Prologue: Twinkling Night

The land is dry, black and desolate. The night twinkles with the lights of the faraway stars. My feet feel scorched over the rough sand that protrudes into my sandals. I sit, bent down on my knees, and look out at the city. My hands grip the edge of the roof tightly, the knuckles white with anxiety. Each house burns, the dying wood crumbles to pieces beneath the roofs, sparks flying off the flames. The horse stares at me with no eyes, yet seems to have the Gods color in them. All the Gods, staring down at me, eyes filled with contempt. Betrayer they seem to whisper, pointing their glorious fingers down at me, scorning me from the heavens above. I do not protest, for such a thing is not needed. The stone temples and fortresses are torn down to pieces, the men raging into battle with cries and howls, lifting their gleaming swords tipped in blood and guts. They have threatened me, down to death. But I am safe here, atop the stone house that once served as servant's quarters. I curl into a ball, tears drilling down my cheeks uncontrollably as I picture the deaths from days before. His body is dragged in the sand without dignity laid upon him. I watch from above, I see the victor's face, it is unreadable, no joy, no sorrow. Then it is the blood, clotting around his throat, he is choking, choking in pain, tears filling his eyes, making the soldiers around him blurry. He sees the Prince, but can do nothing. He calls for no help, yet I can hear him whisper my name. Aldreana

Now it is the shout of pain piercing through the air, I can hear her scream muffle Achilles' cry. I look down to the garden, where a dead king already lays, still and dead.

"Paris! Don't!" her shrill cry echoes in my ears. Paris shows no sign of remorse, only the will to kill the man huddled close to his own cousin. The arrow is nocked, the bowstring pulled to its full length. His eyes are full of pleasure, glee and retribution. The wood of the arrow sticks out on either end of his ankle, blood pooling around it. I squeeze the hilt of his cousin's sword, swearing on his grave to end the evil works of Paris and his charm. The face, the beauty stares back at me, the hard wood creaks on either side of me as the water pulls me closer to the shores. His face, soft, surprised and fully aware of my presence to an extent, all the memories flash into my head. I look to the man, the legend. Deep in the crevasses of Achilles' eyes, I know he sees me. He does not call for help, but seems to be in peace. The war for him is over, like it was for many yesterday and the day before. Night twinkles down on me, my brown hair swirls around me as it is pulled in the wind. He is safe, at peace, but gone forever. Now I only wish I was…