A/N The title of this chapter is taken from a song that my niece loves (in part because she's still a little to young to understand that it's about a battered wife - even if the victim did get justice in the end) called "The Rabbit" by Jimmy Wayne. I won't write down the whole thing, but here's the chorus:

What goes around comes around
There's no doubt
We'll have to answer for the things we've done
When the tables turn and they will turn
Mark my words
It ain't gonna be fun when the rabbit gets the gun

I thought that it was appropriate!

'What's happening?' wondered Paris as he stood on his tiptoes and strained his eyes in the direction of the battle. It was still to beyond his sight for any of his efforts to make much of a difference. All he could make out were vague shapes and shadows blurring together as the soldiers clashed. This was so frustrating! Many of those shapes and shadows were the people that he cared about – including the two that he loved more than anything else in the world. They were fighting and possibly – 'Apollo, don't let it be so!' – dying and he was expected to hang back and wait on the beach.

Well, technically he was supposed to be below deck on the Ithacan ship, cowering in his cabin among his piles of soiled clothing and his perfectly good sword; but he'd been on land since before the last of the ranks of soldiers was completely out of sight, much too sullen to feel guilty about not entirely complying with Hector's orders. He understood that Hector hadn't told him to hide to be condescending or to mock Paris' capabilities – he did it because he was his father and wanted to protect him. However, the boy wanted – needed – to find out how the battle was turning and that wouldn't happen as long as he remained on board.

What good would come from hiding anyway? Paris clenched his jaw and let his fingers slide down the sheath that held the sword at his side. If the combined forces of Hector, Achilles, and Odysseus succeeded he would be left with the shame of knowing that he had hidden while they'd bought their safety with their own blood. How would he be able to live among the Myrmidons again if that were the case? Paris winced as he remembered the sorry state he'd been in when Achilles and his men had first seen him; he'd worked so hard to get beyond that, to grow stronger each day, and taking refuge away from the fighting would probably undo all of that in their eyes. And if the opposing army proved victorious the ship would be no haven. They would surely storm the two vessels, rifling through everything and stealing anything of value. Paris would be a sitting duck in that situation; at least on the beach he wouldn't have to fight in a confined space and had a better chance at finding the opportunity to get away if need should force him to run.

So focused was he on what was happening far down the beach, what he was told to do and why he wasn't doing it, and what might happen when the battle was over that his mind was paying no attention to the here and now. Normally that probably wouldn't have been too much of a problem; after all, the distance between him and the battle was enough to conceal him from anyone there that would want to do him harm. However, it placed him in danger if there was even one person who cared more about finding him than fighting for their lords…who wouldn't care about being branded as a coward for slipping away from the battle…who had lived the last six years of his life dreaming about the moment that he would have the young prince alone and at his mercy…

Paris didn't hear the deliberate, anticipating footfalls, nor the approaching man's excited breathing – he wasn't even aware of the presence of another person until a hated voice sounded, slicing through his anxious thoughts.

"Well, well, well," the voice cooed mockingly.

The boy froze for a moment before slowly turning to face Lord Isidore, who was standing just a few feet away. A ghastly, evil smile split the lecherous lord's face as he reveled in his discovery. He had abandoned the battle to search out the little whore and there he was, oblivious and out in the open. A bit of good fortune at last! It was almost worth it to be driven out of the city by a traitorous horde to find the object of his lustful obsession caught unawares and unguarded. He stared into Paris' large brown eyes and got even more aroused by the surprise and fear that he perceived to be there.

"Looking who came slinking back," Isidore continued, lewdly appraising the boy and running his tongue over his lower lip. Paris grimaced in disgust at the gesture. "That brute and those savage Myrmidons did not hurt you all that badly as far as I can see. That pleasure, then, is still mine."

"No, it's not," Paris told him, revulsion lacing with triumph in his voice. "I am no longer –"

Isidore's cruel laughter robbed Paris of the chance to proclaim that one small victory. "I know that you have been touched," he sneered. "I would wager that you have been touched so many times and by so many people that you have lost count of both. That does not matter, whore; I was merely commenting on how you at least can still stand and that is more than what you will be able to do when I am finished with you. It is true that I spent far too long coveting the squandered prize that was your virginity, but now that it is gone I find that I am glad about it. Now I no longer have to stand on ceremony with you; no waiting for your eighteenth birthday or permission from the king – I have wanted to do this for years."

"Yes," Paris rolled his eyes to disguise his apprehension. "I'm sure you've fantasized about forcing that shriveled piece of flesh into me since I was twelve – you and countless other men. Are you incapable of having an original twisted desire?"

"But I am, Paris, I am." A gleam flashed in Isidore's eyes as an often-reviewed memory came to the surface. "Lusting after that body was my original idea. I was not one of those fools who could not see what you were until you were twelve. I knew two years prior when I mistakenly walked into the baths while you were attempting to wash away all of your filth."

Paris suddenly felt like retching. "I don't believe you."

"There are many shadowy corners in there, as you must be aware of," taunted Isidore, taking a step closer. He felt a thrill run through him as Paris automatically took a step away. "I could go in there and no one was the wiser – not you, not the king, and certainly not that dolt Hector. You have not been in there without having my eyes on you, soaking in your flesh and planning what I was going to do at this very moment, for six years now. All of that anticipation was difficult to endure but now the payoff will be all the more delicious."

"You revolting pervert," hissed Paris, feeling defensive and achingly vulnerable. Was it true? How often had the lord really violated him in that way? "Not only are you so sick that you feel proud about doing that to a child; but you also possess so little honor that you're going to betray the man that you claim to be your king by raping me now. I'm sure that Priam hasn't given you permission to do anything to me yet."

"Are you now, you disrespectful traitor?" Isidore smirked. "I think that you should know, then, that he ordered me to do just that even before you ran away with the Myrmidons. Why would he have changed his mind? You are worthless now, Paris; King Priam can no longer offer your purity – or the appearance of it, since that purity was supposed to be mine – to the man who would pay most richly for it. He will not care what I do to you."

"It doesn't matter if he does or not," retorted Paris defiantly. "Achilles will care and so will my father."

"Even if that were true about your animalistic lover, or if Hector could actually stomach doing anything more than talking and simpering, it does not matter," stressed the lord. He took another step forward and almost climaxed when the young prince's hands flew nervously to his sides. "That battle is going very well for the true and loyal citizens of Troy. The king and his men are slaughtering all of the traitors and foreigners as we speak. It is a wonder, in fact, that the sand is not red all the way down here by now. I daresay that we will be victorious soon."

Lies fell so easily off of his forked tongue that it was amazing that anyone still listened to him at all. Paris certainly didn't, at least not on this point. It was difficult to believe that the man whom he used to call his father would be able to muster a force that could stand against the Myrmidons, let alone all of the others. He heard the words, all right, but he refused to give them any weight; nor did he dignify them with a response. The boy's hand discreetly closed around the hilt of his sword but he hesitated to draw it, contemplating if he truly had the heart to end another man's life in such a manner, even a man as twisted as the one standing before him.

The lord mistook his silence for fright. "Do not worry," he purred. "Even if you were not my chosen prize you would still be to enticing for any soldier to slay so carelessly, though I am afraid that they might be rough and damage you. I believe that we can come to an agreement, Paris. You be a good boy and kneel before me with that pretty mouth of yours open and ready now, and afterwards beg me to take you, and I will see to it that the beatings stay to a minimum. In fact, I will even give you a little reward: since you obviously enjoy spreading your legs for common warriors I will let you provide the entertainment for the loyal troops at their victory celebration. Would you like that, you brazen slut? To be taken over and over again whilst among the bodies of the fallen?"

This was too much for Paris to bear. With all internal debates quieted, he quickly drew his sword from his side. "You are a liar," he growled, his eyes burning with hatred. "Your troops will never triumph over the Myrmidons, Ithacans, and most of Troy's best warriors; and you won't live to touch me."

If anything, Lord Isidore looked amused by this declaration. "You have told me something like that before. What makes it any more true now; the fact that you somehow got your hands on a sword?" he asked as he drew his own weapon forward. "I have one too, and in that respect we are even. At least I am meant to hold a sword of metal, while you are meant to handle one made of flesh. What about skill? I may be old, wanton, but I was trained by only the finest Trojan soldiers. Who exactly taught you to fight?"

Paris smirked. "The greatest warrior in the world."

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

As his young lover traded barbs with the man who'd plagued his nightmares for year, Achilles frantically fought his way through the throng to get down to the ships. It proved to be a slower process than he currently possessed the patience for; all of the opposing soldiers knew by sight who he was and seemed determined to be the one who avenged the supposed insult he'd inflicted on Priam by freeing Paris of his abusive influence. 'Please,' he mentally scoffed at it all. Compared to all of the things that Achilles maliciously daydreamed about doing to that horrible idiot, the circumstance of his flight from Troy was nothing. As far as he was concerned, Priam was lucky that he was preoccupied with more important matters.

The Myrmidon warrior let out an annoyed grunt as yet another soldier bearing a righteously indignant expression effectively blocked his path. "I serve King Priam of Troy," announced the man importantly, as if Achilles couldn't have deduced that on his own. "And I –"

Achilles moved in a flash, cutting off the man's words permanently with a thrust of his sword. No loss; he'd heard what he was going to say more than enough for one day – for one lifetime, now that he thought about it. He had the speech memorized. If he really wanted to hear it again he was in luck: there seemed to be no shortage of men eager to say them to him.

Two such men, showing marginally more intelligence than most of their comrades, appeared on either side of Achilles as he was withdrawing his weapon from the throat of the fresh corpse. "Now!" one shouted to the other, certain that they had him this time. They both leapt at the warrior, attacking in tandem while they believed that he was caught off his guard. "In the name of –"

Another thrust, another unfinished sentence. Achilles was just grateful that only one of them felt the urge to blather on like that; it made choosing which one he should kill first all the more easy. He turned with lightening speed to take care of the other and ended up staring blankly at the surprise that awaited him.

The second attacker was falling to the ground, dead at the hands of…Lucius. The foolhardy Trojan soldier who had fallen victim to Isidore's manipulations and as a result had challenged Achilles to a duel while operating under the grossly incorrect assumption that the Myrmidon had threatened to rape Paris was now spitting on the body of the former colleague that he'd just slain to help Achilles. The last time that the Myrmidon had seen him he was sprawled out on the ground of the dueling arena, rendered unconscious by a strategic blow. Lucius hadn't been among those who had accompanied Hector on the journey and Achilles, had he cared enough to think about him, would have assumed that he gone with the refugees into the mountains. What was he doing there at exactly the right moment?

"You weren't with Hector," he blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

"I was commanding the troops who pursued these monsters from the gates of Troy," replied Lucius uncomfortably, unsure about what he was supposed to say to the man who, on the one hand, apparently loved Paris and didn't deserve to be challenged in the way that he'd done it; but, on the other hand, had showed so little regard for those left behind in Troy who would be worried about the younger prince after he disappeared. "In the name of King Hector –"

"I don't have time for this!" interrupted Achilles, stressed and impatient. Whether they fought for Priam or Hector, it seemed that all of the Trojan soldiers were reciting the same words. "Lord Isidore was here and now he's vanished; and Paris is all alone at the ships."

Lucius' face hardened at the implication. "Go," he urged, raising his sword again. "I'll make sure that the way is clear for you and keep others from following – you just concentrate on saving the prince."

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Never in his life did Hector imagine that he'd be clashing swords with his father on a field of battle and yet there they were, locked in a fight that neither of them would back away from. "Hector: former prince, stripped of his title for betraying his father and his people," tormented Priam. "And for what? Why are you and all of the ignorant fools who love you paupers and exiles now? All because you disobeyed my will once to dally with a lowly servant and couldn't let go of what resulted from it, even after I did everything I could to clean up your mess."

"Do you think that I care at all about my title or Troy's riches?" Hector shot back as he expertly blocked his father's blow. He could have easily cut down the old man right there; yet his sense of fair play and that last lingering bit of familial obligation that was difficult to shed after all of these years stilled his hand from doing so. Besides, Hector honored the gods – not in the way that Priam did, using them as a cloak and an excuse for his actions and inactions; but as a man who was grateful for all the blessings that they'd bestowed upon him – and he did not want to break their law about spilling the blood of a family member unless he had no other choice. "I would gladly give up being called a prince along with every single coin in the city's treasury; be a penniless nomad for the rest of my day, if that was the only way that I could hear Paris call me 'Father,' even just once. He does, you know, and more than once; he let me hold him as I explained why I'd given him up and at the end of it called me 'Father' for the first of many times. He hasn't used that term to describe you since I told him the truth. I guess you didn't have quite the hold over his mind that you struggled so hard to achieve. My son is free of you, Father."

"And that is all that you think about; your illegitimate child," sneered Priam. "I can see that Astyanax has no place in your heart and mind. I must congratulate you, Hector; you were not strong enough to ignore my will and take your firstborn out of the city to starve to death on some rock, but you've all but done so with your second. That must be the first time that you have succeeded at anything in your private life."

"There is no limit to how much I can love," Hector retorted haughtily. "I love both of my sons, Andromache, the people who fight with me today, and the people of Troy. Don't start making assumptions about a man's capacity to love – you need to have that capacity yourself before you can begin to understand it."

Priam spat, hitting the sand next to his son's feet. "You ungrateful lowly rat," he snarled. "You claim to love the people of Troy, and yet how many of them have already wasted away in the supposed refuge that you stowed them away in? How many of the soldiers that loved you most have shed blood – their own and that of other Trojans – in your name on this day? At least no one has ever so needlessly laid down their lives under my rule."

"Not their lives; just their spirits and their souls," commented Hector, but Priam had succeeded in striking a nerve. Was his need to punish his father more important than the lives of the brave men who stood loyally beside him? He lowered his blade slowly. "I will give you and your men this one chance: surrender to me and I will let you all leave these shores alive and un-pursued. Think of your men, Father."

The former king's shoulders sagged for a second and Hector actually thought he'd gotten through to him. Then with no warning Priam surged to life again, bellowing wordlessly and almost succeeding in striking the unguarded prince in the chest. "Compassion and mercy were always your downfall," Priam seethed. "You care too much about wanting people to see you as fair and kindhearted and all they really think is that you are weak and eager to please. If you let us go today we'd just come back after figuring out a way to burn the city to the ground; for I rather it be a pile of rubble than in your charge."

"I'm sure you thought the same way about Paris."

"That?" mused Priam uncaringly. "Must we always come back to that thing? Really, you should be thanking me, Hector, for taking Paris from you all those years ago. If you would have raised him he would be even weaker than you is now. Under my care he became at least strong enough to live through whatever sexual games the Myrmidons liked playing with him."

"The Myrmidons respect Paris in a way that you could never fathom," Hector bit out. "And Paris' strength has nothing to do with you; it comes from the fact that Achilles loves him, and that I love him too. Did you know that I used to sneak into his bedchamber at night? Sometimes we would talk and play; other times I would just watch him as he slept, but the fact is that I went there for years without your knowledge, Father. You tried so hard to keep us apart and still I was never that far away from him."

"Is that so?" hissed Priam, murder in his tone. An evil glint came to his eyes. "Well then, I will be curious to see how long all of this strength that you provided will help him last when Lord Isidore finally gets his hands on him. I have no need for Paris now; not as a bargaining chip or as a way of keeping you in line. I fully intent of giving Isidore the order to rape him until he is dead and I will watch to make sure that it is done properly."

Something inside of Hector snapped. Priam had finally pushed him to the point of no return. "You will never see my son again!" he roared, tackling the other man and sending him down hard on his back. Hector kneeled on top of his with his sword against his chest. "I won't let you!"

"Do it," taunted Priam, moving his eyes to look disdainfully at his son's sword and not believing for a moment that Hector could go through with it. It was a pathetic gesture, one that Priam would relish tormenting him about at length before he killed him.

Hector shook his head, slackening his grip on the weapon but not moving it. "No," he declared and no one could deny the strength in his voice. "That would be too easy and too quick – an unsuitable punishment for all of what you've done to Paris and me. We were in prisons of your making for over sixteen years; now you're going to spend at least that long in one of our choosing."

It was over; Priam had finally lost the last little bit of control he had over his son and he knew it. "You have no authority to dictate my life," he said as one last insane plan formed in his mind. "I will be burned into your memory for the rest of your life."

He grabbed the sword that was held against his chest, cutting his hands badly as he impaled himself on it. Hector let out a gasp of surprise and horror as their eyes locked. Priam was indeed willing his son to remember every last detail of this moment, to sear this on his memory and haunt him forever…

"Paris!"

Hector started at Achilles' scream. Suddenly all of his father's will over him evaporated. "Alexandros," he breathed, his mind solely on his son as he sped off down the beach, sparing no more thoughts on Priam. All he cared about now was seeing to it that nothing had happened to his son.

He gaped with a mixture of shock, horror, and wonder at the sight that greeted him when he came upon Paris and the Myrmidon by the ships. Lord Isidore, the snake himself, was crumpled to the ground, bleeding too much to be alive. Achilles was holding Paris' head, pressing it against his cheek and jaw as he murmured soft words of comfort. For his part Paris heeded neither words nor man; he continued to stare as if dazed at the dead body while clutching a bloody sword in his hand so tightly that his knuckles were white.

"Paris," said Hector gently as he approached cautiously so as not to startle his son.

Paris didn't move. Hector guessed that he didn't even realize that his father was there. "Paris Alexandros," Hector said with a little more firmness in his voice. The boy looked up slowly and saw the loving expression on his father's face. "Let it go, my son."

The younger prince let the sword slip from his grasp; Achilles caught it and dropped it gingerly to the ground. "It'll be fine, my love," the warrior promised. "We'll clean it and it'll be as good as new. You used it well today."

"I had to," said Paris numbly. "I had to kill him."

Hector slid an arm around him, embracing Paris while Achilles maintained how own hold. "I know," he comforted. "I know what kind of men he was and you are; there is no doubt in my mind that you had to choice but to kill him." He frowned a little. "Where did you learn to fight?"

"Achilles taught me."

Hector raised his eyebrows at Achilles. "We were together and out of Troy for weeks," the Myrmidon reminded him. "What did you think we did all day?"

Despite everything, Achilles had to guffaw at Hector's responding blush. "All day and all night? Even I don't have that kind of stamina."

To be continued…