Author's Note - When I first watched "The Myth Makers" I couldn't help but think what a terrible idea it was for a girl from the 25th century to want to spend the rest of her life in the 1100s BC. Forget the language barrier, the cultural barrier alone would be enough to shock and terrify Vicki. That being said, here are the warnings for this story-

WARNING! This story contains rape and although it is not graphic and does not appear "on screen", it is still a major part of the story. There is also graphic violence, including violence against children. If you've read the original myths, then you know how violent things can get.

Also, names of characters will slowly begin to change as Vicki learns the language to reflect the actual pronunciations more accurately.

I, Vicki

Book I

As Aeneas and his men approached on the horizon Vicki knew what the future held for her and Troilus. She wrapped her arms around his torso, squeezing tightly, and whispered, "I love you." Suddenly the man pulled back. He gripped her arms and pushed her away, peering into her eyes with horror. "What?" She demanded.

As the word tumbled from her mouth it seemed to confirm whatever horrible suspicion that had risen in his mind. "You lied," he whispered. "You lied and now the gods have struck you dumb as punishment!"

Vicki stared at him in confusion as more words began pouring from Troilus like a river, but she didn't recognize any of them. He yelled at her then, the angry words hissing at her like a snake. What is he saying? She thought in bewilderment. I don't understand. His fingers around her arms began to tighten with each strange sound that passed through his lips, bruising her skin. He shook her roughly and as she tried to regain her balance it suddenly clicked: the TARDIS. The TARDIS was gone and with it the psychic translator. Troilus was speaking to her in some ancient Anatolian language and Vicki could only reply helplessly back in her own native English.

"Τρωΐλος!"

Troilus's grip became impossibly tight and he pulled on her, pushing her slightly behind him as Aeneas and his men rode up to them on horseback. She heard them call out Troilus's name again, but it didn't quite sound the same as it had before the TARDIS left. They stressed the "i" and the "u" sounded more like an "o", transforming his name into tro-ee-los. Had the TARDIS even translated their names into something that her English ears would recognize? Aeneas came to a stop before them, sparing Achilles no more than a hateful glance, before speaking with Troïlos. The sounds all blended together, leaving Vicki to struggle even when trying to pick out individual words. She could only guess at what they were saying.

But when Aeneas nodded towards her with a questioning tone, she felt Troïlos stiffen. Her heart began to hammer wildly in her chest. Troïlos thought she was a traitor and cursed by the gods, she was going to be executed, she just knew it. She should have never left the TARDIS. She had been so stupid, how could she have possibly thought this could have worked? In a panic she reached out and gripped Troïlos's tunic, tugging on it helplessly. He gave no indication that he even noticed, but after a moment he gestured to her and replied "Χρύσης". He pushed her forward a little, never letting her slip his grip, and Vicki wondered if this was it. But Troïlos didn't sound angry and the vaguely curious looks the Trojans shot her never wavered into horror and rage. Aeneas nodded at whatever explanation the young Trojan gave him and that seemed to be the end of it.

Aeneas held out his hand for Troïlos and with great reluctance he finally let her go. Vicki nearly jumped back in fear when he turned on her then, his face twisted in hatred and despair and helplessness, and gestured wildly across the plains towards the sea. He kept saying that word over and over again: Χρύσης. Finally he threw his hands up in the air in frustration before grasping Aeneas's outstretched hand, letting the older man haul him onto the back of his horse. Vicki leapt out of the way as the Trojans took off at a gallop towards Troy, spitting on the corpse of Achilles as they went. Vicki felt her mouth drop in shock as they watched them go. It was suicide. Madness. Troy was already lost. The flames were so high that they were licking the sky.

With a huff of frustration Vicki ran after them. If Troïlos thought she was going to run off and hide while he got himself killed he had another thing coming.

Vicki had never seen such horror. She flinched and threw herself against the rough stone walls of the pillaged houses, her body instinctively trying to find some insignificant crack to press into. She stared with wide, terrified eyes as the Trojans were massacred in front of her. The swords whistled as they swung down in wide arcs, slicing through women and children and men alike. What few Trojan men that had survived the war were quickly mowed down by the great Greek machine.

Vicki felt hard, calloused hands wrap around her waist and tug her away from the shadows she had hidden herself in. With a panicked shriek Vicki turned on her would-be abductor and wailed on him with her fists and feet. She could feel his skin dig beneath her fingernails as she scraped and scratched along his eyes and ears. The Greek soldier had assumed she would not put up much of a fight, but as she flopped about in his grasp like a fish, limbs flailing everywhere, she was able to more than once land a lucky blow that struck hard across his neck and head. With a curse he hurled her away from him and pulled out his sword to strike her down, but as soon as Vicki was on her feet she was running wildly through the streets. She had no plan other than to find Troïlos. He was the only friend she had in this strange, frightening world; there was no way she was going to lose him.

She knew the ancient myths; she had studied them in school along with all those other silly ancient fairy tales that had once been called "religion". Troïlos's death and the fall of Troy were intimately linked. If Troïlos died before he came of age, the prophecy stated, then Troy would be destroyed. And he did die, at least he did so in those old myths. Struck down by Achilles. But that didn't happen, Vicki insisted fervently. Troïlos had won the fight. But that didn't change the fact that Troy was burning all around her and Troïlos was lost somewhere amongst the soldiers.

Vicki breathed a sigh of relief as the palace came into view. If Troïlos was anywhere it would be here, with his family. A sharp, piercing scream erupted from somewhere above her. Vicki looked up to see a young boy, a toddler no more than three or four, falling through the air. He landed a few feet in front of her, his head cracking open and spilling out like an overripe melon. Vicki stood there in numb astonishment as waves of horror and nausea crashed over her. She dimly recognized the boy as Astyanax, Troïlos's nephew and the son of Hector and Andromache. She had met Hector's young widow just briefly when King Priam had introduced her to his family. She had clutched Astyanax to her chest the entire time, staring off out onto the distant battlefield with unseeing eyes. Vicki looked at the broken body and the streaks of red mud that surrounded him and tried to think back on that little boy that had whined petulantly and clutched at his mother. Her mind refused to summon the image, her thoughts running round and round through her head in confusion.

The terrified screams ringing through the streetspierced through the hazy fog that had draped itself over her senses and somewhere she heard what sounded like the braying of a dog. With a sudden creak, the wide double doors of the palace were thrown open, the wood splintering from the soldier's boots as they were kicked apart. A pair of Greek soldiers pulled Queen Hecuba out into the twilight and through the blood-stained dirt. The old woman was barking and howling madly at the unfeeling moon. Behind her was Cassandra, casually strolling beside her Greek captors, laughing at some joke only she knew. Vicki swallowed back down her nausea; she needed to hide before the Greeks saw her. She swayed drunkenly on her feet, desperately trying to gather her loose thoughts as she glanced around for a means of escape. A large hand slipped gently into her's and Vicki looked up at the haggard, bearded face of King the two of them wove their way through the terrible din.

Vicki allowed herself to be pulled along, closing her eyes against the horrible violence that surged around her. If she was going to die from a Greek sword slicing into her then she would rather not have to watch it happen. All she could do was put her trust in Priam and hope she survived. When the old king finally dropped her hand Vicki opened her eyes to find herself standing in the middle of a magnificent temple. Vicki felt her mouth fall open in awe as she looked up at the towering figure of Zeus seated in front of her. The raging fires outside gleamed off the gold robes and ivory skin and copper beard, making the god look like a vision from another world. King Priam reached out with a tentative hand, daring to touch the statue's foot as it jutted out from beneath its golden cloak. He was wailing something, a prayer Vicki supposed, though she couldn't understand it.

With a sudden cry Vicki tore herself away from the old man to see Troïlos run into the temple, his tunic and armor torn and fear etched across his face as though pursued by the hounds of hell. It may as well have been a hound for hot on his heels was a young Greek with a spear in one hand and a sword in the other. He couldn't have been any older than Vicki or Troïlos themselves, but his features were twisted by rage and hate, making him seem unnatural and demonic. Vicki couldn't help but shrink away at the sight of his white-knuckled hand twisting the hilt of his sword threateningly at them. Troïlos stumbled back toward her and Vicki could see red blooming across his tunic. Blood was running down through his fingers as he clutched at his side and all Vicki could do was helplessly press her hands on top of his in a fruitless effort to put more pressure against the wound. He sagged against her and whispered something into her hair- "Χρύσης."

"Νεοπτόλεμος!" Old Priam bellowed out as he stepped up to meet the Greek warrior. Vicki recognized the word; it was name, Neoptolemus. The son of Achilles. Troïlos allowed her to only hold onto him for a second more before finding some hidden strength to push himself back up to stand next to his father. He was dead-eyed with pain and swaying slightly. An old man and a wounded boy were about to face the son of the deadliest fighter ancient Greece had ever produced. It wasn't going to be a battle at all, but a massacre. She glanced around the temple, but there were no weapons, only decorative objects and stone urns filled with oil. Vicki carefully slid along the temple walls, hoping not to attract Neoptolemus's attention. The man didn't even glance in her direction, his eyes never wavered from the boy that killed his father.

With an embittered cry King Priam rushed towards him. The Greek let loose his spear and before the old man could even get close he was struck down, the weapon shredding his stomach and hurling him down to the ground. Vicki shrieked as the blood was forced outward, staining her dress so that it clung wetly to her calves. She scrambled wildly across the temple, her panic overwhelming her mind until any thoughts of trying to sneak quietly by were erased. She grasped the handles of a stone urn and tried to lift it, but it wouldn't budge. With a desperate kick she toppled the vase, spilling the oil and filling the air with heavy perfume. She could hear the ringing of swords as Troïlos and Neoptolemus grappled with each other, and once again she pulled on the handles. She was able to lift it until it was balanced on top of her shoulder and, in a mad dash, she raced towards the men.

Neoptolemus was sprawled on top of Troïlos, one hand wrapped tightly around his neck, the other digging into his wound. Both of their swords lay by their sides, forgotten. Vicki had intended to smash the urn on top of Neoptolemus's head like she had seen in many of those old movies that Barbara and Ian had so loved, but it was far to heavy for her to throw. She dropped it, leaving it to tumble gracelessly from her shoulder. The heavy stone came crashing down on top of Neoptolemus's back, right in between his shoulder blades. She heard something crack and Neoptolemus gave a strangled gasp as the air fled from his lungs. He collapsed on top of Troïlos and, now free of the Greek's grip, quickly grasped his sword and bashed in Neoptolemus's face in with the hilt. Once, twice, three times until there was nothing left except for a caved-in skull.

Vicki could feel her nausea returning with full force and she quickly turned away to throw up on the once beautifully decorated floors. She tried to take deep, calming breaths, but the smell of blood and frankincense assaulted her, leaving her gagging and unable to breathe. It was only when Troïlos called out weakly that she was able to swallow the rising vomit back down. He was injured, he might even be dying. She couldn't waste time like this. She helped him onto his feet and the two made their way out of the temple. Now that she had Troïlos it was time to abandon Troy to its fate. There was nothing left to do here.

"Κρέουσα!"

Vicki looked up to see Aeneas standing in the middle of the street, looking lost and frantic. He was carrying an old man across his back and a little boy was clutching at his leg. "Κρέουσα!" He called out again, looking carefully at each Trojan that rushed passed him in their flight.

Troïlos said something in reply and Aeneas looked at them with such a look of heartbreak that Vicki could feel her heart tighten at the sight. For a brief second, he stood there, unsure and unmoving, but the sounds of Greeks marching through the streets finally spurred him into action. The look of helpless panic was gone and in its place was a mask of determination and confidence. The façade of a leader. Aeneas grasped hold of the little boy's wrist and led Vicki and Troïlos out of the city towards the harbor, where his ships lay.

O Muse, the causes tell! What sacrilege,

Or vengeful sorrow, moved the Queen of Heaven

To thrust on dangers dark and endless toil

A man whose largest honor in men's eyes

Was serving Heaven? Can gods such anger feel?