Author's Note: This is story has been haunting me for months. The first time I wrote it, I had a very specific ideal in mind, but at the end of chapter 2 I realized I had started my story too late. I literally wrote myself into a corner, and there was no way I could get where I wanted to go with this story the way I had started the first time. So now I am writing it again, but this time, I am giving myself more room to work in. I deeply apologies to the readers of the first version, for leaving off so long ... but ... let's just say that there were matters that needed attending to before I could continue with my writing. Please read and review, I can only learn and improve with all your help and feedback. Thank you and enjoy! Oh, and don't be shy about sharing thoughts or ideas. I'd love to hear from you.
Disclaimer: This derivative work is written with the sole purpose of entertaining the fans of the original film production and the original poetic work of Homer. No infringement is intended. No monetary gain is being made. Copyright remains with the entitled holders.
Second Skin
By Aura Sandoval
Prologue
In Troy there were stories. There always were.
What is history really, but a collection of stories, folk tales and legends based on fact?
They told of wise old King Priam. A little too obsessed with omens for their tastes, but a good king. A wise king. Their lives were comfortable and prosperous under his gentle rule. Rumor had it his favorite drink was a strange concoction of grape juice and honey. Every peasant who tried to copy the drink thought it vile. Perhaps, they reasoned, they just didn't have the right recipe. Another story remembers his bravery, many years ago, when the last of Troy's enemies learned the lesson: Do not attack Troy. You will regret it. It told of his great compassion, how he help carry the bodies of the slain soldiers back to the city walls, and then went out with his own men to help the enemy gather their dead. The people liked King Priam
Storytellers who were there, sometimes ones who knew someone who was there once told them around the campfires at night.
They told of brave, courageous Prince Hector. The pride and glory of Troy. He who would defend them against any enemy, and lead them inevitably to victory. Troy slept safe knowing Hector was their heir. Rumor had it de didn't have a taste for his father's favorite drink either. He loved his wife dearly, so the story went. And his baby boy was his hearts' greatest joy. He wittled little animals for his son's play from stone and wood from all the places he visted. It was his way of staying close to home. But the rumor most often told, and with most delight, was of Hector's brotherly doting on his strange little brother. People liked Prince Hector.
Sometimes these stories were embellished. He defeated a real giant, they'd say. The biggest man anyone had ever seen. He fought of an army single-handedly. Thousands they were.
They told of the doleful, young Prince Paris, a strange boy, or so the rumor said. Not a warriors' son, certainly. Fair beyond the ability of poets to describe, gentle in soul and shy in nature. Strange though, he would never look you in the eye for long, or turn his back on you. And although a grown young man now, still not long in the palace. Stories abounded of why this was so. Some said the gods had seen his extraordinary beauty and took him to Olympus to live among others as fair as he. Others said his mother despised him for his beauty and sent him to live amongst the peasants as a sheep herder. Weren't there other stories from the countryside about a young man never allowed to show his face? People loved Prince Paris.
But tales of great victories, despised enemies, unbelievable conquests or magnificent deeds all share one unaccounted flaw:
History is written by the ones who won the war.