Destruction of Innocence

Rating: PG13 for some violence

Summary: After an experience in battle, Priam worries about the future of his children.

A/N: Just a short one-shot about Priam and his thoughts on Paris and Hector. Takes place before the Trojan War, Priam's POV, and Anchises is Aeneas' father, but that's not important in this story. Enjoy!

Nervousness rises in my chest, threatening to overtake me. This is only a mission to stop bandits- but there are so many! I have a hundred soldiers with me. How many do they have? It seems that every shadow conceals a bandit. Perhaps the gods are against the Trojans tonight.

Anchises shifts on his horse, eyeing the shadows as I was doing. "They can't have more than a hundred and fifty men," he assures me in that guttural voice of his. "And they do not know we're here yet. We have the element of surprise- we can defeat them."

"The moon," I point out. Artemis is showing almost all of her face to the earth tonight. An ambush has a better chance of success if there is no light to show the attackers.

Anchises shrugs and smiles, lifting his head to be caressed by the moon's dim light. "We will have to be swift," he advises. "If we are lucky, they drank too much of their stolen wine."

I cannot force myself to return the grin. Only Anchises could take danger so lightly. Instead I turn to the soldiers behind me, announcing the orders as softly as I can.

"Close around their camp, in the trees. We must be quick, or they'll hear us. On my command, we attack."

None speak, but they break off into two groups, one to follow Anchises and one to trail me. It is impossible to be silent. The horses' hooves make slight thudding noises in the soft dirt. But Anchises was right- the bandits have clearly been celebrating with wine. A few lay asleep behind the others, as the wild patterns of the campfire flicker across their faces. But others are still awake and seem very sober. If we wait, they will see us.

In one motion I raise my fist to the sky, and hell is unleashed. The Trojan horses and warriors charge into the circle of bandits, and immediately the quiet night is shattered with the war-cries and the screams of the dying. In the chaos I know nothing, feel nothing but the hot neck of my horse and the damp hilt of the sword lying across my palm. Somewhere in the back of my mind a logical voice spins out the effects of the skirmish: those bandits who were sleeping were killed first, Anchises is fighting their leader, I have been sliced by a dagger on my calf. The cold moonlight combined with the fire's orange glow create the perfect light to blur my vision and my thoughts, and I hack away blindly at the men who oppose me. Something else is controlling me, moving my limbs and my sword in precise, deadly arcs.

Then the nightmarish haze fades away, leaving my vision restored. The bandits are dead, their battered bodies sprawled out around the steady campfire, with some Trojans resting there as well. It is sick. Only moments before they were celebrating a victory, and now they bathe in their own blood and innards as we celebrate ours.

"We didn't lose many men," Anchises says, off to my right. "Victory for Troy!" He is streaked with blood, yet he is unwounded. How can he bear to be blanketed by another man's blood? But my own arms and legs and stained with crimson as well. It is still warm, sickly warm. How can I bear it?

I want to retch. I can't. I swallow and open my mouth, and the voice I hear is weak, even to my own ears. "Victory for Troy," I echo, unable to take my eyes off my own blood as it drips down my leg and disturbs the morbid pattern of dead men's blood.

Before I am aware of it we have reached the stables. The other soldiers talk together as they normally would. Can it be that I am the only one so affected by this battle? I have fought in so many before, yet this one was different. I slide from my horse and stumble into the palace, too slowly. I cannot make myself move faster, nor can I ignore the stinging cut on my calf. I should go to my chambers and scrub the blood off my body. It is dry now. Then I should lie down next to my wife and let sleep shut my eyes. The memory of this bitter night will be erased by morning.

But instead I find myself at a familiar wooden door. I lean against it, and it reluctantly opens. The moonlight I cursed earlier shines through the wide window and serenely lights up he two figures on the beds on opposite sides of the room.

Paris' six-year-old form is curled into a loose ball, with his shoulders and head peeking out from under the heavy blanket. One hand hovers near his mouth, as if his lips can't decide whether they want to hold it or not. His hair is spread out neatly on the pillow, and he is snoring softly. Across the room, Hector looks younger than ten years old. He has kicked his blanket to the foot of the bed. His arms and legs are flung out haphazardly, his curly hair in a state of adorable disarray. He looks nothing like the tidy, organized Prince he tries so hard to be, especially with his wide-open mouth and sticking-out ears.

I wish it was too early to be thinking of this, but the time has come. What will my sons fight for? Hector has already started training, and Paris wants to do everything his brother does, so he will not remain so innocent for long. Will they be brave? What will it take for them to be hardened by brutality?

I lean against the door, and the strong smell of the blood I am covered in stings my nose. In the morning the room will be tainted with the smell of blood, I tell myself, and then a strange thought crosses my mind. Hector will recognize the scent, and later Paris will cause it.

One brother will destroy the other, and in turn destroy himself.

I shake my head to rid myself of the thought; perhaps it is because I am so weary, but it does not linger long. It cannot be true. I'm getting to be as bad as Cassandra.

I step back and before I close the door I feel the need to speak. "Sleep well, my sons," I whisper to the darkness. "Sleep well, and cling to your innocence while you can."

But something tells me their innocence will be destroyed long before their time. Childhood is fleeting. And King that I am, I am powerless to stop it.

If you like stories about the brothers, I'll have one up in a few days. It's called "The Laws of Brotherhood"- keep an eye out for it! Thanks for reading, and please leave me a review on your way back to the lovely kingdom of