Ok, I'll admit it. 6 months is one hell of a long time and I am deeply sorry. I'll try to get my ass in gear. My muse died for quite a while and it took a slight verbal kick up the butt to get it back. So thanks to everyone who reviewed since my last post but especially to ImaKickYoAs. Your timing was perfect and was just what I needed! :) So here's the next installment. Enjoy. xxx

Achilles' tent was achingly empty that night. Paris' scent still clung to the furs on her bed and the torture of it was almost her undoing. So, like the coward she was beginning to feel, she ran from the pain she found in the lonely, empty hell that, not long ago, had been her sanctuary.. She walked through the camp and let the murmuring voices of the soldiers drown out the remembered sound of her lover's gentle whisper.

Lost in her thoughts it took her a moment to recognise the name she heard being called as her own. Odysseus was sat with a few of his men by the fire and beckoned her over. She gave a half hearted smile and walked to join him, sitting down beside him.

The older man watched her in silence for a while. There was such a deep sadness in her and without asking he knew it had to be because of the younger Trojan Prince, now the only one. He wanted to make her talk but could tell by the set of her jaw that even his skilled words would not be enough to coax details from her, not in front of the other men, some of whom were giving her condemning looks for sleeping with the enemy, others giving her looks of awe for slaying their greatest adversary. So he settled for a comforting hand on her back and was somewhat comforted himself to find she didn't tense or withdraw at the gesture.

The light from the flame was hurting her eyes but Achilles couldn't look away. Whenever she did she was confronted with soldiers who stared with pride or accusation. She neither wanted nor deserved either, nor did she want to think about either event that inspired such a passionate response in total strangers. Thinking about defeating Hector filled her with anger and shame. Thinking about Paris... Well... it was just better for all involved if she didn't think about Paris.

"That's good," she heard Odysseus say and she turned her head to see what had caught her friend's attention. It was a toy horse a soldier was whittling, a pile of wood shavings at his feet showing he had been working on it for some time.

When Achilles glanced at the king's face her blood ran cold. He was very still, thoughtful, calculating. He had an idea. And Odysseus' ideas never worked out well for the opposition.

She caught the man's eye and sent him a questioning look. He frowned briefly and shook his head. Not yet. He would tell her soon but not yet, when his plan was only half formed. She nodded and rose to her feet. Placing a hand on his shoulder she bent at the waist and lightly kissed his cheek. Before he could say anything to her she was gone, weaving her way through the masses of men back to her camp. Back to her cold and lonely bed.

The task was finally completed. The massive wooden structure was finished and all camps and ships were gone. Dead soldiers lay scattered about, their bodies painted to appear diseased, struck by plague. Now all that remained was for the remaining Greeks to climb in and wait. Achilles, clad in her shining golden armour, helm in hand, stood beside Odysseus and stared up at the impressive structure. She had to admit, the men had done a very good job.

She sighed. "Agamemnon will kill them all, Odysseus. Men, women, children - all of them. You know that and yet you help him." Her voice was so low and the following silence so long she didn't think he had heard her.

But he had. "I am the king of Ithaca, not Troy. My loyalty is to Ithaca. If this plan works, the war ends in a night. And my men can sail home to their wives." He could imagine the carnage, the utter devastation they would leave in their wake if they succeeded and it made his gut lurch. But he knew that if he failed Agamemnon because of an attack of conscience, Ithaca would be next on Agamemnon's list. His home, his family, gone. It was his responsibility to ensure that didn't happen. And if another city had to fall for that to happen, so be it.

Achilles' answering silence disturbed him. This had never bothered her before and it wouldn't normally bother her now. "It's not Troy you're worried about, is it?" he asked angrily, hardly believing what he knew to be true. "It's one Trojan. One Trojan Prince." He was furious at her selfishness. "You would throw everything away, destroy all we both love, for one stupid, cowardly boy?!"

She glared openly at him, her eyes spitting blue flame. His raised voice had drawn the attention of the surrounding soldiers but Achilles did not care. "I have always loved you as a brother," she said, her tone close to a growl. "But if he dies because of your plan, you will never sail home to your wife." She pushed her helm onto her head and turned on her heel, springing up from the sand and hauling herself to the wooden horse's head to await the Trojans and their inevitable stupidity.

It was hot. It was very hot. And the smell was terrible. When Achilles, Odysseus and his men had clambered into the wooden horse the sun had barely cleared the horizon. Now it was well past noon and Achilles was beginning to wonder if they had misjudged the Trojans' vanity. There had been no sign of them all day.

She shifted a little and winced at the stiff muscles in her back. With the back of her hand she wiped beads of sweat from her forehead then replaced her helm. She would show no weakness in front of these men, not even to the sweltering heat. She glanced over her shoulder at the men down below, sat uncomfortably in the horse's feet and was grateful she was not among them. Having been in this wooden structure for hours, several men had needed to... relieve themselves and had not been able to leave the horse to do it. Yes, better to be sat up higher in the heat than down below, slightly cooler but covered in...

"They are coming!"

Odysseus' rough whisper almost made Achilles jump and within moments every man was fidgeting, anxious to move, to escape this furnace and breathe clean air. The scrape of armour against wood was alarmingly loud.

"Be still!" Achilles commanded, her whisper holding just as much authority as her shout. At once the men froze and listened to the approaching men, peering through the cracks to watch.

She leaned forward, her head level with what would have been the horse's right eye, and let herself smile a little, feeling her gut give a lurch.

There he was. And they were continuing the deception. Paris was dressed as Hector would have been, as the king's heir. He looked good. Had it really only been ten days? It felt like a lifetime had passed.

She listened to their predictable boasting and had to fight back a laugh. Did they honestly think their gods had delivered them from the hands of the Greeks?

But apparently they did. "This is a gift," they said. "We should bring it to the Temple of Poseidon."

"I think we should burn it," Paris stated and Achilles nodded to herself in agreement. That was the smartest thing she had ever heard him say. And yet they ignored him.

"Burn it? My prince, it is a gift to the gods!" he was told.

Priam said, "By honoring the gods as we do they spared Hector's life." Achilles' blood ran cold and a ripple of tension ran through the men. "That warrior woman could have finished him yet she walked away! Clearly that was intervention from Apollo." Her entire body went ramrod stiff and she didn't dare move a muscle. She silently begged Paris to say nothing. She could still talk her way out of this as long as he...

"It was not the gods that spared Hector. It was Achilles! She let him live. For me!"

The silence that followed Paris' statement was deafening. She hadn't noticed how much noise the soldiers were making until they stopped. The colour drained from her face and the world spun. This could not be happening!

"Father, burn it!"

Oh, how she wished they would. But she knew better. She was more than grateful she had chosen to put herself in the horse's head, out of sight and line of fire. Just those few short words, spoken with such passion and conviction, had condemned her, branded her. Without a direct order from their king, these soldiers would attempt to execute her, the traitor, at the first opportunity. With wide, panicked eyes she looked behind her where Odysseus was glaring at her, his stare full of fury and betrayal. He would not defend her now.

It had taken them hours but the Trojans had finally brought the horse and it's secret occupants to the courtyard outside the temple. By the time it had reached it's destination Achilles' nerves were all but shot. At every jolt and jerk she expected to feel a knife in her back or at her throat. And at that moment, with her life and reputation lying in tattered, shredded ruins, she had no heart to defend herself.

They were surrounded by music, singing, people shouting and crying out for joy. There were street performers and dancers and stalls selling food. The scent of burning offerings in the many temples drifted through the air and mixed unpleasantly with the stench of sweat from the men pressed in so close within the horse. If she did not escape this wooden prison soon Achilles knew she would go mad.

But then she saw him again, standing on the palace balcony, his brother at his side. She made herself ignore the restless fidgeting and angry muttering from the horse's belly at the sight of the man she was supposed to have killed. Just the sight of Paris stood there, alive and well and happy, was enough to put her mind at ease.

He passed Hector a cup which he accepted with the hand not restrained by the tight sling he wore. They tipped a little wine onto the ground for the gods then drank together. The elder brother's face was still bruised and pale and his posture lacked the confidence it had held not two weeks ago. But his strength would return in time, that much Achilles knew.

They were joined on the balcony by three women, all beautiful, all smiling, one carrying a baby. The red haired mother ran a caressing hand down Hector's arm and he turned, kissing the child on his bald head. Andromache and Scamandrius, Achilles realised. And out of the other two it was easy to see which was Helen. Her blonde hair gleamed in the late afternoon sun and her smile dazzled even Achilles. But what surprised her was the difference in their behaviour compared with Hector and his wife. She frowned. If she did not know any better she would think there was nothing between them.

And then they were joined by another man, one she did not recognise. He was handsome, closer to Hector than Paris in both appearance and age, and was dressed almost as elegantly. Helen looked up at this man and everything made sense. Her face glowed with happiness and she took his hand. The brunette elbowed Paris in the ribs but he just shrugged with a grin. Why shouldn't he be pleased for them?

But then his eyes fell on the wooden horse once again and his smile faltered, pain and loss clouding his features and Achilles felt that look like a kick to the chest. He believed she had left. He thought she had broken her promise and left without saying goodbye.

With his eyes still fixed on the horse Achilles could almost imagine he could see her, crouched uncomfortably and staring at his perfect face. She pressed her palm to the rough wood and willed him to have faith. "Believe in me," she whispered, her quiet plea lost in the sounds of Troy celebrating her great victory over the Greeks.