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Rage Regret & Redemption	By : Liliana Category: S through Z > Troy Views: 10162 -:- 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
- 7
- 8
Please note that the disclaimer, pairing and warnings for this story are given at the begining of the first chapter.
CHAPTER EIGHT:
One instant.
One instant of shocking pain. One instant to realize that he had been struck by a Greek arrow and then...he was falling...
Time slowed to a crawl.
His fall became as light as that of a feather, gently settling down upon the ground and the sounds of battle and terror receded, to become naught but a distant echo.
It was then that Paris noticed the brackish smoke no longer made his eyes sting. Indeed, the denseness of it was lightening in color until he found himself surrounded by a white, billowy cloud. He was surprised to see that he was standing once more and his hand went to the spot on his chest that had caused him such agony, only to find no arrow protruding from it. Instead, his fingers touched a fabric of such luxurious softness that he knew it could not have been woven by any human hand.
Paris understood.
Strange that he felt no fear, no rage, no regret, only a gentle compulsion to move forward. And so he began to walk, unhurriedly, trough the mist. He had travelled for only a short while, or perhaps an eternity, before the whiteness started to dissipate, giving him a tantalizing glimpse at what appeared to be a marble floor under his bare feet.
Then the cloud parted completely, as if it were an opening portal, and Paris suddently found himself standing not inside a marbled hall, but upon a dark, pebbled ground beneath what looked to be a grey sky in the twilight of winter. He looked back over his shoulder, to find that the white cloud had folded into itself and somehow, he knew he would not again be granted passage there. Squaring his shoulders in acceptance, Paris brought his eyes forward to survey the scene before him.
He was not alone.
There were many others, scattered through out the rocky shore. Some were pacing about, wringing their hands as they muttered to themselves. Some were standing with their heads thrown back, their mouths opened wide as they wailed their despair up to the uncaring skies. But most, simply sat upon the pebbles, their bodies rocking in various rythms, as they wept into their hands. Paris looked at them, his brow furrowing. All were dressed in coarse, homespun robes of the same grey that colored their surroundings and none, seemed to take notice of his presence. But there was something else...
And then, it hit him.
Silence. Eery silence. Though he could clearly see the agony of those lost souls, he could not hear them. Nor could he hear the sounds of the slate-colored water that ran swiftly along the shore. His hands began to go up towards his own ears.
" You cannot hear them, because you are not meant to share their fate."
Paris' heart leapt into his throat as he spun around. The cloud was gone and standing in it's place...
" Achilles." The name escaped Paris with a sigh.
The mighty Greek stood before him, clad only in a long kilt of the purest white, held about his hips by an exquisite golden clasp, wrought in exact likeness to the shield he had so long carried in battle. About his neck, lay a necklace of seashells and pearls, gleaming against the muscled chest, a chest that was unmarred by any wound. Yet Paris remembered the sound of his arrows as they...
The young Trojan lifted eyes that were welled by tears. How to say that he did not know... That he would have never fired those arrows, if...
Sky-blue eyes looked back at him, brimming with love and forgiveness.
" You do not have to tell me...beloved."
Then Achilles closed the distance between them and gathered Paris into his arms.
Their lips met with the eager abandon of two, who had been too-long parched, and their tongues quenched themselves with the taste of one another. Paris felt those strong, warrior hands roam over his back and his own rose, in turn, to tangle in golden tresses. For long moments they held each other thus, the soft sounds of their mingled moans the only thing breaking the haunting quiet. Then Achilles, reluctantly, ended their contact to gaze down into liquid-brown eyes.
" Come, my love. He is waiting."
Hands clasped, of their own accord, as Paris and Achilles began to walk away from the grey ones and their voiceless wailing. For a while, they travelled without speaking and Paris began to notice a gradual change in their surroundings. The hard pebbles gave way to soft, sand. The sky overhead lightened to pale autumn and he could now hear the sound of the river Styx, as it flowed relentlessly by.
Aye. He knew where they were going.
And suddently, they were there, stopped before a short pier that tethered a magnificent, yet terrifying sight. The fabled boat. It gleamed ivory, like the bleached skeleton of some fantastical beast, swaying in tandem with the river's current and before it, swathed in a hooded robe the color of pure basalt, stood the boatman.
Achilles led Paris onto the pier. But once upon it, the prince came to a standstill, as an awful realization dawned.
" Why do you hesitate, my love?."
" Achilles... We have no coins for the boatman. He will not let us board!." Brown eyes widened in despair.
" It is your deeds in life and what you let dwell in your hearts that provide the coinage for your passage."
A voice, sephulcral yet oddly comforting, answered the prince's fear. Both Paris and Achilles turned towards the cloaked figure, whose face none can ever see. One hand, as bleached as the boatman's craft, lifted to point at them.
" Love can change even one hardened by constant battle. Love can make hidden courage spring forth. For in love, lies the gift of redemption."
As those words finished echoing through the pier, Paris felt an odd burning and he looked down to find two shining coins, resting on the palm of his hand.
" Come. My vessel awaits to carry you both to your final destination."
Thus did mighty Achilles and brave, young Paris embark on their last journey. As the boat pulled away to begin the crossing their faces turned towards a far, green shore where they could now see that many waited.
Rows upon rows of warriors, once felled by the one all had called the ' Golden Lion', had come to welcome their brother-at-arms. Before them, stood the generations from which both Achilles and Paris had sprung and in their very center, wise King Priam held tightly to his beloved Queen, with whom he was at last reunited.
Foremost of all, two figures stood side by side upon the planks of the receiving pier. One, a powerful warrior and devoted prince to his country. The other, little more than a youth, whose life had ended in valiant adherence to his ideals. Hector and Peracles, their hands lifting in joyful greeting.
The sight brought soaring happiness to the two who leaned, with their arms around each other, against the railing of the boat. But still, some part of Paris remained troubled. He looked up into the face of the one he loved.
" Helen..." He began.
Those beautiful sky-blue eyes gazed back at him with undestanding and a smile curved the generous lips.
" Our hearts have many rooms, my love." He said. " When Helen's time comes, we will both stand in turn upon yon pier, to welcome her with open arms."
And with those words, the rift that had sundered Paris' heart was healed. With a sigh of perfect contentment, he rested his dark curls on the shoulder of his beloved and waited for the waters of river Styx to bear them home...

~~~~~~~~~~
A group of Greek warriors looked down at the still body laying in the smoke-filled hallway of what had once been a great, thriving city. And the peaceful smile upon the face that was breathtakingly handsome, despite being splattered with blood, only served to furher fuel their battle-rage. With a venomous curse, the leader grabbed the pummel of his sword in both hands, then brought the point of it down to visciously stab into the armored chestplate of the fallen one.
But it mattered not. For Paris, youngest prince of Troy, had now passed beyond all pain.
~THE END~
Author Note: Thank you very much for coming along with me on this tale's journey. Since it seems that my Greek muse is not quite done with me yet, I should warn you that another story will probably be on the way soon... :)
~Thalionwen~
- 7
- 8
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Rage Regret & Redemption