"Very direct; I can respect that," chuckled Achilles. He wondered what would happen if he tried to provoke the prince; not attack, but annoy some response out of him. Well, there was only one way to find out. "Why do you assume I want anything other than the pleasure of your company?"

Paris was decidedly uncomfortable. "Let me assure you that my company will be anything but pleasurable," he replied stiffly, silently fearing that every Greek was as salacious as Agamemnon. "If that's what you desire then I'm sure Lord Isidore will be more than happy to arrange an, um, encounter for you" –

"Don't compare me with that lusty old bastard," said Achilles darkly. "I'm nothing like him."

"I didn't say that!" cried Paris defensively, unconsciously backing away a bit. "I just thought..."

"That I didn't want go the evening without putting my hands all over an unwilling young man like he did, even if it's not in front of a room full of visiting warriors and dignitaries?" the Greek completed.

Paris' face flushed.

"Yes, I saw," Achilles told him. "I'm sure everyone saw. In fact, I was wondering why your father would tolerate one of his people treating his son like a whore; until he showed you off like a prized pleasure slave, that is."

"Are you done now?" Paris' voice was very small as he tried to swallow a lump in his throat. He'd been called things like that more often than he liked to admit, but it stung to hear that even a stranger thought that way about him.

Achilles cursed himself when he saw the broken look on the boy's face. "I didn't mean it as an insult to you," he explained, a little surprised about how much he wanted to comfort Paris. "I meant that the wizened old lord should be castrated for how he treats you. I could stomach witnessing that more than seeing more of his revolting behavior. By the gods, King Priam must be weak old fool for allowing him to get away with it!"

"You shouldn't say things like that," said Paris, shocked. No one had ever spoken like that in front of him before. "My father is your host!"

"Your father is my baby-sitter," corrected Achilles, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture. "He insists that I stay in this stuffy palace when I'd rather sleep on the beach with my men; probably thinks I'd be up to no good without constant supervision. Although now I can see one advantage to being kept under lock and key here."

"Which is?"

"Because staying here means I get more opportunities to see and talk to you," he grinned, and was amused and pleased by Paris' reaction. "Are your cheeks permanently red? By the gods, anyone would think you're thinking naughty thoughts."

Paris ducked his head, desperate to hide his flaming cheeks. "That takes us back to my original question," he stated, embarrassment evident in his voice. "What do you want with me?"

"And so it does," agreed Achilles. He'd pushed the boy into showing surprise and embarrassment; what else had he buried down deep? "Shall we continue to talk ourselves in circle or can we finally have real conversation?"

"I can't imagine what you want to talk about," Paris responded with a self-deprecating laugh. "I don't really want to know anything about you and there's nothing about me that you'd find interesting."

"You're wrong," Achilles said simply, giving him another soul-penetrating stare.

"Please don't look at me like that," the boy requested meekly. "You won't find anything special."

"On the contrary," said Achilles evenly, studying his silhouette. "I find you absolutely fascinating. How can one so young, so beautiful, a prince of one of the wealthiest cities in the world be so miserable?"

"I'm not" –

"You are," insisted the Greek, not really caring which description Paris had been trying to dispute. "Gossip about how exquisite you are go far beyond Troy; actually, it's really boring to listen to after awhile. And yet, you act more like a beaten slave than a spoiled royal. You go through the motions and pretend to be the perfect younger prince. Every night you sit between those two old men and smile when they tell you to. You attend the banquets so your father can show off how pretty his youngest son is. I've spent the past week wondering what you were all about. Your father seems to think that you have no more use than that of a priceless vase.

"I'm not priceless," whispered Paris hoarsely as a couple of tears escaped from his eyes. 'You haven't cried in years, you worthless moron!' he silently chided himself. 'Don't start now, not in front of this Greek!'

Achilles reached out and cupped his cheek, wiping away the tears and gently urging the prince to face him. "I don't think you've asked the right people."

Paris couldn't take it anymore. He could feel emotions that he spent most of his life burying bubbling to the surface. "Anything else," he begged in a shaking voice. "I will talk about anything else, but please don't say these things to me and please don't ask me these questions."

"Very well," whispered Achilles. He let his hand slip form Paris' cheek. "I'll even let you choose the topic."

Groping his mind for something, anything, safe to say, Paris lamely asked, "What is your home like?"

Achilles flashed an impish smile. "I think you know," he said, raising his eyebrows in a teasing manner. "You must see it every day."

"I don't believe I do," the boy replied wearily. Why was this Greek incapable of giving a straight answer? "I've never left these shores."

"You don't need to leave these shores to see my home," Achilles informed him as he pulled him to his feet. He led the startled Paris to the side of the garden wall that faced out over the beach. "That is my home. Any beach near any part of the sea is what I call home."

Paris stood rooted to the spot, utterly amazed. "You're a very hard man to understand, Lord Achilles," he finally said. "You're so plain-spoken and, um, honest one moment and speaking words that sound like poetry the next. I've never met anyone so, um, contradictory before."

"I might have too much of my mother in me," confessed Achilles.

"I've heard the rumors," replied Paris. He thought for a moment and decided not to hold back his curiosity. "Is she really a goddess?"

"She is Thetis the sea goddess to most people," answered Achilles, not taking his eyes off the sea. "To me, she's my mother, and always there when I needed her to be."

"I never met my mother," Paris blurted out. Achilles looked at him, surprised more at the outburst than at what he said. "She died when I was born."

"Do you know what she was like?" the Grecian warrior asked, kindness in his voice.

"No," answered Paris with a shake of his head. "I asked my father once; he told me not to worry about things that are dead and gone, and not to bring up the subject anymore. I asked Hector once, too," he added, his face clouding over at the memory.

"And what did he say?"

"He cried," whispered Paris with a faraway look in his eyes, as if he were watching the events of long ago. "I was young then, only five or six. One night when he sneaked in to visit me I started asking all these stupid questions. 'What was Mama like?'; and 'Was she happy I was coming? Did she love me?' and other things such things. He tried to - to tell me, but ended up breaking down in tears. It was so scary at the time; I'd never seen him cry before – or since – but that night the tears just flowed." He ducked his head again. "Maybe he just didn't know how to tell me that she never loved me."

"Only a twisted and corrupt person could never love you," Achilles murmured out loud but to himself.

Paris looked at him almost fearfully. "What did you say?" he asked.

"I was wondering about your brother sneaking in to visit you," lied Achilles, determined not to startle the skittish prince. "Why didn't he just see you out in the open?"

Paris drew in a deep, shuddering breath. "Father," he answered. "Father always said that we each have pressing – and quite opposite – duties to attend to or prepare for. He doesn't want us to, as he puts it, indulge in such a childish and weak thing."

"Then King Priam is not a weak old fool but a cruel idiot," declared Achilles, looking him straight in the eye. "You don't actually believe that nonsense, do you?"

"It doesn't matter," replied Paris, self-hatred lacing the edge of his voice. "I'm already weak. I might as well have a relationship with my brother."

Achilles let out a snort of disgust. "It seems to me that Hector loves you if he's in the habit of defying your father just to spend a few moments with you," he pointed out. "By your standards, I guess that makes him weak."

The change in the prince's face was amazing. All the misery, self-loathing, and fear dropped away, replaced by a furious energy. "Hector is anything but weak!" Paris yelled, forgetting himself and giving Achilles a hard shove. "He could sent you to Tartarus in an instant if he wanted to."

He moved to shove him again but Achilles caught his hands, not letting go. "You're beautiful when you're angry," he smiled. "I'm glad to see that not all of the life has been smothered out of you yet."

"Why am I even talking to you about this?" wondered Paris with exasperation, yanking himself out of Achilles' grasp and taking a few steps back. "About any of this, for that matter? Are we done yet?"

"Yes," nodded the Greek. "I think you've answered my question."

"Which one?"

"About why you're so miserable," responded Achilles. He started counting off the details on his fingers. "A dead mother no one talks about; a brother who loves you – and vice versa – but you're forbidden to see; a nobleman with disgusting traveling hands and lustful stares; and a father who sees you more as a part of his treasure than a son. And all of that together makes you hate yourself, even though there's no real reason why you should do so. That's what's destroying your spirit."

Paris rolled his eyes. "Since you've got me all figured out," he said as he started towards the door, "I'm going to bed. I trust you'll not want to speak to me again."

"On the contrary," corrected Paris cheerfully. "I only know part of your story. There's more to be played out, and I've decided that I'm going to be a big part in it. I'm going to be there when all that self-hatred recedes so I can see what your real smile looks like; and you're going to realize you're worth so much more than what King Priam and that lord's taught you. I'm actually quite looking forward to it."

Closing his eyes to keep those bothersome tears from spilling yet again, Paris paused just long enough to say, "Goodbye, Lord Achilles."

Achilles' answer was irritatingly merry. "Only for now."

To be continued...

A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed!

FYI, this was a difficult chapter for me (in fact, this is where I encountered the writer's block that delayed me for months), and I'm still not entirely satisfied with it.