PART ONE: MIRAGE
The desert burned. Like a long dream, lucidity slipping in and out of the sandy mirage. The sky piercingly blue, the
dust rising and falling, the quick wind that swirled under the azure stones and was no more. And the voices of the Gods, the
harps of old, a dying pulse that throbbed under the ancient city that was Troy.
He stood alone, his eyes dark and pensive, watching the white sails billowing and all the while the sand swirling
like a forgotten song. All power within his grasp, the centre of the world at his feet, the lives of millions like a
wave across the burning sand. He had everything and nothing.
"Hector." The voice came, beautiful, steady and with the warmth of a spring day after a bad dream.
"Andromache." He did not turn, did not trust himself to turn. Could not bring himself to let that honey warm skin
dissuade him from his duty. Even the taste of her name on the lips made his own tremble ever so slightly.
"Will you not come inside?"
"I must watch the gates of Troy".
For the rest of time, perhaps.
Her dark sapphire eyes intoxicated him. It was difficult to see who was more beautiful- Helen with her golden
curls, at once blazing with Helio's immortality, and yet gentle and comforting like the birth of spring's child, or Paris,
loved by the Gods, pale skin and dark brown eyes chiselled from the springs of youth. All who saw them could not take
their eyes off them, such was the youth, beauty and defiance of Helen and Paris.
They loved like there was no love more beautiful. They walked like the world belonged to them. And all these they
did knowing that this tale was theirs and belonged to no other.
troy will burn.
for the world's desire.
With the majesty of a thousand empires, Helen stood before the court of Troy with Paris at her side. The golden
couple. Holding their love up for the scorn of a thousand ages.
Love, it's just a word.
But what a powerful word.
"My brother," his voice floated down the hallway. Youthful, joyful and beautiful. He turned, could not help
smiling.
"Paris." There were no other words. He was a warrior and a prince but could not tell his beloved brother how
much he missed him. How much he loved his presence, his radiance, his youth. They would come out clumsy and would mar
his memory.
Their eyes met, brown upon brown, both proud and strong. With nothing between then and everything as well.
And all this while, the desert dream continued and the wind blew the soft sand around the marble floors of Troy.
The rising sun woke him. The cool sheets and open windows. The smell of the salt he had come to love as the sea
rolled.
Troy. He was linked to it, his blood steeped into the traditions and mystique of the place, his soul forever
bound to its sun, its land, its sand.
It would live forever. He would not.
He felt Andromache move, her scent and her presence filling him, the brush of her soft skin on his knee. He turned
around, not trusting himself to look, but could not help looking at her once more, brushing his fingers across her
lips, watching her eyelashes flutter ever so slightly in the breeze and the thin white royal linen of Troy that clung
to the curves of her body. He wanted to pick her up, kiss her over and over again, devour her, ravaging her like there
was no tomorrow. But he did not. It would frighten her and she would not understand.
He did not know if tomorrow would come. Did not know if he would see the sun shine on the Troy he loved. Did
not know anything except that everything seemed to move so slowly these days, like he was stumbling through the chasm
of a long desert mirage with a golden light at the end.
And he was suddenly afraid. Of losing everything he loved to that bright light.
Of losing his mortality.
Troy was so different from Sparta. Every pillar had a tale, a mystique, a warmth, a freedom, where the wind
of the four seas blew in, where love grew and flourished, where the sea carried lullabies to her bed and the stars
burned at night. She could not imagine a place more safe, more beautiful.
The hem of her dress caught and tore on a hook as she walked. Scratched her soft skin and the a drop of blood fell
on the stone walls of Troy. A single drop of blood that glimmered and spoke a million prophecies.
It disappeared before she could get to it but the stain did not leave.
Would not leave. Until blood had been spilt.
Her guilt flowed. In the wine that she drank out of shame, in the bed where she lay entwined with Paris- of
a prophecy, of a crime, of secrets untold. Of a nation that would burn with a single drop of her blood. Of the
tragedy that she would bring to the sandy shores of ancient Troy.
The world's desire.
Desire and destruction.
Two ends of the same string.
It would come down to this.
He kissed her fervently under the sycamore bough of the gardens of Troy. A secret, furtive kiss- like a wisp
of a sea-nymph's hair stolen from her while she lay in tranquil sleep in her deep sea cave. Again and again, the kisses
came, unyielding, needy and gentle all at once. "Hector," she gasped, suddenly afraid. Suddenly realised. Suddenly aware
and suddenly needy herself, needed to feel him inside her, needed his lips strong on hers. He would not say anything. She
unfastened her robe, the cold wind suddenly caressing her bare skin, the soft white linen a trembling heap upon her pale
shoulders. She met his eyes, could not get enough of those dark brown eyes that were soft and beautiful and manly. Willing
him to take her. While he still could. He looked at her, so long it felt as if eternity had silenced the stars once and for
all. As if time lay between them and there was no tomorrow. And then, he reached down, holding her in his arms, their
skins touching and becoming one with the moonlight.
How she wished that the dawn did not exist
The trumpets blazed. The harp played its melancholy tune over again- of the stars, of love, of fate.
And Troy stood- proud, mighty and vulnerable to the watching eyes of the Greeks.
Tainting the sand with every Trojan they killed upon its dreaming sand.
As their immortality faded into the rising sun, calling from across the stars.