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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
- 5
- 6
Title: Twist of the Fates

Author: Sagittarius325

Email: Sagittarius325@hotmail.com

Chapter: 6

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.
*****
A purpose long since defeated by their rout from the walls of Troy had returned to many a Greek soldier as they laboured under the careful eye of cunning Odysseus. Agamemnon too prowled the sands like a hungry beast, watching with a discernible impatience as the simple wooden construct that would secure their passage into Troy was erected.
"He will slaughter them all." Achilles spoke quietly and Odysseus turned in surprise, obviously caught at unawares. The warrior continued, thoughtfully, "Men, women, children. Agamemnon is as a child himself denied a toy for too long. None caught inside that city will survive his fury."
"I am the King of Ithaca, not Troy," Odysseus returned, folding him arms stubbornly though Achilles could see the discomfort his words had wrought. "I must think first of my homeland. If Agamemnon sacrifices too many Greeks soldiers, if we lose this battle, how long do you think before the Hittites see our weakness and invade? How many of our own women and children will die then?"
"Yet the Trojans did not ask for this war."
"And neither did I."
The Ithacan King�s words were bitter and Achilles sighed, he had no recourse for Odysseus was right. His own homeland of Larissa would come under threat should the enemies of Greece invade and he would find no peace from war. Yet he was tired, weary of battles unending, of grief and the pain he had caused the boy he had come to love. It was fear for Paris that stayed Achilles, kept him upon Trojan shores rather than sail for home, away from the turmoil and suffering. He had thought the prince beyond fear of harm when he had sent him home to Troy, but he had not reckoned upon Odysseus� ingenuous scheming.
"It is not Troy I am concerned for," Achilles admitted and Odysseus spared him a wry glance. "I will go with you, brother, but only to find my lover and take him from the city before it burns."
Now Odysseus frowned, turning to him fully. "You will never hope to get Paris out of Troy. Agamemnon has ordered the death of all royalty save him, that he must be taken on pain of death for any who let him escape."
At these words Achilles felt a murderous blast of rage. So the fat warthog still lusted for Achilles� war prize did he, thinking to snatch Paris from under the warrior�s very eye. The thought of the beautiful prince being taken forcefully by Agamemnon soured Achilles� stomach, ignited a fury he had not felt since the day Paris was first stolen from him by the King of Kings.
"He has no need of you," Odysseus continued, quietly. "Not once we have taken the city. Be on your guard, brother, I believe Agamemnon will do you harm if he can."
"I will not leave Troy without Paris," Achilles said stubbornly. The boy might hate him, might seek to kill him even, but Achilles would ensure the young prince�s safety foremost before they resolved what was between them.
"Then you�ll have to settle for his corpse," Odysseus retorted, with a dismissive snort. "Alive, that boy will fall to Agamemnon, for no soldier will go against the King of Kings on the night of victory and not even you can fight an entire army."
"I love you as a brother," Achilles said, carefully, around his burgeoning anger. "But if Paris dies because of your plan, you will never see your wife or home again."
Odysseus started at that, a worried crease marring his forehead. "I do what I do for those I love," he hissed.
"As do I," Achilles stated, implacable.
They matched stares until the King of Ithaca was forced to look aside, sighing, rubbing his bearded chin in thought.
"There might be a way," he admitted, at last. "But there is some danger. And if Agamemnon discovers that I have been helping you�"
"He will not."
Odysseus shook his head doubtfully at the promise, looked over to where Agamemnon was standing with Triopas, deep in conversation. "Even should you manage to get him away from the city," he murmured, "you�ll never be able to take him to Larissa no matter how many Myrmidons you set guard upon your home. Agamemnon will pursue Paris as the last Trojan heir, as will the rest of the Greek Kings. They cannot afford to allow him to live unfetted, able to rise up against them, not even as your�captive."
"Let me worry about what comes after," Achilles told him, impatiently. "Your plan, brother�"
"Very well. If you are to take Paris from the city, then it is very simple�the prince must die." Odysseus flashed him a wily, toothy grin. "And you, my friend, must be the one to slay him."
*****
Forsaking the cold bed he shared with Helen, Paris dressed quietly in his armour and snared his bow and quiver before creeping from the darkened room. If the fair woman awoke, she showed no signs, the sweep of her bare back turned to him in silent reproach as it had been since he first slid in beside her to lay stiff, untouching.
She had wept, he knew and his heart ached for the pain he had caused her. You are not the fool, sweet Helen, he had told her silently, watching as she sighed in her sleep. I am, for letting you love me so.

In the torch lit courtyard he set upon the wall a stuffed sack crudely shaped into the form of a man, then paced backwards, before carefully notching arrow upon arrow as he let fly, imagining the target not a straw-filled creation, but one of blood and bone. And each time, with a grim and determined countenance, he saw each arrowhead pierce deeply into Achilles� heart.
Sweating though the night was cool, Paris at last lowered his bow, exhausted in body and spirit, satisfied his heart hardened enough to bear the burden of defending Troy and slaying the Greek champion.
"Enough now my son," a voice called out in the darkness and Paris turned to see Priam had been observing his practice, the old man�s hands folded before him. Then, "Leave your bow and come with me."
Obedient, Paris did as he was bidden, setting the weapon against the wall, before allowing his father to guide him from the courtyard towards the palace gardens. There they settled together on a bench beneath the pine trees, Paris drawing comfort from his father�s steady presence until he found the courage to speak.
"Forgive me, father," he said, in a small voice, lifting forlorn eyes to his King�s, "for the pain I have caused you."
Priam smiled, patted his hand fondly. "Even as a young boy you knew where to find trouble and it knew where to find you. Hector�" he paused, took a breath, "Hector knew this, yet he loved you unconditionally."
"I was undeserving of that," Paris said. "Of his love and yours. I�ve betrayed you all�"
"No my son," Priam gently cut him off, "even the most foolish of us deserve love, and especially those whose hearts are governed by it. I have fought many wars in my time. Some were fought for land, some for power, some for glory." He stroked Paris� cheek endearingly. "I suppose fighting for love makes more sense that all the rest."
"Hector once told me I knew nothing of love," Paris began, quietly, looking at his hands. "He was right, I didn�t. I took Helen because I thought I loved her, but now�I look at her and I can no longer feel it."
He expected recriminations then, his father to erupt in fury that he had placed them all in harm�s way, had allowed Hector to die, all for nought. Instead Priam placed a finger beneath his son�s chin, raised reluctant eyes to meet his own.
"You love him."
The shock that his father knew, had somehow guessed made Paris gasp, pull back. He could feel the blood rush from him, knew he had paled though shame stung his cheeks.
"I am not so old," Priam continued, wryly, "my eyes not so blinded, that I could not see the love he held for you. And that you loved him in return. You have lusted and you have bedded, my son, and sown many a wild oat, and though I had hoped the fair Helen would fully capture your heart, never before have I seen you love."
"He is an enemy," Paris insisted, fiercely. "He murdered Hector. How can I love him now?"
"And yet you do," Priam answered, gently, with a knowing look. He reached into his robes and in one swift and vicious movement, withdrew a blade. It shimmered a silvery gold, torn between light from moon and flame, its ancient hilt firm in Priam�s able grasp.
"The sword of Troy," Paris whispered, and though he had seen it at times, sheathed, during formal ceremonies attended by his father, he could not help but be awed by its symmetry, its sheer beauty.
"My father carried this sword and his father before him," Priam said, his eyes distant upon the blade, "all the way back to the founding of Troy. The history of our people was written with this sword." He lowered the blade, cradling it in his arms, before turning the hilt to Paris. "I give it now to you, my son, my heir."
In stunned silence, Paris accepted the mighty gift, grasping the hilt, feeling the weight of the blade heavier than he had imagined, yet the balance was perfect. He held it before him, eyes full of avarice as they ran length of the metal, marvelling how it appeared to glow as if imbued by a mystical inner force.
"The spirit of Troy is in that blade," Priam said, as if reading his thoughts. "As long as a Trojan carries it, our people will never fall."
Paris allowed the glorious moment to linger a while longer, before reluctantly lowering the sword. "I am not worthy of this honour," he told his father. "I am not worthy to be a prince of Troy, let alone its ruler. Hector should have had this sword, and I dead in his place."
He did not know where the tears welled from, but suddenly Priam had drawn him into a tight embrace and he was weeping into his father�s robes as he had not done since he was very small. A hand stroked his hair soothingly, his father�s voice whispering meaningless comforts until he was able to compose himself once more.
"You are more worthy than you will ever know, my son," Priam told him, sternly, holding Paris� tear streaked face between his hands. "When this war is finally over, our people will know what you have done for them. We will not fall."
Paris nodded, dutifully. "Yes father."
Priam rose, placed a hand upon his son�s shoulder before he left. "You will do what you must, my son. I have faith in you."
Sitting alone now in the palace gardens, Paris gazed at the sword in his lap, running his fingers over the engraving of the seal of Troy, seated so many years before in the blade and wondered how soon before it was required to taste his lover�s blood.
*****
Out of the darkness, a shadowy figure approached and for one moment Eudorus believed it to be Patroclus� shade returned to him from the Underworld. But then the figure stepped into the ring of light from the small fire and Eudorus sagged, in both relief and disappointment.
Achilles settled down at his side and for a moment there was a companionable silence, despite what had passed between them.
"Forgive me, Eudorus," the son of Peleus spoke at last. "I should never have struck you. You�ve been a loyal friend all your life."
Eudorus started at the words, surprised. He had not expected them, had indeed thought Achilles here to further chastise him for his blunder that had cost the prince his young cousin�s life. Though there were no words that could make Eudorus curse that wretched day and his foolishness any more than he already did. "I hope I will never disappoint you again," he replied, quickly.
He thought he heard Achilles sigh.
"It is I who have been the disappointment," the warrior told him. To Eudorus he appeared tormented, wrestling with some inner quandary. Then, "Rouse the men, you�re taking them home."
So they were to leave Troy after all. Eudorus was not taken at unawares by this decision, for he had followed Achilles for many years, knew when his Lord was weary and the slaying of Hector had weighed more heavily that it should have done upon the prince�s heart. But then, why would Achilles leave him the honour of returning the men home?
"My Lord, aren�t you coming with us?" he asked, in uncertainty.
"I have my own battle to fight," Achilles replied, staring off into the darkness, towards the walls of the Trojan city.
"Then we march beside you," Eudorus stated, simply. The Myrmidons would follow Achilles to the Gates of Hades itself if need be, they would no abandon him now.
"No." The reply was firm, permitting no objections. Achilles placed a comforting hand upon Eudorus� shoulder. "There is no glory to be had in staying in Troy, fighting for Agamemnon. It will be a slaughter of innocents, women and children�I do not want our men to be a part of that."
"Yet you will remain here my Lord�"
"There is something I must do," Achilles told him, and at once Eudorus understood.
"You go to find the Trojan prince, Paris."
He was rewarded with a tight smile, before the son of Peleus looked to the stars above them. "It is a beautiful night," and there was a sorrow and a wish in his voice.
Perhaps it was the last he thought to see, Eudorus realised with a pang of grief, one that stung deeper still when Achilles rose and bent to kiss his forehead, a war brother�s farewell.
"Go Eudorus," Achilles said. "This is the last order I give you."
With that he turned to walk away, but before he could be swallowed by the darkness once more, Eudorus leapt to his feet, to speak that which he had longed to say. "Fighting for you has been my life�s honour, my Lord."
Achilles paused at that and half turned, inclining his head in acknowledgement of the fair words, before disappearing into the night.
Eudorus slowly returned to his seat, his chest oddly tight, eyes prickling with unshed tears, though his parting words to his lord had unburdened something within his spirit. The time of the Myrmidons was coming to an end, he could sense it. He could only pray to the gods that the same would not be said of the time of Achilles.
*****
The rancid stench of sweat had soon pervaded the tiny space for already the morning sun was hot and little air could penetrate the densely crafted wood of the Horse�s belly. Cocooned in darkness, flesh and armour pressing uncomfortably in such close quarters, there was for a long time nothing but the quiet and steady breaths of each warrior hidden within the mighty structure.
Achilles waited silently, pressed intimately close to Odysseus and a Greek on his right, thinking upon the act he must perform once night drew in.

You, my friend, must be the one to kill him, the Ithacan King had told him and the knife Odysseus had gifted him that night weighed heavily in its sheath at his belt. With its razor edge, he knew it would part the prince�s soft and tender flesh all too easily, like a heated blade through butter.
Yet could he do such to Paris, rip the boy so cruelly from the world, never to be seen or spoken of again? And would he ever then find a balm for his guilty heart as he followed his prince into the shadows that awaited them both?
"They are coming," one of the Greek soldiers hissed and Odysseus was quick to raise a finger to his lips.
All of a sudden, the tension was palpable, their breathing hushed as the sound of voices could be heard, dull through the wood, but distinguishable nonetheless. Achilles pressed one eager ear to the boards, hoping for news of his lover.
"Plague."
That came from Priam, the son of Peleus knew. No doubt the Trojans had discovered the bodies on the beach and a distasteful and dishonourable act it had been to place them there. Wounded Greek warriors, those most severely injured and unlikely to survive, fed a concoction brewed by Odysseus� man Philoctetes and told it would aid their recovery. Instead they had died horribly, poisoned by their own comrades, their corpses left marked and horrifically disfigured by terrible sores to aid the Greek deception.
Their purpose had been served, however, their sacrifice not in vain, when the Trojan general warned his King not to get too close. So the Trojans had truly been duped by clever Odysseus into believing disease had come upon the Greeks and Achilles saw his friend�s satisfied grin through the gloom.
"This is the will of the gods," a voice from without announced with the supercilious air of a priest. "They desecrated the temple of Apollo and Apollo desecrated their flesh."
"They thought they could come here and sack our city in a day," the general spoke, disparagingly. "Now look at them. Fleeing across the Aegean."

If only you knew, old fool, Achilles thought. I could arise from here and cut off your head and that of your King�s before your warriors could even move.

The instinct to fight, to meet his foe head on, was suddenly strong, and Achilles was forced to restrain himself. Killing Trojans meant nothing to him now, only Paris mattered and he had to make it inside the city unmolested if he were ever to find the boy and gift him with Odysseus� death.
"What is this?" they heard Priam demand as the Trojans gazed upon the Horse.
Through the cracks in the wood that had once graced the bow of a Greek ship, Achilles could see the King staring up in horrid fascination at the thing. It was an ugly creation, Achilles knew, charred and blackened by Trojan fire, but lacking better quality wood Odysseus had hoped its sheer size alone would impress the enemy.
"An offering to Poseidon," the priest answered, and a veritable sigh of relief went silently around the hidden soldiers as the bait was taken, grasped by the holy men of Troy. "The Greeks are praying for a safe return home."
"This is a gift," another concurred and Odysseus wiped a beat of sweat from his brow, looking positively gleeful. "We should take it to the temple of Poseidon."
"I think we should burn it."
The lilting voice froze Achilles, his heart near stopping in his breast. Quickly, greedily, he pressed his eyes to the cracks to be rewarded with just a glimpse though it was enough. Paris, alive, whole and unharmed, in royal robes next to his father.
The boy�s fair face seemed pale, his expression grim. Now Achilles longed to throw aside the deception and leap from the Horse, not to kill, but to take Paris and somehow spirit him away. Had the boy been left on the beach at unawares, he would have done just that, but he knew there would be many soldiers about, zealously guarding their King and prince.
Odysseus was looking less happy now, his ears pricked for news from outside. For should the Trojans set fire to the Horse, all within would either burn or be slaughtered by the warriors without should they emerge, their deception discovered.
"Burn it?" the second priest demanded, incredulous. " My prince it is a gift to the gods."
Priam was silent, gazing up at the crafted beast.
"Father," Paris insisted, quietly. "Burn it."
Achilles felt his heart twist at the words. Did Paris hope Poseidon would drown them all were his gift to be spurned by the Trojans? Did the boy hold such hatred now in his heart where love had once resided, that he would he gladly seek news of Achilles� death or look on in satisfaction as his erstwhile lover burned?
"I will not watch another son die," Priam spoke, suddenly. "Take this gift for our gods into the city and set it before the temple of Poseidon. Let Him be the sole judge of its worth."
"Father�" Paris began to protest, but the King cut him off.
"No, Paris, I have already lost two sons. I will not offend the gods and send my youngest to follow his brothers to their doom. We will honour the gods this day for they have cursed our enemies and brought the good fortune of peace to our shores at last."
The prince appeared deflated yet resigned and he spared the Horse one baleful glance, before dutifully following his father through the sands and back to their horses.
Achilles watched them leave with an uncertain heart. After Paris� pleadings to his father, the knife gifted to him by Odysseus weighed ever heavier still.
*****

We should have burned it, Paris thought unhappily as he sat upon the dais and watched the great Horse as it was dragged through the city proper to be left before the temple of Poseidon. None of those who sail home deserve safe passage. I would have had them all drown.

His fists clenched in anger as a great cheer went through the crowds upon sight of the Horse. The people were celebrating the end of war, the retreat of the Greeks, yet for Paris it would never be over. Not so long as the man who had slain Hector still breathed.
And now Achilles had gone, fled with his brethren across the Aegean to deny Paris satisfaction and an end to the torment caused by Hector�s loss.
Yet something else pricked at the prince, something within a heart he thought turned to stone, an unhappy realisation that Achilles had gone, had left him and sailed for a home he had once promised to his lover. And unless the Fates were fickle, Paris would never again look upon the fair warrior or gaze in wonder at his golden beauty.
"What troubles you?" Presiding over the festivities at his side, dutiful Helen spared him little more than a brief glance, before continuing, "You appear so grim, so bitter."
The grinding of the freshly hewn logs upon the cobbled streets as they rolled beneath the weight of the Horse was drowned by a cacophonous roar of the crowd as Poseidon�s gift was finally laid before His temple. Paris hesitated in his reply, watching as Helen added her approval to that of the Trojan people, a fair princess of their city to join in their celebrations.
Below there was now dancing and song, acrobats tumbling through their tricks to the amusement of the gathering. Later there would be wine and raucous accounts of battle, tributes to the fallen, the fathers, brothers and sons who had been lost.
But at that moment, all Paris could see was their happiness and wonder at it, for his heart was wretched with sorrow.
"Look at them," he spat at last, unable to contain his anger. "You think their prince had never died."
Hector had been the beloved son of Troy, adored by the people, respected by every soldier he commanded, loved so dearly by so many. So how could they laugh and dance and sing when Paris wanted to bow his head and weep for his brother�s departed spirit. How could they forget so easily the man who had fallen before their very gates, disregard his great sacrifice in their jubilation.
Paris started when he felt Helen�s hand upon his arm for they had not touched since that fateful night when Priam had returned with both his sons. Something had changed within her, an acceptance perhaps that they would never again be lovers, but that she needed Paris no longer to keep Menelaus from her and was now wholly free.
"You are their prince now," she told him, quietly and he looked at her in surprise.
Helen stroked his arm soothingly as Briseis had been wont to do when she sought to comfort him, a sisterly affection, yet there was a determination in the Spartan woman that bolstered his own courage. She had always been the wiser of them, and the braver.
"Make your brother proud," she said, simply.
Paris hesitated at the words, then nodded once, before returning his attention to the crowd. He could not force a smile, but allowed his features to relax to a less severe frown. Perhaps avenging Hector�s death was beyond him for now, yet he would do as Helen bade and succour his brother�s shade by becoming a dutiful son. Looking to where his father conversed still with the priests, he could see now where his duty would lie. Priam might never recover from the shock of losing Hector, and he would need a strong and steady son at his side to see Troy through its time of need after the war.
Paris could never ascend to the throne, despite his father naming him heir, but neither would he turn his back on Troy. Hector would not have wanted that. Instead, Paris would cease his adulterous ways, his petty adventuring and take a wife, a princess of Troy. Helen perhaps, for although their passion had died, slain by his betrayal of their bed, she was still fair to see and the people loved her.
A royal marriage would bring joy and hope to the people and Paris would look to guard the future of the city, so that one day Hector�s son Scamandrius could take up the sword of Troy and rule its people in his father�s stead.
Perhaps on that day the Fates would be kind. Perhaps then, released of the stewardship of his country, Paris would travel to find himself once again looking upon Hector�s killer. And on that day there would be no ocean Achilles could escape over and they would settle what was between them once and for all.
*****
Like a thief darkness crept over the city, purloining piece by piece the celebratory air as many departed the festival to seek their beds. And soon it had quieted to a smothering stillness as even the rowdiest of those that had remained to toast the fallen were at last overcome by the strong wines they had consumed. They slumped in stupor against wall or fence, blanketed against the cool night, unaware of the trespass that was about to be committed in their fair city.
Abandoned, unguarded, the great Horse of Troy opened silently, rope spilling from its belly as the concealed men slithered down into the empty courtyard to bring to fruition Odysseus clever plan. Achilles landed lightly on his feet, his gaze already searching the darkness, fixed upon the Trojan palace high in the distance.
"Here we part ways, brother," Odysseus told him in a hushed voice as he placed a hand upon the warrior�s shoulder. "I wish you the luck of the gods in finding your prize and delivering him from the madness that will consume this city."
Achilles nodded once in thanks, then tore his eyes from the Ithacan king, began to run up through the cobbled streets and narrow, winding passageways. He knew he had little time in which to find Paris before the Greeks entered the city and began to slaughter all they came across. He would spare the prince the horror of that if he could.
Pausing once in his charge, he turned back to see torches already atop the walls of Troy, waving out towards the sea�the signal to attack, and cursed Odysseus for his speedy and ruthless capture of the gates. No doubt the mighty barriers were already yawning open in surrender and it would be a matter of moments before Greek warriors began to pour into the city.
Soon alarm bells were ringing out, the call spreading through the city that Troy was under attack and screams rent the night air, cries of alarm and panic. People began to flee their homes, dragging sleepy children in tow, the wisest making for the safety of the palace for the invaders would mercilessly slaughter any Trojan offspring they found.
Yet their flight only hindered Achilles� task as he dashed through the panicked crowds, evading the men that were spilling out into the streets aside their womenfolk. Though many were armed with little more than pitchforks and crude clubs, Achilles could not afford to battle with these people. Once they had been enemies, now there were mindless cattle to him, and living obstacles to his path to Paris, the thought of whom had consumed Achilles now.
In the distance behind him, smoke was already rising as the city was put to the flame for Agamemnon cared not if his prize was turned to ash, the Trojan people left as carrion, his sanity fled in the wake of his colossal ambition. Yet there was one gift Achilles would deny the King of Kings unto bloody death� the capture of the youngest prince of Troy and the son of Peleus would do all in his power to reach the boy first.
The palace would have awoken at the first alarm, he knew, and it was more heavily guarded that the rest of the city, the barracks lying between it and the town. The Trojan warriors housed there would have roused now and though many would have left to defend the people in the streets below, some would remain to protect the royal family.
Achilles could not fight them all, he knew, as he rested in the shadows, watching as Trojan soldiers poured down through the streets to join the battle for the town. Nor did he wish to, for it would delay him and soon even the Greek army would reach thus far, perhaps find the prince and lay claim to him in Agamemnon�s name before Achilles could intervene.
Halting before the high walls that led into the palace gardens above, Achilles slid his sword into its scabbard upon his back and took hold of the jutting flagstones. Without pause for thought of safety or the death that awaited him should he slip and fall, he determinedly began to scale the dizzying heights, his mind fixated upon one thing alone�reaching Paris before Agamemnon could attempt to lay fat and greedy hands upon the boy.
******
"It is a long way, be quick."
Somewhere before him in the tunnel, Paris heard Andromache�s words, taut and hushed as they raced down the narrow corridor with nothing but torchlight to guide their way. Hector had shown his wife a hidden path from the city the night before his death and Paris� heart grieved for his brother that he had thought to plan so well should Achilles slay him and the city fall. Even unto death did Hector�s concern lay with Troy.
Behind, he felt Helen squeeze his hand as he led her along the passageway and glanced back with a brief smile to reassure her. Her wellbeing, along with that of his law sister, nephew and cousin Briseis were paramount now. Paris would see them all to safety before returning to the city, for his father had not come along these tunnels and he could not abandon Priam or his people now. Hector would not have wished that, would have wanted his little brother to show courage at the last.
And above even defending his king and his people was one thought that pricked at Paris still. That Achilles might have returned to Troy with the enemy, that the golden warrior was even now within the city walls, perhaps searching for him.
Upon hearing the alarms, Paris had dressed in his armour, taken the sword of Troy, then his bow and quiver as an afterthought. Now he was glad of the latter, for should he come upon the son of Peleus, he would have a chance to avenge Hector�s death from afar with the skill of his bow, for he was no fool and knew himself no match for the warrior. Yet it would be an ending nonetheless.
Before him, Briseis suddenly halted and he came to a stop lest he stumble into her for she carried Scamandrius within her arms so Andromache could lead them all the swifter. Paris stepped aside as the people Andromache had managed to gather from the palace, servants and priests, pushed eagerly through the door she had opened, desperate to escape the massacre. Another tunnel lay beyond, this one to take them from the city, to emerge far beyond its walls where they could then flee to a safety far from Troy.
Never relinquishing his hand, Helen moved by him, pulling him towards the door and he was forced to release her. She turned to him in surprise.
"Come," was all she said and he could see she was eager to be gone.
"I stay," he replied simply, stepping away from her.
"No!"
He had shocked her now, that he could see. She shook her head, tried to recapture his hand but he evaded her grasp. How could he explain to her that while she could not stay, neither could he leave. Not yet, not while a chance remained that Achilles now roamed Troy.
"My father will never abandon the city," he told her. "I can�t leave him."
"The city is dead," she retorted, hotly. "They are burning it to the ground!"
She was right of course. Any Trojan foolish enough to remain within its walls would not see the rise of the sun. But perhaps it was fitting this way. Hector had died for Troy, how could Paris do any less? And if the Underworld awaited him this night, he would go to his brother as no coward, but with an honour given one who fought and died for his people.
Yet though the Greeks might win his death, there was one prize he would deny them.
He turned and saw a boy, younger than himself, supporting an old man and stopped them both.
"What is your name?" he demanded of the boy.
"Aeneas," was his reply.
"Do you know how to use a sword?"
"Yes."
It was all Paris needed. He unsheathed the sword of Troy, held it before Aeneas, saw the awe in the boy�s eyes as he looked upon the blade. Had it been but a night before when Paris too had gazed in such wonder upon it? That time with his father seemed very far away now, another lifetime perhaps.
"The sword of Troy," the prince told the boy. "As long as it remains in the hands of a Trojan our people have a future."
Without hesitation, Paris relinquished the sword to Aeneas. He had never been one to lead, had not the skill of his brother nor the wisdom of their father, not even the impetuous bravery that had been said of Troilus, but perhaps the sword in another�s hands would serve as a guiding light for their people.
"Protect them Aeneas," he charged the boy, "find them a new home."
"I will."
Aeneas was smiling now, eyes alight with a hope Paris had ruthlessly crushed within himself, but he was gladdened to see it in another nonetheless. Let others have hope, have a future beyond Troy.
And when Andromache came to him, carrying a fussing Scamandrius, he fervently wished that it would be so.
"Paris," she began, but he cut her off with an embrace, a brief kiss before he turned his attention to the baby.
"You will grow strong," he told Scamandrius, then bestowed a light kiss upon the babe�s forehead, touching the fine head of hair. "And make your father proud."
When he stepped back, Briseis came into his arms, embracing him tightly.
"Do not go, Paris," she whispered fiercely into his ear.
"I must," he replied, then pulled back, wiping away the first vestiges of tears from her lovely face. "I will follow you when I can."
If she knew it for a lie, she did not remark upon it, but nodded and stepped away, taking Andromache�s hand as they passed through the door beyond together. Both women were strong, he knew and they would survive.
Helen awaited him still, her beautiful face sad yet full of courage. "I will stay with you," she told him.
"No," Paris said sharply in fear. If the invaders found her, they would defile her, take her as a war prize, a slave and he could not bear that Fate for her. He took her hand, gently stroked her cheek. "Go Helen, in this life or the next, we will meet again."
The kiss they shared was wistful, a sorrowful taste of what once had been and could never be again. Slowly, her hand fell from his and like a ghost she drew away from him, to slip passed the door that led to a life and a hope beyond the doom of Troy.
*****
The royal apartments had been emptied, either by choice or design, yet Achilles cursed each barren chamber he found. The family, the women at the least, must have gone elsewhere to hide, unless Troy, like many cities, concealed an escape route. Paris might have fled with them, thwarting Achilles� plans for the boy, but the son of Peleus did not think he would have abandoned his people so easily. Though the prince appeared a delicate thing, given over to love and the harp rather than the sword and bow, Achilles� had seen a fire in him that spoke of the bravery within his spirit.
No, Paris would not have fled willingly, which meant he remained somewhere within Troy.
But now Achilles had lost his advantage over Agamemnon to find the boy first, for already Greek soldiers prowled the Palace streets and corridors, many heading for the riches of Apollo�s temple to desecrate all within. Resistance from the Trojans was weakening, overcome by the sheer number of the enemy who were turning their attentions from slaughter and killing to ravaging and securing spoils of war for themselves.
Achilles grabbed one such soldier as the man emerged from the temple of Apollo, a golden bowl clasped greedily to his chest, containing therein many precious stones gifted to the Golden god.
"Where is your King?" the son of Peleus demanded the man, resting the edge of his sword upon the soldier�s throat so no lie would issue forth.
"Inside," the Greek told him, with a frightened nod towards the temple. "He has slain King Priam and has claimed the city."
"And his orders?" Achilles hissed impatiently.
"To find prince Paris and bring him to him."
In furious rage, Achilles thrust the soldier from him. So Agamemnon still foolishly sought to claim that which had been gifted to no one but the son of Peleus? Then it was time he be reminded that not even a King of Kings should dare to touch another man�s possession, not while that man held within his hands the very gates to the Underworld itself.
And as Achilles stalked towards the temple, death in his eyes, he swore to deliver Agamemnon to the boatman himself.
*****
The city was aflame, its once bustling streets of merchants, of farmers and fishermen, filled now with the dead or dying, its temples desecrated, its people destroyed. Murderous Greeks roamed abroad, defiling screaming women, killing all who resisted or sought to flee and casting from the walls the most innocent of Troy, their small bodies littering the sands as a terrifying testament to the savagery of war.
In the palace gardens before the mighty statue of Apollo, Paris gazed upon all below him in horror at what had been wrought upon his once prosperous home, the visions of black death and destruction forever scoured into his mind. Had these been the fears of Hector�s nightmares? Had this been what drove his brother to such desperate lengths to protect their city?
They should have remained unthinkable nightmares, yet Troy�s youngest prince had brought them to fruition with his theft of Helen, had made them cruel reality for the helpless people being slaughtered like cattle below. Falling to his knees, bow tumbling loosely from his hands, the prince was numbed beyond tears, beyond anything but a terrible, wrenching sorrow and guilt.
He wished for his father, for Hector, like a small child seeking comfort, but neither were with him. He had looked for his King, but had not found him. One Trojan who had heroically remained to see as many as he could to the safety of the tunnel had spoken of the temple of Apollo being taken and that Priam had been within, praying. If that were so, then his father was either dead or captured, both thoughts terrifying to Paris. The soldier had begged Paris to come with him then, to escape the city, but the youngest prince had refused. He could not leave without looking upon his father, dead or alive, and learning of his Fate.
And too, he could not leave without discovering if the golden son of Peleus prowled the streets of Troy.
"Too late for prayer, boy."
The self-satisfied voice of the King of Kings cut through Paris� contemplations, clenching his gut and sending an icy chill thrilling down his spine. Before he could move or throw himself aside, a vicious hand had wound itself into his hair, brutally dragging him upright to face his gloating enemy.
Paris stifled a groan of agony as roots were torn under the ungentle handling, though he glared defiantly into the smug and grinning face of Agamemnon. The King�s fingers found his throat and it was all Paris could do to grasp the thick wrist with both his hands to prevent being throttled.
"I almost lost this war because of your whoring, boy," Agamemnon sneered, his gaze boring into Paris, eye alight with an inner madness and lust. "You parted your legs so prettily for Achilles, now you will do the same for your new master!"
Impotent, unable to spit at the loathsome King or even voice his defiance, Paris allowed the hate to twist his face but Agamemnon merely chuckled, moving his mouth close the shell of the prince�s ear.
"You will be my slave in this city," the King whispered, his warm breath an unwelcome, intimate caress, the lecherous greed in his voice frightening. "A Trojan prince, on his knees at my feet. And at night�"
Paris choked out his disgust as a tongue swept the side of his face, leaving a trail of saliva he could not wipe away though he fervently wished to do so, to rid his person of Agamemnon�s foul touch. He struggled, though futilely for Agamemnon was a bull of a man, could only wish for a weapon, a dagger to plunge into the King�s monstrous heart. When Agamemnon�s hand around his throat tightened, it was sheer instinct that made Paris reach for his quiver, his fumbling fingers seeking an arrow and finding one with the ease of long practice.
"And when I am done with you, little whore," Agamemnon told him, "I will gift you to my men. You will spend the rest of your days in the barracks, on your knees, with a Greek cock up your arse and in your mouth�"
With a wrench of effort, Paris stabbed the arrow with all his might into the King of King�s throat, spearing through the vulnerable skin and flesh, the force of it punching the pointed head out the other side to emerge gruesome with gore.
Agamemnon�s eyes widened in shock, mouth opening but no scream issued forth, only a gasping moan. Crimson liquid bubbled into his mouth, his hands slipping from Paris� hair, from the prince�s tender throat, though the impotent fury in his eyes showed he wished otherwise. He slowly sank to his knees, one hand stubbornly clinging to the prince�s armour to drag Paris down with him.
Watching impassively, Paris could not even summon horror for the first and most terrible death he had dealt, Agamemnon had deserved that and more for the Fate he had wrought upon Troy in his greed. The look the King of Kings died with was one of utter hatred.
"I may be a whore and traitor for it," Paris hissed at the slumped carcass of what had once been the most powerful man in the known world, "but I am no man�s slave."
He pushed the body disgustedly from him, began groping half-heartedly for his bow. Agamemnon had not been alone and the guards with him would soon descend upon the prince to slay him for the murder of their King. Yet with the death of the city Paris felt as a ghost already. His Fate was laid before him, to die in Troy, so what mattered how it came about? A demise by the sword now would allow him to rest and spare him the horror of the dark days that would fall upon the city.
His fingers found his bow, reached almost of their own accord to notch another arrow, and, still on his knees, Paris raised the weapon, seeking a target. It would be over soon, he told himself.
The sight that greeted him almost caused him to loose his arrow afore he had aimed it. Bright mane like a flame about his shoulders, eyes the hue of the very stars above, Achilles stood over the bodies of Agamemnon�s guards, bloody sword in hand, his gaze fixated upon Paris.
A gaze that held such love, such tenderness.
The bow trembled within Paris� grasp as he carefully sighted the arrow over the warrior�s heart. This was the moment he had yearned for since Hector�s death, vengeance and an end to the pain, to the betrayal of his love.
But the Fates were fickle and memories of his time with Achilles emerged unwittingly to chip at his stony heart; the warrior tending to his hurts with a gentleness that had stolen his breath away; the night of his rescue from ravishment at the hands of Menelaus� men; Achilles, couched in glory above him, face shining with love as they moved together, limbs entwined, soul and heart melding as closely as their bodies joined.
Tears pricked at Paris� eyes as he recalled those moments, the happiest of his life, the certainty that he would never suffer hurt for Achilles was with him, a mighty protector and gentle lover. Cherished above all, it made the pain of their ending all the more terrible, a happiness that had died with Hector.

Brother? Paris thought, desperately, chest hitching as he tried to keep a steady aim upon his lover. It was difficult though, for saltwater had blurred his vision, sapped his resolve. Give me strength to do what I must.

Blinking away the tears, Paris pulled back on the bowstring, prepared to let fly. Let this be an end to it, he thought. For you Hector. For me also.

And it was perhaps in that moment that Hector answered him, his shade rising from the Underworld beyond to whisper into his beloved brother�s ear, to guide his hand and let fly the arrow.
The projectile flew true, spearing through flesh and muscle to fell its enemy, bring him down. Achilles threw back his golden mane and roared out his pain, his shock as he slumped to his knees. A few gasping moments later, he found the strength to raise his head to look upon his would be slayer and there was no accusation in his regard, only understanding.
Paris slowly lowered his bow and as he gazed upon his fallen lover and the wound he had dealt him, only then did he realise what he had done. Tears fell freely, but he paid them little heed as he stumbled to his feet and made his uncertain way to the fallen warrior.

For you Hector, Paris said again. He collapsed to his knees before Achilles, tentatively reaching out to touch the warrior�s glistening face. Even now he expected recrimination for what he had done, harming his lover in such a way, but truly there had been no choice.
And when Achilles clasped his hand, fervently kissed his palm, reached out to wipe the tears from the prince�s eyes, Paris fell into his touch, undone as swiftly as the first time they had met.
"Forgive me," he breathed, closing his eyes and lowering his face, trembling in the warrior�s embrace.
"No, sweet prince," Achilles whispered, fiercely, raising Paris� chin, coaxing him to open his eyes once more. "It is I who must beg forgiveness, for the pain I have caused you." He smiled gently, sadly. "You, who gave me peace in a lifetime of war."
His fingers trailed tenderly down Paris� bruised throat, to linger where the seashell necklace lay nestled still beneath his armour. He had not once removed it, Paris realised, surprised, since the night Achilles had placed it there. He had not thought to, even through the long night and day he had plotted the demise of the warrior, it had remained with him.
Achilles cupped his face, placed reverent lips upon the prince�s and Paris responded with a hunger and desperation, clutching his lover, knowing this taste of the warrior would be the last. When they reluctantly parted, Achilles� gaze turned sorrowful.
"I cannot take you from this city," he told the young prince. "I am weakening and I cannot fight with this wound you have dealt me. Though Agamemnon is dead, the other Kings will not allow you to flee."
"There is a tunnel leading from the palace," Paris began, then shook his head at Achilles� sudden hope. "That way is closed to me now. I came to find my father. And you. When I chose to return, my Fate was to die here in Troy." He flashed his lover a brief, unhappy smile. "Not even the mighty Achilles can save me."
The glint of metal in the torchlight caught his eye as Achilles slowly drew a knife from its sheath at his belt. The son of Peleus held Paris� gaze as he raised the slim blade.
"There is a way," the warrior began. "Alive you cannot leave Troy. But dead�"
Shouts and screams close by warned Paris their time together was coming to an end. He reached out and grabbed Achilles� wrist, halting the warrior�s words.
"My father?" he asked quickly.
"Agamemnon slew him," Achilles told him. "In the Temple of Apollo."
Paris swallowed back the tears that threatened once more to overwhelm him and nodded once. "Then I will be with him again this night and he will not be ashamed, for I have avenged his death."
"Paris," Achilles began again, but once again the prince silenced him with a fierce and swift kiss.
"I would not have it hurt for long," he said, tremulously, bracing himself. Then whispered, "Be swift."
Somehow it was fitting, death at the hands of his lover, given not with hate or anger or brutality, but with gentle kindness and love.
"I will," Achilles told him.
There was an icy pain, sharp and wrenching and Paris looked down to see the knife embedded over his heart. Instinct made him claw at the hurt, but Achilles had taken his wrists. The warrior held him close throughout the long moment, as if his warmth could somehow transfer to the prince�s cooling flesh.
A hand, hot and comforting, stroked back Paris� curls from his forehead, lips warm and soft against his skin.
"Sleep, sweet prince," he heard Achilles whisper, as darkness swiftly claimed his vision. "When you awaken, we will be together again."
Paris sighed and closed his eyes. The pain had diminished now, leaving him only the warmth of the man that held him and the words of love he spoke.

Hector, he thought, father. I am coming.

And their shadows rose up to claim him.
*****
Achilles lowered his precious burden to the grass with utmost care, removing the quiver from the prince�s shoulder, gently straightening slack limbs, brushing aside the feather soft curls from the boy�s pale brow. The knife was still embedded in Paris� flesh, punched through the supple Trojan armour with the last of Achilles� strength and all the skill he knew how to make it swift and painless. Already his own hurts were telling, sapping his vigour, but he had one last duty to his lover that he must perform before the night was over.
Taking a firm grip on the hilt, Achilles carefully and cleanly withdrew Odysseus� blade from the boy�s chill flesh. Blood welled from the wound and he was swift to staunch the flow with a prepared poultice suffused with yarrow, taken from the Myrmidons stores before they departed. He placed the cloth beneath the armour where it would not be seen and as he did so, the fletching upon the arrow snared through his own flesh caught. The son of Peleus hissed in pain, yet would not concern himself with removing the barb. Not yet. Not until Paris was tended to.
And it could have been far worse. He had expected the arrow through his heart, for had he not earned such a death at the hands of the boy he so grievously hurt with his slaying of Hector. But Paris had surprised him, the prince�s aim astute, his mettle astounding, even as the arrow took Achilles not through his breast, for not even the black armour could save him from such a shot, but through his heel.
Not a killing blow by any means, but one that would see the warring son of Peleus never fought again, never raised a sword in combat nor threw a spear with lightning speed at a charging enemy. The mighty Achilles would never now achieve immortality through the glory of battle, but would instead diminish, as a cripple and an impotent, graceless warrior.
Perhaps an arrow through the heart would have been kinder after all.
"Does he yet live?" a familiar voice asked quietly, interrupting his darkening thoughts.
Achilles raised his head. "What matters it to you?" he retorted, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice, before returning to his tending of the young Trojan prince.
The King of Ithaca descended the steps to the garden, pausing before the two, his gaze upon Paris� still form. "Perhaps I wish to know if I am to be killed this night," Odysseus replied, wryly. "If Philoctetes miscalculated and the poison on that blade was enough to kill the boy..." He spared Achilles a glance, then drew a shocked intake of breath, eyes widening at the protruding arrow. "Though by the looks of you, brother, you would not manage my slaying. What evil was this, to wound you so?"
Achilles was silent for a moment, then placed his hand over Paris� chest. Though there was no telltale rise and fall, no fluttering of eyelashes or trembling of limbs, there was still the beat of the boy�s heart, faint, weak, but there nonetheless, the blade Achilles had slipped into his flesh scant inches from the precious, pulsing organ. "He lives still," Achilles said at last, "and that is all I asked of you this night. Rendered unconscious by your man�s potion your deception remains intact, for any who might look upon him will believe him slain. But I�I am wounded, weak. I can no longer spirit him from the city alone."
His pride stung at the admission of his need, vanity protesting the silent request for aid, but Odysseus simply placed a hand upon his shoulder, nodding shrewdly towards the bloated corpse of the King of Kings at the foot of Apollo�s statue.
"We need fear Agamemnon no longer, your doing or this boy�s. For this I will help you, my friend. My men will take your prince to the temple of the Sun God down by the shores and see that he is kept safe, his wound tended to. No one need ever know he yet lives." Odysseus crouched aside the warrior, rubbing his beard thoughtfully. "But what of your intentions? You cannot take him to Larissa, not even as your slave. Though Agamemnon is gone, the other Kings will never grant you a moment�s grace and peace will never be yours."
Achilles reached out to touch Paris� features, as perfect and preserved as chill marble, his beauty forever frozen in this undeath the son of Peleus had dealt him. And Achilles could not summon the will to reproach the boy for the arrow that had ended his ambitions. There was nothing for either of them now, in Troy or Greece and soon it would become known he was hobbled, unable to fight, to defend himself or the one he loved. He had earned many enemies in his lifetime and they would come for him when they scented his blood in the water. The Myrmidons would protect him, loyal unto death, yet his pride would not permit him to accept such aid forever, not even for Paris� sake.
Would that the Great Lion had found death this night, than suffer the ignominy of becoming prey to those he had once hunted.
Sighing, Achilles glanced aside to find the knife lying at his side and it was then a thought came to him. The poison would be diminished, yet perhaps enough potency remained to render him in the deathless state Paris now slumbered in. There would be no shame for the son of Peleus to find his death in Troy after winning the city, for tales would be told for years to come of his feat in slaying Hector and his part in Odysseus� plot, the daring gift of the great Horse to the unsuspecting Trojans.
With a sigh heavy with both sorrow for all that had gone before and a hope for what might come, Achilles realised he had perhaps achieved his dreams of glory after all. All that remained was a simple life with the boy, Paris, no longer a prince, he no longer a warrior, their names to be carried down through the millennia as players in the great siege of Troy.
"I will go with him," he answered Odysseus at the last, raising the knife one final time.
"Brother�" the Ithacan King began in protest, but Achilles slashed his palm without pause.
Almost at once he felt a chill creep along his veins, stealing like a thief the very warmth from his body. A lethargy followed, rendering him sleepy though he fought it with every ounce of his mighty will as Odysseus spoke to him.
"I will see you both safe to the temple," the King told him, quietly. "I give you my word."
"They will wish to burn my body," Achilles grunted in reply.
"Trust in me brother," Odysseus replied easily, pressing his hand to Achilles� shoulder in comfort, before urging the son of Peleus to let go, to rest.
Assured by his words, Achilles allowed himself to slump down into the grass at his prince�s side, his face turned to Paris, gazing in wonder at the boy�s serene beauty. If this was the last image he would take from the world, he could not wish for greater and he stroked the boy�s cool cheek as his strength fled him at the last. Darkness flickered upon his vision, growing bolder, beckoning him with the seductive wiles of the fabled Sirens.
"Make sure I am there when he awakens," Achilles had the presence of mind to say, heard Odysseus� assent, before the waves of darkness swelled up to devour him whole.
*****
Rising to his feet, Odysseus gazed upon the two lovers as they lay intimately entwined, and a strange pang of longing pulsed through his chest. A sudden desire for the wind in the sails to bring him home to the comfort of his wife and son, for a glimpse of fair Ithaca rising majestically from the sea on the far horizon. He could see himself standing at the prow of his ship, skin bronzed, beard wild and unkempt beneath a blazing sun as they sailed into port, to home�
Hurried footsteps from behind shook Odysseus from his ruminations and he swiftly thought on the tale he had already begun to concoct.
Greeks, bloodied, enraged and filled with murderous greed, roamed into view, yet they were silent, stunned as they gazed upon the scene before them; their King horribly slain, the mighty warrior Achilles dead too. To his relief, Odysseus could see among their number his own Ithacans, men that he could trust to obey his orders without question, could trust to keep secrets�
"What has befallen our King and warrior, Lord Odysseus?" one Greek demanded, a captain of his guard.
"Is it not apparent?" Odysseus replied, as his own men protectively, instinctively surrounded him. So it begins, he thought wryly. His clever tongue would be put to the test this night, for if his answer were found wanting by the superstitious Greeks, they might just attack. There had never been a great deal of trust between the Kings of Greece, their courtship of Helen of Sparta many years before forming a tentative treaty at his own behest, but now that Troy had fallen, the Queen fled, any chance to remove rivals would be snared most eagerly.
Gesturing to where Agamemnon still lay, a bloodied heap, Odysseus began, "Paris, prince of Troy, slew Agamemnon in a most unfortuitous moment for our great King. Achilles sought to protect him, yet was slain in turn. Before he died, he managed to wreak vengeance upon this cowardly killer, as you can see."
The Greek captain sniffed, disdainful, as he looked upon the bodies at Odysseus� feet. "I see no fatal wounding of Achilles. Merely that arrow�"
"Through his heel," Odysseus observed. "Surely you know the tales of his mother, Thetis the Nereid."
"We have heard�rumours."
"Then you know also it was said Achilles was an immortal, a son of the very gods."
"It is true," another Greek soldier added, in wonder. "Achilles could not die, I have borne witness to his divinity in battle, he could not be killed!"
"And yet an arrow through his heel was sufficient for this?" the Greek captain demanded, sceptically with a raised eyebrow.
Odysseus sighed, nodded. "So the gods played their games as they laid down his Fate. Thetis dipped Achilles as a babe into the waters of the River Styx, making him impervious to all wounds." Casting a surreptitious look upon his audience, Odysseus could see they were intrigued by his tale and inside he grinned. "But it is said that while Achilles was bathed in the sacred waters, one part remained untouched. His heel." With his boot, Odysseus gently nudged his brother�s fallen body. "Where sword and spear have failed to wound the Great Lion, Paris� accursed arrow was enough to slay him. I invite you brothers to see for yourselves. The mighty Achilles has departed for the Underworld this very night and woe to the shade of the wretch who has sent him there!"
None came close, but remained a watchful distance, their eyes alight with awe as they gazed upon the seemingly deceased son of Peleus. Some whispered prayers to the gods, others paid homage to the fallen warrior.
"It was true then," one breathed. "He was a god amongst us."
Odysseus bit back a smile. How arrogant Achilles would have preened to hear those words.
"His armour," the Greek captain said at last. "We will burn his body on the morrow, but his armour should not go to the flame."
This Odysseus had not expected, unfamiliar with such a custom, for Ithacan warriors burned with their battle harness. "I claim the right of his armour," he said at once. Any of the Kings who tried to gainsay him would taste his blade, though he doubted they would dispute his stake for there were far greater riches within Troy to contend over. "As war brother to Achilles and the last to converse with him this night. Any who believe they have a claim to this honour must fight me."
But the Greek captain only nodded. "I will take word to my King of what has transpired here."
"Take the King of the Kings with you," Odysseus commanded, gesturing to Agamemnon, "that he might be bathed and dressed soonest. He deserves that honour." And rid his foul being from my sight, he added silently.
The Greeks obeyed, though Odysseus observed with some satisfaction their handling of Agamemnon was less than gentle. No doubt the body of the King of Kings would be stripped of its gold and jewels afore it found its rest within the broken temples.
"And Paris?" one of his Ithacans demanded, once the Greeks had departed.
Odysseus glanced at each one of them carefully, knowing he was placing his life in the hands of his men. Yet not once had their loyalty been called into question during their long service to him, Odysseus could only pray to the gods it would not be so this night.
"We sail for Ithaca," he began, saw their confused glances. "There was no honour in this war though honour demanded we march alongside the Greeks. But I will have no part in the rape of women or the murder of children, and the gods will not look kindly upon those that partake in such evil. We will leave this cursed place as soon as our ships can be made ready."
He was gratified at the looks of hope and relief many displayed and knew he had chosen correctly. It was time to go home.
He selected four of his men. "Take prince Paris� body to the temple of the Sun God, out by the sea. If any question you, tell them you take him for the carrion for his murder of Agamemnon." As they began to obey, albeit in confusion, Odysseus grabbed ones arm and hissed, "Do not let any mutilate his body nor take anything from it. On your very life, see that he is kept safe. Do you understand?"
The warrior nodded, quickly, and they roughly began to lift Paris� limp body, the boy�s dark head rolling slackly.
"Gently!" Odysseus chided, to further their puzzlement, but they obeyed and carefully spirited away the young lover of Achilles.
"And now for you, my brother," Odysseus spoke quietly, crouching alongside the warrior. He looked up at his remaining men, then cast a glance to the Greek bodies Achilles no doubt had slain to protect Paris. "Remove that one�s armour," he directed, then set about doing the same for Achilles, stripping him of his black shielding.
"My King?" one of his warriors questioned, uncertainly.
By the gods, they think me mad, Odysseus thought, with a grin. He paused, looked up his men. "Help me this night and I promise, I will do all I can to see you reach our homeland. Disobey me in this and I will strand you here with the Greeks."
That threat alone was enough to spur the hesitant into action and they complied now without question.
Odysseus reached out and gently stroked Achilles cold cheek almost wonderingly. "For the love I bear you brother, I would abandon my own men. Such was your gift over mortals." He sighed, then took the Greek helmet, placed it over the fair face, the golden locks.
Once armour had been substituted, Odysseus took his knife from his belt and carefully removed the arrow from his brother�s heel, then skewered the bloody projectile through the unfortunate Greek that now wore the fabled black armour. His men stirred uneasily, for on the morrow, the Great Lion would burn in name only, supplanted by an unknown warrior.
"It is no disrespect I show him," Odysseus told them, without looking up, sensing their distress at his actions. "All will become known on the morrow afore we sail for home. That I promise you."
His words seemed to dispel their apprehension and they gathered Achilles� body, reverent now without being told.
Odysseus remained as they spirited his war brother from him, gazing from the vantage point of the royal gardens out over the burning houses, the ransacked temples. Such a high price for the safety of Ithaca, he mused unhappily. Would the gods curse their voyage home for the destruction they had wrought? Would he ever hear the harp of his wife Penelope, or look upon the man Telemachus would one day become? Was his promise to his men that they would one day gaze upon Ithaca become nothing more than a false wish?

If we are to be cursed, he thought, staring into the cold, condemning features of patriarchal Apollo, let I alone bear that burden. For was it not I who brought the Kings together, I who supported Agamemnon�s claims and drew Achilles to this war? I who made it possible to destroy this city blessed by the gods.

With a heart heavy with regret, Odysseus turned from the scene of Troy fallen, to follow his men and war brother down to the sea.
*****
A pall of ash and death lay over the once great city of Troy, shrouding the early morning skies in a grey pallor of misery and despair. No bright sunlight was cast upon the victory of the Greeks, no warmth from the golden glow of lordly Apollo�s chariot bathed the invaders, for no glory had been won with the murder of innocents. Perhaps even the gods themselves wished to avert their eyes from the destruction wrought, Odysseus wondered with regret, and so had hidden the face of the sun from them.
In chains were the Trojan survivors led passed his outwardly hard and unflinching countenance, shock and despair and hopelessness written upon dirt streaked faces as they were herded to a brief and brutal life of slavery. Odysseus folded his arms and sought to quench his grimace when he saw amongst the prisoners young maidens. At least they have survived, he told his pricking conscience and firmly turned it from thoughts of what their fates would hold.
"My King." A warrior dropped to one knee before his liege. "The pyre has been readied as you so ordered."
His final duty to Achilles awaited fulfilment, Odysseus� realised belatedly as he gazed towards the square and the funeral pyre that had been erected from the remnants of the great Horse.

A fitting tribute to you my brother, he thought and could not suppress a surge of satisfaction at the knowledge that Agamemnon�s corpse still lay, untended, unwashed, within Poseidon�s plundered temple while the memory of Achilles would be gifted to the flame before him. If the other Kings cared that a warrior was to be honoured foremost, above even their King of Kings, they had not protested one whit.
The duty of the departed Myrmidons was left to Odysseus� own warriors and it was they who carried the body to the peak of the pyre, placing it carefully within the tinder as their King followed behind. None had contested the Ithacan ruler for something so paltry as the black armour, not when greater spoils were there to be fought over, yet Odysseus still sighed in silent relief when none protested now that it was being offered up to the fires. For should the helm be removed, it would be discovered that it was not Achilles who lay before them, but a simple warrior. And that Odysseus could not allow, not with the oaths he had sworn to his war brother.
The lifting of the night�s veil to reveal cloudy dawn had seen him present when Achilles had awoken in the temple of the Sun God, the warrior reaching for a sword that was not there afore he had even opened his eyes.
"Peace, my brother," Odysseus had called, swiftly, before harm could befall them. For though lamed by Paris� arrow, he knew Achilles would ever remain a formidable force, especially if he felt he or his lover threatened.
Paris slumbered on in serene oblivion upon the finest furs, the poison he had been dealt far greater in potency, his slight frame unable to rid itself of the effects as quickly as his strong, warrior lover. Odysseus had watched then as Achilles rose and hobbled to the boy�s side, impeded by the wound that had crippled him though his bearing showed not one flicker of the pain that must surely be testing him. Hands that had dealt so much death and horror were now tender and reverent as the son of Peleus sought signs of his lover�s welfare, seeking the wounding upon Paris� shoulder, murmuring words of love, softly urging the boy to open his eyes.
"He will awaken soon," Odysseus had promised, falling to one knee beside his brother, speaking in low and urgent tones. "When he does, you must not tarry here. I have seen to a horse and cart that will take you from the city, stowed with provisions enough to see you to the borders of this cursed land."
Achilles had bowed his head then, golden locks obscuring his fair features. When he at last brought his regard upon the Ithacan King, it was full of gratitude and thanks. "How can I ever repay you my brother, for this chance at life you have gifted me?" the warrior had asked, hoarsely, in some wonder.
And Odysseus thought back to the many years passed, the moment he had discovered the bright, blue eyed son of King Peleus and his talent for war, for death and bloody battle, alongside a natural gift for healing. Taking the boy under his wing, Odysseus had curried the former instinct in the boy, spoken of victory and glory and immortality, battles passed and their mighty heroes, until Achilles had begun to lust for those things for himself. Under Odysseus� tutelage, he had grown into a peerless warrior, courted by great Kings and wealthy rulers to conquer their enemies, a man whose very name, spoken in dread and awe, was Fated to be recalled for countless millennia to come.
A man whose life was destined to be swift and hard, full of death and destruction, knowing little of love and tenderness. That was the true gift Odysseus had granted him when he had taken a precocious child-prince and made him a killer of men. And no gift was it at all, but a curse.
Yet instead of voicing such dark thoughts aloud, Odysseus simply forced a grin and grasped Achilles� shoulder. "Debts are for merchants, brother and there is none here besides. You came at my bidding, lured by the chance for glory and now you have claimed it as yours." His grin faded as he looked upon Prince Paris. No, it was simple Paris now, for the boy no longer held any claim to such a title, yet it reminded Odysseus of the duties that were demanded of him this day. "I am needed in the city. The other Kings will question my whereabouts and I would not have their soldiers come looking for me. I must leave you now."

To his surprise, before he could rise, Achilles had drawn him into a fierce embrace, speaking into the King�s ear, "The gods have fated that we shall not meet again, my brother. Long life to you and may the wind ever find your sails to carry you home."
The eloquent farewell unexpectedly caught at Odysseus� heart and he blinked back the salt water that sprang to his eyes, berating himself for such foolishness, chiding that it was simply the result of exhaustion from the long days of the Trojan siege. He returned the embrace gruffly, mastering his floundering emotions afore they shamed him and when Achilles drew back he did not have to force a smile this time.
"Long life to you as well my friend," Odysseus bade the warrior. "May peace find you and yours for the rest of your days."
They clasped forearms in silent farewell and Odysseus rose as Achilles returned to his tending of Paris.
"Allow no one in here," the King quietly commanded his loyal guardsmen who waited in the ruined temple. "Any needs they have, see to them." He glanced back once, to observe Achilles as the warrior lay a soft and gentle kiss upon the Trojan�s brow and a thought rose unbidden to his lips. "Where will you go my brother?"
Achilles did not raise his head as he brushed back the slumbering boy�s curls, though the stubborn ringlets refused to obey. "East," he answered, without pause. "To the lands of the rising sun."
Odysseus nodded and harkened to where fresh air, tinged with brine and salt and a cleanliness called to him from beyond the gloom of the temple. The ruin of Troy awaited him, beckoning to him like the shades of those slain, eager for the day of his arrival into their kingdom of Hades where they would avenge their betrayal.
But not this day, Odysseus reflected as he stepped out into the pale morning light, gazing to where thin streams of dull smoke rose from the ashes of the once fair city, the vultures that even now circled the skies seeking the carrion of the dead�
"My Lord, all is in readiness."
Atop the funeral pyre, the voice shook Odysseus from his contemplations and he took the proffered torch, gesturing for the Ithacan attendant to descend. It was not simply flesh he burned this day, Odysseus knew as he gazed out upon the gathering crowds below. Faces full of elation and guilt, of weariness and relief and sorrow were turned up to him, yet in each one he saw wonder, awe. Even as the Ithacan King touched the flaming torch to the pyre, he knew he burned not a man, but seared into the minds of every warrior present a name of legend, one that would be told to their children, and their children�s children.

Achilles.
"Find peace my brother," Odysseus murmured as the dry tinder caught and flared.
For a long time the crowd remained, silent, subdued, reverent, as they paid homage to their fallen hero, sent to reside amongst the very gods if rumour were to be believed. Odysseus too remained to observe this ending of his war brother�s journey, though he alone knew another was about to begin.
"If they ever tell my story," Ithaca�s liege was heard to remark quietly and many present, soldier and King alike, harkened to him, "let them say I walked with giants. Men rise and fall like the winter wheat, but these names will never die. So let them say�.I lived in the time of Hector, Tamer of Horses, of Ajax the Giant, of fair Helen whose beauty set sail a thousand ships ."
Odysseus smiled to himself as he turned to reclaim his helm from the attendant, then spared the dying fires above one final, thoughtful glance. "Let them say�I lived in the time of Achilles."
*****

"Awaken Paris. Come boy, open your eyes, you are nearly there."
The soft and gentle tones urged Paris� burgeoning mind to resurface from the deepest of slumbers he had ever known. Even now he struggled against surging waves of drowsiness that threatened to drag him back under at each crest, but the voice would not permit such and touches upon his person made him loathe to return to rest until he had discerned their intent.
Yet when consciousness finally claimed him, it met him with pain and exhaustion beyond measure, a chill in his flesh and dryness of mouth that made him fervently wish he had not awoken.
Warm liquid was poured carefully into his mouth, fingers stroking his throat and reflex made him swallow most gratefully, quenching his parched need for moisture. He could not, however, bite back a moan of anguish as pain assaulted his being when he tried to move, the centre of the agony focused upon his left shoulder.
"Lie still, prince," the voice commanded, brooking no disagreement, though Paris ruefully knew he had no intention of disobeying. "The posset will soon dull your hurt. For now, open your eyes."
Warm water was brushed over his eyelids and Paris blinked, drowsily at first, eyes at half-mast as he looked into the darkness beyond. A gentle hand cupped his chin, turned his gaze until he met a pair of intense, jewel bright eyes peering down at him in concern. Those eyes he knew, Paris realised, recalling moments of tenderness, of love and intimacy, a strong, fair face with hair like spun gold�
And Paris smiled as his lover swam fully into his vision, taking his fill of the other as Achilles returned his smile.
"Well met Paris of Troy," the warrior murmured, tenderly stroking back Paris� hair.
It was then a feeling of doubt came upon the young prince and a frown furrowed his brow as he sought to recall what had passed and how he came to be injured.
Flashes of memory were scattered in his mind; of Troy burning, of Agamemnon, of the arrow and the knife�And Paris gasped softly as he recalled the pain of the dagger as Achilles plunged it through his armour into his heart�

Sleep, sweet prince, the warrior has told him. When you awaken, we will be together again.
Achilles had somehow kept that promise beyond all hope and Paris quickly sought his lover�s eyes, needing the love that shone from them to anchor him in this new world that he did not understand. His hand found the warrior�s, who squeezed it tightly.
"How?" was the lone word Paris could force, though it was whispered, strained.
"It was ruse," Achilles explained, softly, as he saw Paris� confusion. "Only a ruse, my love, one that I regret only because it caused me to do you harm." He took Paris� hand and placed it over his own breast. Once the prince had felt the surety of the pounding beat from within, he kissed the boy�s palm. "To the world we are dead, but our lives are now our own."
Paris still did not understand, could not comprehend what had been done, but one thing he knew with certitude, one thing that eclipsed all thoughts, all worries and fears, chased them back into the darkness.
Achilles was with him.
Comforted by that, Paris gazed about himself, seeking to learn where he had been taken and what had been done to him. His armour had been removed, replaced by a simple robe, he saw, and his shoulder cleaned and dressed. As he reached with his right hand to finger the cloth, he suddenly caught sight of a Greek soldier and stiffened in fear.
But the son of Peleus was swift to reassure him. "They are friends, loyal to the King who aids us in this. They will do you no harm. Nor would I permit them to."
Despite his words, Paris could not suppress a baleful glare for the men who seemingly guarded them, for it was they who had destroyed his home and people, murdered his father, his countrymen. He rested a while amongst the furs as joyous warmth trickled back into his icy being and Achilles spoke with the hated enemy, seeking news from without.
When Achilles at last returned to his side, Paris felt strong enough to sit, the drugged posset his lover had given him dulling his hurts to a tolerable level.
"What of my people?" the prince asked, quietly, near shameful that he had not requested such news earlier.
"Broken," Achilles replied, watching him carefully. "I will not lie to you, Paris. Troy is gone."
Paris captured his hand. "But there were those who survived. My sister and nephew, my cousin Briseis. Helen�"
"Those who escaped the city have fled towards Mount Ida. The Greeks do not pursue, they have let them go."
Paris sagged in relief at such news, for he feared what would happen to the women should they be claimed by the enemy. But though Andromache, Briseis and Helen were strong women all, he could not be certain they would survive the coming winter. He had not expected to outlive the fall of Troy, had not planned for it, had indeed gifted the sword of his forefathers to the boy Aenaes knowing his Fate no longer resided with his people.
But now�
"We must go to them," he spoke, decisively. "For they will have need of us."
But Achilles was shaking his head. "No."
Paris jerked his head up in a pique of anger at the peremptory dismissal and denial of his need to go to his people. "I am their prince. It is my duty," he protested.
"I forbid it."
Left open mouthed at the arrogant reply, Paris tilted his chin in silent defiance, daring the warrior to gainsay him again.
Bu Achilles only chuckled, undaunted, amused. "Spoiled princeling," he remarked, lightly. "Recall the last time you tested my patience before you attempt to defy me now." He lowered his voice so only the prince could hear his next words, "Would you have me entertain these Ithacan warriors as I take you over my knee once more?"
Outraged, Paris flung aside the furs, gritting his teeth against the pain, using his anger as a balm for his wounded pride. "And where would you have us go? To your home, Larissa? I will not go with you willingly, not while my people have need of me."
But Achilles� smile had faltered at the mention of his homeland and he shook his head once more. "We will not go to Larissa. The names of Achilles and Paris are dead and I would not resurrect them only to have men hunt us. No, we will go far from here, to lands in the East as yet untouched by Greece or Troy. I will make a life for us there."
"And have I no say in this?" Paris demanded, wondering at the warrior�s thinking. Never had he travelled further than Sparta in the West. And East and South lay the lands of the Hittites where no Trojan had visited and lived. His dark eyes met Achilles� with renewed challenge. "I will not go with you willingly," he repeated.
Crouched aside him, Achilles reached out to stroke the prince�s cheek. "From the day I first desired you, you belonged to me Paris of Troy. I think you know that, even now." Swiftly, he bent and drew Paris into his arms, hefting the young prince�s slight frame as though it weighed nothing at all.
Caught unguarded at the unexpected move, Paris lay still, biting back a groan of pain as his wound near overcame his senses.
"Bring the furs, leave all else," Achilles ordered the soldiers, then limped slowly, unevenly from the stone room.

The wound I dealt him, Paris realised, dully, near swooning with the pain of movement. It must plague him badly, yet still he carries me.
Overcast skies met Paris� gaze as they left the temple, greeted by the headless statue of proud Apollo, the smoking ruins of Troy beyond. A patient beast stood at the head of a cart and it was here that Achilles directed the warriors to stow the furs, before carefully placing Paris upon them.
The prince made a move to sit, but Achilles pressed him flat. Both stared hard at the other, a contest of wills between a warrior of the strongest mettle and a Trojan prince unaccustomed to being denied. But it was Paris who relented, realising his wound would hamper any efforts to oppose his lover. For a while at least.
And when Achilles bent to press a gentle kiss to his lips, Paris was unable to deny him or indeed suppress his own desire for the mighty warrior. Groaning into Achilles� mouth as their lips joined, Paris stroked an appreciative hand through his lover�s fine, golden mane, relishing the similar touch the warrior bestowed upon him.
"I never thought I would taste you again," he confessed, licking his lips when the kiss ended all too swift for his liking.
And Achilles grinned lustily at that. "You will taste me for the many years to come, boy. I will see to it."
Rendered drowsy by his exertions, Paris lay back his head, though his eyes remained fixated upon the warrior. He watched in cloudy apprehension as Achilles took from the Ithacans a spear and sword, examining both before judging them worthy.

It is not yet over, he realised, with a pang. Not until we are far from here.

The familiar breaking of the sea upon the Trojan shore was lulling him to sleep and his eyes flickered briefly closed, only to open as the cart jostled and sagged, heard Achilles� call to the beast and the thrash of the reins.
In the distance he could see the monstrous walls of Troy, blackened, charred and unforgiving, their silent accusation fading as the cart drew away through the sands. And atop all else, the palace of Troy, the winding corridors he had chased along as a child, the secretive alcoves he had hidden from his brother and father in, the gardens of unsurpassed beauty where he had courted many a maid upon his coming of age.
Blinking back his sleepy tears, Paris turned his face away from the sorrowful sight of Troy conquered, towards the East where the sun was finally beginning to break through the clouds. Warmth rushed over his face as the sunlight raced over sand and sea and he closed his eyes, dreaming of fair Troy and her people, of her cobbled streets and bustling courtyards. And of his father and brother and all who he had loved.
And all he had lost and left behind.
*****
The chill night air had taken on an icy edge, foretelling of a bleak and brutal winter to come, a perverse contradiction to the oppressive, parched heat of the long summer days of the Trojan siege, labouring under a merciless, beating sun. Death had not abandoned Troy with the toppling of her city and the fall of her rule to the Greek invaders, but was even now spreading dark wings of famine and disease to shadow the whole country. A cursed land, Odysseus had condemned this place, and Achilles foresaw the truth in his brother�s words when the first of the winter snows began to blow down from the Northern regions.
Feeling the sting of the cold, the son of Peleus carefully fed their tiny fire, coaching forth an extra measure of warmth and illumination for their tiny camp, tugging his fur cloak higher. The night sky was clear and full of a thousand stars and Achilles sighed wistfully at the beauty of it. Many nights such as this had he spent in Larissa, down by the shores of the Aegean, oft with Patroclus engaged in either love play or swordplay. Sometimes with capricious Thetis who would seek out the prettiest of seashells beneath the light of the moon to fashion him yet another necklace. And never would he see either again, he realised with a pang, as his mother�s words returned to haunt him.

If you go to Troy, you will never come home, she had told him with her gift of prophecy, cupping his cheek as pain fairly radiated from the oceans of her eyes. And I shall never see you again.

Paris was not the only one to be forever torn asunder from that which he knew, Achilles knew with regret, glancing to the sleeping prince. The boy was curled on his unwounded side, wrapped snug in furs, face hidden in the shadows of the cart to which he was bound. A length of rope had been secured around one slender ankle, tied in a knot only a sailor could undo with any ease, the end looped about the wheel of the cart. Thus shackled, Achilles could sleep knowing his lover could not escape again without awakening him, though it saddened him that he was forced to such desperate lengths.
Fever had claimed the young prince but a day out from their leave-taking of Troy, delirium loosening his tongue and clouding his mind. He raved of Troy and her people, even as his skin verily burned beneath the warrior�s touch as Achilles desperately sought to soothe him. Under his ministrations, Achilles had thought the fever broken at last when, three nights later, he had awoken to find Paris gone. The gods had been favourable, however, and bestowed upon the land the full countenance of the moon, aiding the warrior in his frantic search. Crippled as he was, he had come upon Paris, muttering sweating, stumbling over the uneven rocks, heading East to where the snowy peak of Mount Ida could be seen to rise in the dark distance.
"I must go them," Paris had insisted, fever bright eyes turned to the mountain as Achilles sought to cajole him back to their camp. "They have need of me."
Tired, frustrated, Achilles had grabbed the boy. "You carry with you their deaths should we find them!" he had ranted. "For the Greeks will take up the hunt once again should they learn you live!"
Paris had blinked once at those words, then collapsed, taxed beyond his strength by his plight, leaving Achilles to catch him. "Fool boy," the warrior had muttered, as he effortlessly swung the lithe frame into his arms and began to trudge back to their camp. "Would you swim the Propontis itself to reach your people?"
For something he had not yet told Paris was news, garnered from a caravan heading West with merchandise intended for Greece, told the Trojan refugees had now turned Northwards, their new path bearing them ever further from their prince. What wealth they carried, taken in haste from their doomed city, might secure safe passage into Thrace and from there no one could guess where they might go. In a few days� time however, they would cross the Propontis and be forever lost to Paris.
Achilles eagerly awaited that time and an end to the prince�s madness, for they could then look to their future rather than the unhappy past. He would not have to bind the boy, struggle with him each night as Paris, determined to seek his people, tested his patience with continuing defiance. Nor bear the full brunt of Paris� displeasure at being denied, his silent resentment when Achilles released him come morn.
Beneath his furs, the subject of the warrior�s ruminations shifted and moaned quietly and Achilles was quick to rise, to kneel at his side. The boy was awake, he realised, as dark eyes met his and the sound of chattering teeth met his ears.
"You are cold, why did you not speak?" Achilles chided, feeling the boy�s flesh cool beneath his touch.
Paris wordless shook his head, sought to burrow further into the furs. Achilles stared a moment then sighed. Stubborn boy, he thought, setting his sword down but still within easy reach. Moving behind the prince, he carefully lay down aside his young lover, dragging the furs to cover them both and wrapped his arms about the shivering, slender frame.
Paris stiffened, but did not shrug off this care Achilles tendered him and, grateful, the warrior brushed back the sable hair, kissing the tender spot beneath the prince�s ear. At this, the boy gave an involuntary sigh of contentment, snuggling back into the warmth Achilles offered.
It never failed to amaze the son of Peleus how quickly he had become enamoured of Paris, how protective he felt towards the prince, how possessive even now. Never had he felt thusly for anyone, not even fair Patroclus�
At the thought of his slain cousin, a wave of black sorrow threatened to overwhelm him and Achilles closed his eyes, biting back the pain of his loss. Something in his silent demeanour must have alerted Paris, for the boy found one of his hands beneath the furs and squeezed tightly.
"Forgive me," he whispered to the warrior.
Overcome by the plea, Achilles crushed the boy�s frame to him, drinking in his scent, relishing the touch of his skin, so soft, so warm, so alive�
"It is this I missed most," Paris confessed, quietly. "You and I, together."
"We will never part, that I promise you," Achilles returned. "In this world and next, we will be together."
There was a pause, then he heard the boy sigh, a release that was more than just air. "Then I am content. I will pursue my people no more. I will go where you deem worthy."
And Achilles� heart felt profound relief at this promise, even as his mind forged ahead to what awaited them now. Come morn they would continue Eastwards to greet the rising sun anew each day. They would hunt and they would fish, journey long and hard until they found new lands in which to make a place for themselves.
Yet the imminent future was quick to flee in favour of the living present when Paris shifted, wriggling sinuously, dangerously close to the warrior�s greater warmth. Achilles was reminded of the one thing he had been stringently forced to deny himself these past days when the flesh between his legs awakened at the boy�s proximity. Weak and fevered, Paris had been gifted kisses, caresses, words of love and devotion but no more. Though Achilles longed to reclaim his lover, assert his ownership of the delights Paris offered and which he alone would partake, he had restrained himself in deference to the boy�s incoherent state.
But now�
Paris was lucid if drowsy and his limbs still held a waxy chill Achilles did not like. Grinning to himself, the warrior knew of one method that would create a fire beneath the furs enough to warm them both. He slipped one hand under the boy�s tunic, running his callused palm across the flat planes of a furless belly and Paris gave a sleepy sigh, squirming slightly as the tickling fingers found overly sensitive spots.
Burying his nose into the dark ringlets, Achilles closed his eyes and let his hands wander, seeking temptation, finding the places he knew that would arouse his lover, make him writhe in pleasure and moan in desire.
"What�?" Paris began, sleepily raising his head before Achilles urged him to lie back down. "What are you doing?"
"Warming you," the warrior replied smoothly, yet with a hidden, mischievous smile.
Touching nipples, belly, thighs, his mouth sought out the boy�s ear, sucking on one delicate lobe and was rewarded with a breathy murmur that pleaded with him not to stop.
"You beg so prettily, prince," Achilles whispered throatily into the boy�s ear, never ceasing in his caresses. "I would hear more ere I end your torment."
And Paris whimpered, his own hands coming to rest atop the warrior�s seeking to guide them to the rising column of flesh between his thighs. But his touch was weak, the knife wound and fever taking their toll upon his strength.
"Please, my love," he begged wantonly, instead, when Achilles refused to yield and touch that most needy of places. "Take me, have me now."
The shameless plea threatened to engulf Achilles in fiery lust, though he retained the most tenuous of control. Without even the doubtful luxuries he had taken with him to Troy, the warrior knew he must take care with his lover. Paris was still weak, wounded, fighting the final stages of fever and his body must not be overtaxed lest he succumb once more to illness.
So while Achilles burned with a need to claim his lover, to drive into the lithe body hard and fast and without cease throughout the night, he restrained himself. Instead he set about slowly stoking Paris� fires, gradually feeding the prince�s needs until his lover was near incoherent and a flood of obscenities streamed forth from those sinful lips.
Tearing aside his clothing, groaning as the thickness of his rearing phallus was released from its confines, Achilles dared not touch himself. He carefully pushed aside Paris� sarong to cup the prince�s buttocks, stroking and caressing the soft globes until the boy squirmed and cried out when a thick finger breached him.
Still so tight, despite his many claimings, Achilles thought, panting through clenched teeth as he was forced to keep his consuming lust at bay yet again. Even his finger felt wondrous clamped inside the moist heat of the boy�s passage.
But Paris was yet too tight and without any slickness penetration would tear him. The seed that even now pearled at the top of his aching cock would not be enough to smooth his way, so Achilles reached for the boy�s own flesh, stroking and teasing, murmuring words of encouragement. Of how he would defile the pretty prince in time, ravish him without surcease, until Paris came undone beneath his knowing hands and threw back his head in passion, slim hips jerking as he found his release.
So easy was it to arouse his lover and bring him to climax, Achilles mused, distracting himself as he gathered the prince�s spilled seed to coat his own throbbing flesh, stabbing two fingers into Paris� welcoming opening, stretching and preparing the boy enough to receive his girth without harm.
Pressing open the boy�s buttocks, his flesh reared eagerly towards the tiny opening, finding of its own accord the entrance beneath the furs and a swift flex of his hips saw Achilles spear himself deeply into the spasming depths. Paris cried out wordlessly as he was filled so abruptly, drowning out Achilles� own throaty moan as he was slowly accepted into the boy�s slender body. He thrust in small surges, like waves lapping upon a shore, until he found himself buried completely, utterly surrounded in a tight warmth that held him as snug like a warrior�s sure grip upon a spear. Achilles kissed Paris� neck in thanks, feeling the boy tremble in his arms, skin flushed silver in the moonlight.
Now he had reasserted his claim upon the prince, Achilles felt no great rush to find his own completion, instead allowed the pressure to build slowly, pleasure simmering through his being as he gently rocked his hips back and forth. Lost in sensation, driving into a wet warmth, it took a while afore Paris� pleading words finally reached his ears.
"T-too much," the prince was sobbing, moaning at each withdrawal, hips jerking in response to the warrior�s steady, piercing thrusts.
Achilles reached over, surprised to feel Paris half hard so soon after his first completion and conceit made him wickedly stroke the prince anew, urging him to a second release though the boy shivered and tried to pull away. He angled his thrusts just so, scraping over the spot of pleasure inside the gripping sheath that he knew drove men mad with lust and tightened his hold upon the boy.
Paris was whimpering unrestrainedly, shaking uncontrollably, incoherent cries issuing forth from his lips as Achilles at last began to pound into him.
"Mine," the warrior grunted, as his pleasure spiralled beyond even his rigid control and his hips were a blur as he thrust his need into his lover�s body.
The boy arched, exposing the pale column of his throat to Achilles, who was quick to swoop upon the flesh, sucking, nipping, marking, even as Paris� length surged in his grip, spewing forth another short stream of seed. His climax triggered Achilles� own as his passage clamped down upon the thick phallus, seeking to milk it of every drop the warrior had to give him.
And Achilles gave most willingly, crying out as the monstrous pressure at last burst from his cock in a blinding flash of ecstasy, a thrill of lightning running from the top of his head to the base of his spine, his balls tight to his body as they fed the pleasure, surge upon surge upon surge�
Until at last he was spent, drained, yet infinitely sated. He did not draw away immediately, but remained buried in Paris� body, feeling the heat pooling between them like a furnace.

He is warm now, Achilles realised, drowsily, in amusement.
Paris was lax, liquid in his arms, no sign of consciousness stirring in him as Achilles tiredly pulled out. He remained close to the boy however, would do so for the remainder of the night until morn awoke the land.
"This will be our future," he promised the unconscious boy in a hoarse whisper. "The days ahead will be long and hard, but the nights will be our own." He reached over, found Paris� hand and brought it to his lips, then sighed and lay back, curling around his lover, legs entwined. "And I will love you for the years to come."
As sleep came at last to claim him, Achilles recalled Odysseus� words, spoken afore they sailed to Troy. He had given them little thought at the time, so consumed were he by the coming war and the chance for glory, but now they resounded back to him in truth�
"Men are haunted by the vastness of eternity, brother," the Ithacan King had remarked as they stood upon the bustling docks, watching the ships being loaded in preparation for conflict. "And so we ask ourselves, will our actions echo across the centuries? Will strangers hear our names long after we are gone? And wonder who we were, how bravely we fought�?"
Odysseus had grinned in self-deprecation then, shook his head as Achilles continued to gaze out over the blue, swelling seas, before adding, wistfully, quietly, "And how fiercely we loved."
END OF TWIST OF THE FATES
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Twist of the Fates