achilles knew, only a man could have convinced the Myrmidons that he was the mighty Achilles, emerging to do battle in the name of Greece. Someone who could fool them with his looks beneath Achilles� armour, his movements like his namesake, and an icy chill shot down Achilles� spine as he recalled Eudorus coming to him the night before�

Your armour, my Lord, the captain said. Patroclus wishes to see it safely aboard the ship lest it is stolen by Greeks.

"Where is Patroclus?" Achilles did not recognise the tightly clipped words that escaped him as his eyes darted about the camp, seeking a flash of pale hair, an unmarred, youthful face amongst the grim, battle hardened men.
Eudorus, on his knees, did not answer, but his look was frightened, nay terrified.
"Patroclus!" Achilles barked, in anger. Where was the boy? Perhaps on the ship or dicing with the Greeks. Did he not realise how foolish it was to play such games, especially with Odysseus the trickster.
"We thought he was you, my Lord."
Something in those tremulous words cleaved Achilles� heart in two at last. It could not be, it could not!
"He wore your armour," the captain continued, quietly, in the same despairing manner, "your shield, your greaves, your helmet. He even moved like you."
How dare Eudorus speak thusly of his beloved cousin, as if�
"Where is he?" Achilles all but screamed at the man in fury, spittle flecking his lips and before he received his reply he had viciously punched his captain to the ground.
A moment passed, before Eudorus could roll over, his mouth bloodied, his face covered in sand, but his eyes�red rimmed, tears of despair�
"Where?" Achilles spat, forcing the word out from his empty, airless chest.
"He�s dead my lord," Eudorus said. "Hector cut his throat."
Achilles gasped in pain, agony lancing deep into his stomach, near bending him double. Liar! he wanted to scream, but could not draw the air. Patroclus, innocent, young, beloved�his throat cut. And suddenly he wanted to kill Eudorus, to somehow make the words unspoken, to see Patroclus come running through the sands, a smile upon his lips.
He placed his boot on Eudorus� throat, needing to throttle the vicious, spiteful words from the captain�s throat�
"Stop! Achilles, don�t!"
A form rushed at him, hands pulling futilely at his robes to stop him and he lashed out, backhanding the pale face and it fell away from him. In the sand, looking up with wide, dark eyes, holding his cheek, Paris gaped in disbelief, in hurt and terrible, terrible betrayal.

You betray us for that Trojan whore.

Patroclus, cold, dead, throat cut�Achilles wanted to do murder. Without thought he released Eudorus, picked up the man�s sword.

Once you loved me as you now do him.

Patroclus, cold, cast away, dead�because Achilles had betrayed him for another, the very enemy who had brought his cousin to these shores to be slain like cattle. Slain by his very brother! Hand shaking where it gripped the hilt, he forced himself to turn away from the fallen Trojan prince, from the man lying in the sand awaiting death. If he stayed, he would kill them, just as Hector had killed.
If any spoke as he passed, Achilles didn�t hear. They scattered before him as he headed down to the shore, to the sea, to a memory and place where Patroclus still walked.
*****

He struck me. The echoed thought had become a mantra upon which Paris nursed his anger, his betrayal, his breaking heart. His cheekbone still throbbed where Achilles had backhanded him and at the time he had told himself the warrior had not recognised him, had thought him an enemy. And then Achilles had looked down upon him, had truly seen him and there was a blackness in his eyes that spoke of hatred, of murder.
Paris� breath caught on a hitch as he stared up at the towering funeral pyre, one fit for a King. The slain cousin, Patroclus, had been bathed, the terrible wound about his throat bound with linen, his body clothed in the finest raiment.
At his sides stood the Myrmidons, sombre guards whose eyes were fixed upon their Lord above. To their left were those Greeks come to observe the rites, among them, surprisingly, Agamemnon and his court. The King of Kings looked positively gleeful and Paris felt a surge of bile as he looked away from the man.
Eudorus, Achilles second in command, had mounted the ladder now, lit torch in hand. He had shown Paris the most kindness after Achilles� had gone down to the seashore. Though wounded and weary, he had guided the stunned prince into Achilles� tent, had sat him down and advised Paris not to leave the tent, before leaving himself.
It was he who had returned that night to bring Paris to witness the funeral rites of the dead boy.
"Achilles� orders," he had said, almost apologetically. "To witness what your brother Hector has wrought."
Paris had gone quietly, still in shock at how quickly events had transpired, had spun from a happiness he had never know, to a wretched despair that had crushed his spirit.

We should have sailed, he thought, bitterly, as he watched Achilles cover his cousin�s eyes with coins for the boatman. Would that someone do the same for him and soonest. Achilles took something from his cousin�s throat, but Paris could not see what, only that it glinted in the firelight and was held with a gentleness the son of Peleus had once shown him.
"That boy just saved this war for us."
Paris started at the smug voice, turned to see Agamemnon verily gloating amongst his advisors, and realised the truth in the hateful words. Achilles would avenge his cousin. He would fight Hector and return to the war. They would never sail for Larissa nor know a moment�s happiness again.
Agamemnon caught his eye then, and leered and Paris shuddered, looking away. Perhaps Achilles would send him back to the King for his brother�s crime. He would sooner be dead and parted from Achilles, he knew it would swifter.
Above, Achilles kissed his cousin�s cold brow and reached for the torch Eudorus bore, tossing it under the platform and pausing to watch the licking flames grow bolder. When he finally descended the ladder, he gave Paris an unreadable look, devoid of passion, of love and Paris felt tears spring to his eyes, his hand reaching out to the warrior of its own accord.
Achilles ignored it, flashed a look upon Eudorus. "Take him to my tent," he commanded. "Guard him. Do not let him leave."
"Achilles," Paris whispered, but the warrior did not even glance his way.
"Take him," was all Achilles said, harshly, before disappearing into the night.
Paris felt Eudorus� hand upon his arm, but it was gentle, almost...kind, and he allowed the captain to lead him away from the fire that had consumed all his dreams and more.
*****
The lonely, tortuous night waned, giving way to cold, cruel dawn, a foreshadow of the death that would be dealt this day before the walls of Troy. Achilles felt the first fingers of light creep over his grieving form as he crouched in the wind swept dunes, gazing emptily out over the foreign sea. He had been a fool to ever hope the gods would release him from their insidious machinations or that his mistress war would permit him to spurn her so easily. Instead, she had sunk her talons more deeply into his soul, cleaving his heart, tearing apart his very being in her jealous conquest to rip away all that he held dear.
Achilles� mother, Thetis, had once warned him that his Fate was not as immutable as he had supposed, that his own choices would lead down the winding, differing paths his life could take. But she had been wrong this once for the gods of the world had laid down his destiny, perhaps aeons before his birth, to sail to Troy, to kill Hector, to destroy the city and win an immortal name that would resound throughout the millennia to come.
To defy such a Fate had been to rail against the very oceans of the world, ordering them to hold back their waters. And his futile attempt had cost him dearly.
Patroclus was dead, his ashes even now drifting across the arid shores of Troy, sweeping through the city of the man who had slain him, the man who Achilles would this day kill.

You could leave, the voice inside of him insisted, cajoled. Take Paris and sail for Larissa, never to look back. For if you slay Hector, Paris will never again look upon you with a love you never knew existed before he came to you.

And Patroclus� spirit will find no rest if I flee like a coward, Achilles answered it, angrily.

Rage, as cold and bright as the morning sun, settled over his heart, familiar and comforting, simmering darkly in the part of his soul where Patroclus� youthful adoration had once resided. He would challenge Hector and kill the Trojan champion for the callous murder of his cousin, bringing peace to Patroclus� shade in the Underworld for the Death that had come all too swiftly to the youth.
Yet not soon enough for the Tamer of Horses.
Pale sunlight caressed his face and Achilles sighed and rose on stiff limbs, made his way through the silent camp to his tent, to where his loyal captain sat drowsing.
"Eudorus," he called, and the man scrambled quickly to his feet, perhaps fearing his commander�s wrath for having slumbered while guarding the Trojan prince.
"My Lord," Eudorus returned, hastily, stepping aside.
"I need my armour."
At those simple words, Eudorus� eyes grew wide, but Achilles gave him no time for questions. "Take the Trojan. Guard him and do not let him near me or allow him to flee to Troy."
And before Eudorus could even acknowledge the command, Achilles had pulled the beaded curtain aside and ducked into the tent.
His eyes adjusted quickly to the gloom and they instantly fell upon the fur-lined pallet. His treacherous mind conjured images of himself and Paris, limbs entwined, skin slick with sweat and seed, a rhythmic grinding and moans of mounting passion as they writhed and clawed their way to a mutual peak�
Patroclus had died in such a moment and Achilles felt his fists clench in anger. Yet the pallet was empty and he darted a look about the tent, quenching the sudden panic at the thought of losing the Trojan prince. For what did it matter, after today and the deed he would commit, he would lose Paris forever.

I would not have him warn his brother, Achilles told himself, sneeringly, ridding himself of tenderness, of love. In war, there was no place for such things and once again he was nothing more than an instrument of death.
His cold gaze fell upon the prince, the boy sitting with his back to the main pole, arms wrapped around his drawn up knees. It evoked the memory of their first meeting, of the raging desire and lust Achilles had felt as he looked upon his helpless captive, truly believing Paris had been a golden gift from the gods themselves.
Yet the mark upon his face was not caused by thoughtless Myrmidons, but by their captain himself, struck in anguish, in terrible, raging grief. Despite that, there was no fear in the boy�s eyes, only weariness and acceptance as he looked upon the warrior.
"Have you come to kill me?" Paris asked, quietly, in the small voice of a child and Achilles squeezed shut his eyes at the sound.

I cannot do this, he realised, finding it hard to maintain his equanimity in the face of such stark sorrow. Despite the chill in his heart, he could not bear to have Paris� innocent gaze upon him as he dressed for a battle in which he would slay the boy�s beloved brother and protector.
He could not let the boy know his intentions, feared it would rob him of his purpose to see cruel understanding dawn in Paris� expressive, child-like eyes.
"I have not," he replied, harshly, unable to meet Paris� look for fear his resolve would falter. Then, pointing to the curtain, "Leave here. Go with Eudorus."
"Why will you not look at me?" Spoken oh so softly, yet Achilles could hear the pain behind the words and it tested the icy barrier he had erected around his heart, as high and wide as the walls of Troy itself.
Suddenly, Achilles� anger surged. "Perhaps because you will not like the ugliness you see in me," he hissed, and reached down to roughly haul the prince to his feet, thrusting him ungently towards the curtain, ignoring the way Paris stumbled at his ill handling. "Go with Eudorus boy, lest I do you harm in my madness and grief."
He felt Paris� stare burning into his face, but he kept his own gaze averted. And silently, Paris did as he was bidden and left.
The rage returned then, coiling like a serpent in Achilles� belly, steeling his heart, steadying his hands as he regarded his armour. Before he began to dress.
*****
The Myrmidon, Eudorus, said little as he sat at Paris� side, yet Paris could sense a worrisome tension in the man that spoke more of Achilles� state than mere words ever could. Something�momentous was about to occur, Paris was certain of it, and he somehow knew the warrior prince would be at its heart. Fear pricked at him, despite Achilles� callous treatment, for Paris had seen, tasted, touched the lover in the wild and fair son of Peleus and would sooner die himself than allow the warrior to fall.
Biting his lower lip, Paris spared the Myrmidon a glance from beneath lowered lashes, noting the way the man kept looking back towards the ships, distractedly to the tent Paris had shared with Achilles.
"What does Achilles scheme?" the prince demanded, softly and Eudorus whipped a look his way, too late to disguise his shock at Paris� question. His expression was damning and before he could form a lie, Paris spoke again, "Will my city fall this day? I would have the truth, for my family reside there and I would�I would offer prayers to Apollo for their safety."
Eudorus grimaced at that, rubbing his bristled cheek, glancing back once more towards the ships. "I do not know what my lord will say to that," he murmured, clearly discomforted.
Suspicions rose anew and Paris felt a shiver of fear. "And for Achilles� safe return also," he continued, warily.
"You should not�" Eudorus began, then shook his head, urgently rising. "I must go to him."
Surprised, Paris watched as he strode away, pausing by two fellow Myrmidons and gesturing towards Paris. Eudorus was ordering them to sit guard as Achilles had instructed him and the men nodded, rising from their places to approach Paris as Eudorus disappeared down through the dunes.
Paris shifted uncomfortably at their approach. Since his apparent loss of favour with their lord, few had managed to keep their dislike of him hidden. These two were no different, sneering, openly disdainful. They blamed him for the Myrmidons� withdrawal from the war, he knew, hated him for the hold they believed he had once held over Achilles. Only now they were able to take vengeance in the form of cruel words.
They sat uninvited before him, one eyeing him with contempt as the other ran his gaze over Paris� body. Paris lifted his chin, glared defiantly.
"Do you think our lord will gift him to us ere this day is out?" the second man asked, lazily. "Now that he�s had his use of him."
Paris flushed angrily. He was no whore, to be used, passed to others, discarded, not even by the mighty Achilles. Yet he would not give his antagonists the satisfaction of knowing they had riled him so and he sat stiffly, palms upon his knees, silent as he stared over their heads towards the Trojan sea.
"Perhaps," the first replied, coldly. "Achilles challenges his brother this morn and once the Tamer of Horses is dead, this one will have no use as a royal hostage. Though I�ve heard Agamemnon still�"
Whatever came next Paris did not hear for the loud rushing in his ears. Sitting frozen, staring at the sea, his heart began to beat wildly. Achilles challenges his brother�Paris gasped in horror. And Eudorus had tried to warn him, had tried to tell him not to offer prayers for Achilles� safe return for it would mean Hector�s death.
"He cannot do this." Paris did not realise he had spoken aloud, his voice that of a stranger�s, until he realised the two Myrmidons had fallen silent and were staring at him. Yet he did not care. If Achilles were to fight Hector, then Paris would lose no matter which of them lived. If he could stop the battle afore it even began�
He leapt to his feet with a lithe agility and darted forward between the two warriors before they had even risen. Their grasping hands were quickly brushed off, though they tore at his robes in an effort to thwart his flight. Paris paid them no heed, his mind on reaching the beach, reaching Achilles.
Shod only in light sandals, he easily outran his guards, racing across the sands down to the shore in time to see Eudorus stepping down from a chariot. A chariot in which Achilles rode, dressed in full Myrmidon armour, helm accentuating rather than concealing his fair features as he raised the reins�
"No!" Paris screamed, running forward, evading those who would have halted him. "Don�t go!"
A moment later, he was at the warrior�s side, staring up into a face that might have been chiselled from marble for all the life it held. He grasped the reins in a futile effort to draw Achilles� gaze.
"He is my brother," he argued, desperately. "He is a good man. Please don't fight him. Please. Please."
Achilles still did not look at him and Paris felt tears spring to his eyes.
"Have me instead," he pressed, suddenly and was elated when this elicited a flicker in the icy eyes of his once lover. Given hope, Paris collapsed to his knees in the sand, uncaring of who witnessed his disgrace, imploring the warrior to listen the only way left to him now. "I will be your slave, my lord, be anything, do anything you wish. I am yours. If you do not want me, then kill me in his stead, I beg of you, for it was I who has brought this ruin upon you."
Silence descended then, in which only the faint crash of the waves could be heard. To Paris, the pounding of his heart was like thunder from the heavens and he sensed even the men about them were uncertain, uneasy of what their lord might do.
With a flick of his wrist, Achilles whipped the horses and the chariot drew away, a cloud of rising dust to choke Paris� cry of denial, the low moan of despair that followed. He bent forward over his knees, unashamedly weeping his sorrow into the sands of his homeland. Achilles would fight Hector. One would die.
He felt a hand on his shoulder, raised his head to see Eudorus watching him with a not unkindly expression.
"War makes beasts of all men," he told the prince, and his gaze turned to Achilles� departing figure. "You did what you could, boy, but this moment was foretold." He patted Paris� shoulder comfortingly. "It is in the hands of the gods now."
*****
As docile as a pack animal, Paris allowed Eudorus to once again lead him to Achilles� tent. The man guided him to the pallet, pressed a goblet of wine between his numb fingers and urged him to drink, like a father caring for a very young and helpless child.

Hector has been a father this past year, Paris realised, as he dutifully sipped at the bitter liquid. How unjust of the gods would it be for Scamandrius to grow without the loving guidance Hector had given Paris as a child.
He recalled a moment long ago, brought to mind by Hector on their journey home from Sparta, when he was barely ten years old and Hector already a man, a general of Troy�s armies. The youngest prince had stolen their father�s horse, a high strung beast, leading it from the stables in the dead of night, only to lose the creature at the first wicked toss of its head. Brought to Priam�s chambers, Paris had hidden behind Hector�s tree tall legs as his brother spoke gravely to their father. Priam had been less angry than Paris had feared, leaving punishment in the hands of his older brother while he summoned men to retrieve the beast.
Once outside the bed chambers, Hector had crouched down and gripped Paris� arms, shaking him.

You will never do such a foolish thing again, he had whispered, fiercely and the boy Paris had begun to cry at his brother�s obvious displeasure and anger.
Hector had wrapped him in strong arms, pulling the boy to his chest. I fear to lose you little brother, he had whispered into Paris� ear. Promise me you will never do anything so dangerous again.

And Paris had promised most fervently. From that day onwards, he had done his utmost never to disappoint his brother and though he knew he exasperated Hector with his adulterous and libidinous ways, he believed he had kept that promise.
Until Helen.
Now Troy�s champion would pay for Paris� crime in stealing Menelaus� wife and not only he would suffer, but Andromache too and their baby son. Unless Hector killed Achilles first, in which Paris would be left to the untender mercies of the enraged Myrmidons, though it was a Fate he was not undeserving of. Yet while he prayed for Hector�s safe deliverance for the sake of his wife and son, Paris could not bring himself to plead in turn for Achilles� death.
So much love had the warrior shown Paris where brutality would have sufficed. He had not taken forcefully nor treated his captive ungently, though he could have done so easily enough. And in offering such tenderness, he had ensnared Paris� heart and body more thoroughly than any chains made of Man.
Eudorus left Paris a little while later, abandoning him to the turmoil of his thoughts. Had the goblet been breakable, it would have shattered in his grasp. Instead, he placed it to one side, removed himself from the pallet for he could no longer bear to be reminded of the intimacies he had shared with Achilles upon it. Settling down onto the cool sands, he waited in darkness, his breathing soft as he listened to the silent, expectant camp outside.
Time passed without meaning, mere moments or perhaps days, and he would not have been surprised at the latter. Eventually, he heard sounds outside, voices raised yet somehow hushed, the wheels of a chariot passing through the sands. Did Achilles stand upon or had Trojan emissaries been forced to deliver him for the funeral customs of his lands?
Paris could not tear his eyes from the lowered curtain that barred his view of the outside world, felt his very breath stutter and cease as footsteps neared. A moment later the curtain was drawn violently aside and a figure entered.
Achilles straightened, his eyes falling upon Paris and the two stared at one another, one with a shocking indifference for the deed he had just committed, the other in dawning realisation.

No, Paris thought, and took a sharp breath, feeling for all the world as if a knife had just sliced through his heart. He took a second, gasping breath, could not somehow managed to draw enough air to rail or rage or weep his grief.
Achilles stood a moment longer, then turned, began to wash away the dirt from his face and arms, blood from his hands.

Hector�s blood, Paris realised, dimly. Then, Hector is dead.

Something broke in him then, a terrible, overwhelming despair crushing his very soul far beyond words or tears. He closed his eyes shut, raised his hands to cover his ears, wanting to block out sight and sound, to be as cold and dead and unfeeling as his beloved brother.
He remained curled in a ball, unaware if Achilles attempted speech with him, but a time later, it was the sharpening of a sword that brought him back to his senses at last. Too weary for tears, weary with life itself, Paris looked upon his brother�s murderer and felt nothing. Exhaustion had mercifully robbed him of all emotions save one. Regret.
"You lost one you loved." His voice was pitifully small in the enclosed space, but he had not the energy to care. Achilles paused in his work as Paris continued, "And now you have taken mine. When does it end?"
The last was spoken with a broken despair.
"It never ends," Achilles answered him, then returned to his sword.
Had Achilles used that to slay his brother, Paris wondered, gazing in morbid fascination at the lethal edge, the deadly point. It had not been so long ago he had held such a weapon, small yet no less fatal had he been but brave enough to cut, to the throat of his brother�s killer.
Had he been strong enough, Hector would still walk the world. Andromache and Scamandrius would still have a husband, a father. Troy would have a champion of such skill and bravery that she would stand forever against her enemies.
Instead, Paris had once again chosen love above all else, and it was love that had killed Hector.
Unable to endure the repetitive scraping of whetstone over blade, Paris rose and stumbled from the tent. He thought Achilles about to speak or perhaps stop him, but he did not. The air was cooler now, or perhaps warmth was something Paris could no longer feel. The rolling waves beckoned to him and he made his way unsteadily down to the moonlit shore.
He could sense eyes upon him but knew they were not Achilles�. Perhaps whoever watched feared he would throw himself into the ocean in his grief, but he would not. Hector would not have wished that, would have expected Paris to care for Andromache and his son now that he was no longer�able.
Thinking upon that gave Paris strength, though his grief remained undiminished. One day he would find a way back to Troy, to his law sister and nephew and see to their safety. And perhaps one day they might even forgive him.
*****
"Give him back to me."
Looking down upon the forever stilled features of the man who had slain Patroclus, Achilles felt an unexpected stab of grief. Priam had come to him, had shamed him with his dignity, his humble words, had begged of him as no King had done before for the body of his dead son.
A son who had so unwittingly stolen from Achilles everything that he held dear. Patroclus, Paris�the prince he had destroyed himself, had seen it in the boy�s eyes when he entered the tent and revealed himself to be alive, the boy�s brother dead in his place. Hector had killed Patroclus, yet Achilles had been the one to continue the unhappy cycle. He could have taken Paris and left, but in his quest for vengeance, he had taken a future of life and happiness, ideas once so foreign to him, and cast them asunder.
Tears broke then and Achilles bowed his head over his enemy. We are both the playthings of the gods, brother, he told the dead man. Though all too willing had been his part in the tragic tale.

If I let you take him, it doesn�t change anything, he had told Priam, but he had been wrong. Letting go was more difficult than he could ever have believed, for in releasing the anger he found it was all that had sustained him through his grief. The blindness of rage was gone too, leaving him empty, soulless, able to see what he had truly lost. Paris had filled his lonely nights, would have made the days sweeter still with his innocent and unconditional loving, but now there would be nothing, nothing until the Fates came to find Achilles, bearing with them his Death.
It was all that awaited him now, and he knew not what to do with the time left to him between now and the fulfilment of his destiny.
There was one deed, however, that he could perform with certainty, and he gathered himself, stilled his weeping.
"We�ll meet again soon my brother," he said, looking down upon Hector�s body with a weariness of spirit. He saw the kinship now between them, forged by the unfeeling meddling of the gods�, a bond that went beyond even the ties of blood. Neither of our Fates were our own, he thought, bitterly, as he wrapped the shroud about his once enemy.
With Eudorus� aid he placed Hector�s body upon his own chariot with utmost consideration. Priam had been right, even enemies could show respect and this one had deserved far more than what Achilles had dealt him.
"Your son was the best I fought," he solemnly told a waiting Priam. Had his Argonaut father remained alive now to witness his son�s demise, Achilles hoped the one destined to slay him would have spoken such words of comfort to Peleus. He continued, "In my country the funeral games last for twelve days."
"It is the same in my country," Priam replied, cautiously.
"Then the prince will have that honour," Achilles promised him. "No Greek will attack Troy for twelve days."
He had expected Priam to acknowledge the respect his son, as a prince of Troy, was being accorded, but the old man�s gaze suddenly wavered, settled on something behind Achilles with a look of utter disbelief.
"Paris?" the King whispered, haltingly.
Achilles turned to see the boy had returned, was staring wide eyed at his father and even in the darkness Achilles could see the shimmer of tears in the boy�s eyes. Paris all but ran to his father, embracing the old man who was near weeping himself as he wrapped possessive arms about his youngest, most precious of sons.
"I thought you were dead," Priam told the boy, brokenly, pulling back to stroke Paris� hair, touching him as if he feared to let go. "My child�"

You have taken everything from me, Priam had told the warrior, and Achilles had been unable to gainsay him, to reveal he had Paris within his keeping.
For that would mean giving the youngest prince up at last and despite all that had passed, Achilles� coveted the boy still. He had thought his heart beyond pain, but still felt surge of fear for his imminent loss.

I must release not one, but two sons this night, he knew as both Paris and Priam turned expectant looks upon him. Priam�s was full of a pleading hope that his youngest would be returned safely to Troy, Paris� torn yet he held his father�s hand tightly.
"You are free." The words sounded so simple to his ears, but behind them the agony of knowing he might never see the prince again was verily destroying his heart.
Paris released his father�s hand at that, approached Achilles� with such uncertainty that the warrior longed to sweep him into his arms, kiss away his fears. Yet the pain he had caused in his killing of Hector had erected a barrier between them that perhaps could never be breached this side of Death.
"If I hurt you," Achilles said, softly, "it was not what I wanted."
Though Paris� face was unreadable, his eyes were windows into his innocent soul and Achilles was ashamed by the depths of pain he saw there. Yet the prince raised a hesitant hand, cupped the side of the warrior�s face with a gentle hand. Achilles was swift to take it, pressing into the beloved touch and closing his eyes, breathing in the prince�s scent as if it were his last breath to take.
There was still something there, he could sense. A tentative love, damaged but not broken, amongst the emptiness caused by the loss of Patroclus and Hector. But it could not flourish here, in the dead of night, in a camp full of enemies. He gently pulled away Paris� hand from his face, turned it palm up to receive Thetis� gift. The seashells glittered in the moonlight, as alive and silvery as the stars above and Paris gazed at them in wonder, raising his eyes to Achilles.
The son of Peleus stroked the prince�s soft cheek with the back of his fingers, biting back the sorrow that threatened to overwhelm him and he lowered his hand at last, stepping back.
"Go," he said, knowing if Paris did not obey soon, he might commit another act of harm against the prince and seek to keep him against all reason. The boy did not move, so he spoke to Priam, knowing the King wished to be away soonest with both his sons. "No one will stop you. You have my word."
When Paris still did not go to his father, the King reached out a hand.
"Come my child," Priam beckoned, and it was his voice that broke into whatever thoughts had routed the prince.
Paris backed away from Achilles, and took his father�s proffered hand, stepping aboard the chariot to stand at his father�s side. The King threw a protective hand about his son�s shoulder, squeezing it comfortingly.
"You are a far better King than the one leading this army," Achilles told the old man in truth.
Priam nodded once, in acknowledgement and whipped the reins, eager to be gone. The chariot jolted to life, drawing away, though Paris continued to look back, clutching to his chest the seashell necklace.
Standing in the darkness, Achilles watched until he could no longer see the boy�s pale face in the moonlight, then turned to head down to the cold comfort of the sea.
*****
The towering walls of Troy loomed large and unforgiving, an ancient, deadly impasse to the many foes that would threaten the denizens within. For the first time in a life spent behind the safety of those walls, Paris felt as though an intruder and he bowed his head ashamedly as the great gates yawned open to allow them a seemingly reluctant passage.
The people too were silent, those still abroad in the cobbled streets halting to watch the passing of the chariot that had carried Troy�s favourite son from them, only to return him now in a more honourable fashion. A cloaked Priam guided them through the city, ignoring the whispers, the stares, one gnarled hand upon the reins, the other placed possessively around Paris� shoulders.
The youngest prince welcomed his father�s comfort even as he despised himself for accepting something he no longer felt worthy of. Hector was dead because of him and he could see now how the grief had raged through Priam, rendering the lordly King grey of pallor, his hands shaking where they grasped the reins. With a jolt of fear, Paris wondered if his father would soon sicken, taken by his sorrow, leaving Troy bereft of an able ruler for its youngest prince was still a babe in arms and Paris no longer fit to ascend the throne.
"Do not fear my son," Priam said, suddenly, as they passed the last gatehouse leading towards the palace. "Troy has stood for centuries, through fire and flood, war and grief. It shall not fall now."
Paris did not reply, wondering perhaps if his father spoke not to him, but to Hector�s shade. At the palace, servants awaited them and their muted whisperings and curious, wide eyed looks his way drove Paris into the sanctuary of the silent halls beyond. The marks on his skin left by Achilles during their lovemaking now felt like brandings, sordid and unclean, the seashell necklace about his throat a collar fit only for a lowly slave. Behind he could hear his father�s urgings to be gentle, to take care of his beloved son and Paris closed shut his eyes to ward off the tears that threatened his composure.
A shocked gasp made him open them again and he turned to see a figure in a long, pale night robe, blonde hair shimmering in the torchlight, a slender hand raised to her mouth in disbelief.
"Helen," he rasped, wearily as she continued to stare.
"My love," the once queen of Sparta whispered, and in a moment she had fled into his arms, hands about his person as though she sought to test the truth of his presence with her touch.
Instinct made him hold her and Paris felt wet warmth where Helen pressed her face to his shoulder. She was weeping, he realised dully.
"I thought you were dead, my love," she breathed, holding him all the tighter. "They said you had fled Troy, but I did not believe. I thought Menelaus or his brother had found you."
Though he was bone weary, stricken in grief and shame, he knew it was his duty to comfort her, she who he had taken for love�s sake. He wiped away the tears on her cheeks as she pulled back, and was rewarded with a tentative smile.
"Their soldiers took me," Paris returned, relieved at the steadiness in his voice, "at the temple of Apollo."
"I tried to come to you," Helen said, taking his hand, pressing it to her face. "But your brother would not let me go. He said I must stay, await you when you returned and I�I was so afraid for you."
It must have taken such courage, to attempt to leave Troy and return to the uncertain mercies of her cuckolded husband. But Helen had always been the stronger, Paris knew. Wiser, braver, older in mind and spirit though they shared the same counting of years. And how he had once loved her. Or thought he had.
He was a fool.
"I was safe," he replied, and she stroked his face, searched his eyes. "Hostage to the Greeks, but they did me no harm."
"I cannot believe they allowed you to live," she said, wonderingly.
"I was protected." Sheltered, seduced, loved, he silently added. While Troy trembled before the forces brought to its shores, Paris had been cosseted, cherished, prepared to abandon all and sail with the enemy to foreign lands and a safety he had denied his people.

Traitor, his mind accused. It had seemed so right when he was with Achilles, so simple and pure. But with Hector now gone, killed by Paris� lover, he could at last see the ugly betrayal he had dealt Troy and her people.
And Helen too, yet though he no longer bore the fair Spartan queen the love he had once proclaimed to own for her, there was a small comfort he could still offer.
"With Menelaus dead," Paris began, gently, "you need never return to Sparta. Your home is forever here now."
"With you," she finished, quietly and he could not help but flinch, refuse to meet her questioning look.
He closed his eyes when he felt her lips upon his, could not force a passion he no longer felt. Her mouth was still as soft as he remembered, light, gentle�Achilles� had been firm, forceful, claiming. Thinking of the battled hardened warrior pricked at Paris� lust in a way no curving female form could now do. Not even the beautiful Helen could tempt his passions and a fleeting thought mocked him, that perhaps this was some punishment of the gods for his adulterous ways that they had placed even the fairest of women beyond his pleasure.
Helen drew away and he sensed the change in her, her confusion and hurt. He knew he should speak, tell her of what had transpired, yet somehow he could not find the words. How could he break such a tale to her, that the man she had fallen in love with, had abandoned her home and her people for, was a traitor not only to their bed, but to his country. That the prince of Troy, lover of so many women, could no longer settle for anything less than a man. One man, whose hands that had once caressed so gently, aroused so skilfully, had slain Hector, beloved brother, beloved son.
"A welcome sight indeed." Priam�s voice rang through the empty hallways and Paris started, turned guiltily to his father. "Two young lovers reunited at last." The King smiled benignly as he approached the pair, placed a hand on both their shoulders. "For what worth would we find in our recent losses if the reason for this war was defeated. Love began it, so shall love end it."
Paris could not raise his eyes to his father, nor to Helen. Feeling trapped, he stepped away, murmuring some feeble excuse of needing air before fleeing from them. His cowardice dogged his footsteps as he strode through the passages, coming at last to the palace gardens.
Here the golden statue of Aphrodite, goddess of love, mocked him in her splendour, but Paris turned his back on her, walked to the farthest edge where he could look out over the dark and silent city. His father had been wrong, love could not save anyone. Love blinded, swayed, beckoned until all reason was lost. It had rendered him a traitor to his own country, had killed Hector, had betrayed Helen.
And somewhere, out in the darkness, love awaited him still.
*****
The King of Kings had turned to madness. Forty thousand Greek lives had he threatened to sacrifice in his quest to throw down the walls of Troy and Odysseus knew it was no idle boast. Agamemnon was determined to destroy Troy, was blinded by his hatred, made foolish by his ambitions. For if so many warriors were to be lost to such an endeavour, Greece would have no army left to protect its own shores.
Sitting amongst his loyal Ithacans, Odysseus pondered upon the problem. No force short of the gods themselves could bring down the walls of Troy, not even Achilles with his Myrmidons could achieve such a mighty feat. They might seek to lay siege to the people of Troy, yet their own supplies would dwindle long before and Odysseus had the feeling Agamemnon would not wait for conquest. No, he would demand it soonest, damning the consequences though it cost the Greek host dearly.
But where brute force could not subdue, deception and cunning might win out and those finely honed wiles Odysseus would employ for gaining victory. He simply needed a way to beguile the unsuspecting Trojans into inviting the wolves at their door to dinner.
At his side, one of his men was scraping a thin knife over a carving, a clever though simple rendition of a horse and Odysseus paused to watch. Many of the warriors would amuse themselves thusly, creating such works over the campfire and in the tedium of the night hours, the wood for their craft readily available since the Trojan attack.
"That�s good," the Ithacan King encouraged and the warrior grinned proudly.
"For my boy back home," he answered, displaying the toy to Odysseus.
The King smiled, was about to bring more food to his lips, when he paused. An idea, nary a flickering of a thought kindled in his mind yet began to catch and burn readily enough. The Trojan King Priam was renowned for his devotion to the gods. Any item of worth devoted to the heavenly beings would no doubt be welcome within the walls of Troy. A construction of wood perhaps, grandiose enough for even the most fastidious of the temple priests to accept, large enough to conceal a small group of men inside perhaps�
It was ludicrous, sheer lunacy to even contemplate such a scheme. With a growing excitement, Odysseus realised it might even work. He leapt to his feet, the food falling from his fingers, forgotten, to the sand as he abandoned the campfire and headed towards Agamemnon�s ship.
*****
It seemed wrong somehow that Hector should lay so still, so peacefully, Paris thought as he took his place at his father�s side upon the funeral pyre. The champion of Troy had always been imbued with a powerful presence, holding such zest for the life he led, passionate, strong, loving, alive�
Now he lay with two coin over his eyes, bathed and dressed in the finest of cloth, hair oiled and scented with the sweetest of perfumes, a paltry reward for the service he had rendered Troy and her people.

You should not have loved me as you did, brother, Paris told him silently. I was never worthy of your regard and now it has brought you to this.

His chest caught as their father bent to kiss his dead son�s forehead, pressing lips that trembled to the cold flesh and then it was time. The masses that had gathered to watch the passing of Troy�s most dutiful son fell deathly silent and raising his torch, Paris set fire to the kindling, watching as the licking flames grew less tentative, became hungrier, ravenous. Priam�s firm hand on his arm shook him from his daze and together they descended the pyre, leaving Hector to burn before the gods above.
Upon the dais beyond, Andromache was weeping unashamedly in her grief. On her right, Scamandrius was fussing in Helen�s lap, toying the last wooden animal his father would ever carve for him, and Paris felt a surge of bitter sorrow. He had not spoken to his law sister, was in truth a coward for what venom she would rightly lay upon him, but he knew he must approach her soon, vow to see to her safety and that of his nephew.
His cousin Briseis, sitting at Andromache�s left hand, laid a gentle touch upon the distressed woman�s shoulder, offering what little comfort she could. Though a priestess, Briseis was still a royal princess and Paris thanked the gods it had not been her that had gone bearing gifts to the temple that fateful day.
How long ago it seemed now, when he had first been captured inside Apollo�s sanctuary, mauled and manhandled, terrified for his very life. Had it been his fair cousin to suffer such a Fate, he could not have borne it. Would Achilles have been gifted her? Would her fair womanly flesh have tempted the battle hardened warrior, or her gentle nature tame him?
Or would she have been given to the men, a virginal priestess, a girl of royal blood, to be ravished, raped and beaten.
Only the gods would know, yet perhaps it had been their purpose in allowing Paris to be taken in her stead, protecting one far more innocent and less deserving of such a Fate that he.
For twelve days, funeral games in Hector�s honour would be held, offering respite from battle. Paris would be expected to compete, though in the lesser contests of archery for he had no stomach for anything more. After that time, the army would be led by the ageing Glaucus, to drive the Greeks from their shores.
And the War would rage anew.
Achilles would return to the battle with his Myrmidons, perhaps to be slain before the great walls in the same manner that he had killed Hector. Atop the battlements, amongst the ranks of the archers, Paris would seek him out with his bow, this he had known from the moment he learned of Hector�s death.
It never ends, Achilles had told him and Paris now believed that truth. Hector had killed Patroclus, Achilles Hector, now Paris would seek to continue the unhappy cycle once more and slay the man he once had loved, would once have had abandoned everything for.
END OF CHAPTER FIVE
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Twist of the Fates