Author's Notes: Before I begin, I'd like to apologize most abjectly for the delay in updating. I suppose my resolution from last year to finish this fic by 2006 has been broken by now, but after writing for most of the morning, I believe I'll have the final chapter ready for posting within a week. So, many thanks if you've stuck with the story for this long!

CHAPTER VI

Paris dreamt of home. There he was, standing on the rampart of the great wall that encircled Troy. The bronze sun bore down on his bare chest, reflecting rays of gold. Before the walls, he could see his brother with the army, rehearsing retreat maneuvers. All flowed perfectly. Hector was a glorious sight on horseback, tall and regal. Paris's heart swelled with pride. That was his older brother. That was their prince.

As he watched the army drill, in the distance he could hear the soft whisper of waves as they leapt, dancing, onto the beaches and retreated, teasing, back into the sea. The day was tranquil and light.

"Paris," someone whispered.

He turned, and a smile blossomed on his handsome features. "Helen."

No further words were needed. She allowed herself to be drawn into a kiss, her hands held gently in his grip.

Then the world covered with blood.

Paris awoke with a start, a cry on his lips.

Next to him, Briseis stirred awake, looking both groggy and concerned. "Paris? What is it?" she said sleepily.

He stared in the darkness, his heart pounding, chest heaving. His cheeks flushed with embarrassment at having screamed from a nightmare; he wasn't a little boy anymore! But his mind could not forget how vividly he had remembered what had been his home a mere day ago.

"Home," said Briseis, following his thoughts. "You were dreaming of home." She gave a soft sigh. "As was I."

"You know me too well, cousin. I - "

Paris broke off as at that moment, Achilles came rushing into the shelter, his sword brandished and his eyes filled with deadly intent. Paris's traitorous throat released a soft yelp, even as his hands closed around the hilt of his sword and tried to lift the blade.

However Achilles, seeing there was no immediate threat to neither, lowered his sword arm immediately. "Who screamed?" he said curtly.

"You're trying to kill me!" Paris said vehemently, his wounded pride rousing itself at the word "scream." It had certainly not been a scream! A shout, perhaps, of an utmost manly nature, but not a scream.

Achilles stared at him, his gaze frosty. "Will you never cease to lay accusations at my feet, prince?" said he. "If I wished to kill you, I would have done it when you were asleep."

"And deprive yourself of the glory? The mighty Achilles does not kill at night." In honesty, Paris had no idea where his sudden rage had come from. Merely this man – indescribable anger welled up in him at the sight of him.

"You would be surprised," Achilles said tonelessly, but Paris shivered all the same. But then Briseis touched his arm, silencing any retort that sprang to his lips. She stepped forward, directly in front of Achilles and stared into his eyes. Aloof eyes regarded her back, but when she stroked his arm, the faintest sign of life sparkled.

"Cousin, you cannot – " Paris began heatedly, but she spoke over him, and the words she said had an immediate silencing effect.

"How I wish you were any other man, Achilles."

The slightest of tremors ran through those hardened muscles.

"Any other man, and I would love you wholly. More than I would a god." Her voice dropped. "I was your captive, and I surrendered Apollo for you. You did not force me. I would have liked to think you did, to justify myself before my god, but when I am honest with myself, I know it was my choice and mine alone. I had Apollo, and I had you, and it was you I chose."

He stared at her. "What can I do to prove myself to you?" he said, almost hoarsely. "What cruel fate is this that we should be parted?" His fingers itched by his side, as though he longed to take her in his arms and kiss her until the ending of the world. "I wish too that I were another man, but I cannot change who I am."

Briseis's eyes were brimming with moisture. "Only how you act."

"That has changed."

Paris's mouth hung open and stayed open. The image of Helen was once more in his mind, of the nights he had held her near, felt her smooth skin beneath his hand (who would have known something could be so soft, so soft?), and breathed beauty. He would have traded the world for her. He had traded the world for her. The stories he had grown up with echoed in his ears. His old tutor, telling him the tales of love and heroes, of gods and goddesses. Paris had never believed love could ever be faulted.

It was wrong! Villains and murderers like Achilles were not supposed to love! They were to be heartless beasts, deserving of being killed and nothing more.

But in the length of a heartbeat, Paris saw in Achilles' eyes the same passion that had driven him to spirit Helen away from Sparta.

Almost as though they were acting independently of his mind, his fingers loosened their grip on his sword. His throat felt gritty with dust, and he, utterly lost. He was sworn – on his honor! – to avenge his brother. Hector's memory warranted nothing less. The heroes of the stories always avenged great wrongs.

But, a nagging voice in the back of his mind protested, was Achilles one of those great wrongs?

Briseis had always been a woman of great inner strength and fortitude, but at the look on Achilles' face, at the mere sight of those familiar features, she felt something deep within her break. It was begging, yearning, hungry for just a second in his arms.

She missed his arms. She missed every bit of him.

Blinking furiously as though that could dispel the unwelcome tears, Briseis grasped feebly at her last remnants of strength. She felt as though she were standing on the edge of a precipice, with the ground crumbling away every second.

Achilles sheathed his sword and looked at her sorrowfully.

It was all Briseis could do to keep standing.

"I was not trying to kill your cousin. That night or this night," Achilles broke the awkward silence that had fallen over all three. "I have hurt you once already, Briseis. Why do you think I would do so again?"

"I know," the words came from Briseis before she could stop them. "I've always known."

They were both startled by the truth of his words.

Then Achilles took the lead. With two quick steps he crossed the distance between them, his thumbs trembling as they traced the contour of her face. He stared deeply into her brown eyes, the unspoken question hanging in the air. Dimly, Briseis was aware of Paris staring at the two of them, his jaw twitching, but his fingers no longer on his sword. But then there was Achilles, and only Achilles.

"Yes," she breathed, and then melted into his embrace.

He kissed her gently, and Briseis could feel the power of the man behind the kiss. Her heart began beating wildly and she kissed him back, her hands coming up to wrap around his neck. The stubbles on his chin pressed into her skin and tickled, but Briseis scarcely noticed. He pulled her against him, cupping a breast in one hand as his lips explored her own –

Paris made a noise in the back of his throat, stood, and left.

Brought back to her senses, Briseis released Achilles and stared after her cousin. "Paris!" she called, but only the crunch of sand answered her.

"I should go after him," Briseis said, looking very troubled. Distractedly she tried to unwrap herself from Achilles' grasp. She had not intended – for a moment she had thought she could ignore her love for Achilles – and Hector's memory –

"It's too dangerous," he said. "The Greeks are still out there."

"Which is why I have to find Paris," she insisted.

"This is not a good idea." Achilles heaved a sigh and then released her. "I'm going with you."

"That is a terrible idea," she began, but he held a hand to stop her.

"Briseis, it is not for debate. And though I doubt your cousin can run very quickly, let us not waste time discussing this."

She smiled slightly – and Achilles' own heart lifted – and then the two were off.

Paris' own emotional state could rival Briseis's. He ran almost blindly, stumbling over a few wayward rocks. His hair flopped in his eyes and stung, but he tuned all the physical distraction away. He hated Achilles, and yet he didn't. He was furious at Briseis, and yet he wasn't. All he felt was a deep ache within him, a hole where Priam, Hector, Helen, and Troy had once been.

And so he ran. He could hear the shouts of the Greeks in his ears and his blood boiled at the sound, but he could not stop. His fault.

Hector's murderer lived and it was his fault.

He swore violently, screaming every oath he could think of. It didn't assuage the pain. The words were meaningless.

Briseis and Achilles…if he killed one, he would kill the other as surely as if he'd plunged his sword in her. Could he fault Achilles for loving? Could he fault Briseis?

Troy burned. Burned.

Paris fell to his knees in the sand, pushing aside the pain that accompanied the move. "Gods," he whispered, tasting the salt of the sea on his lips. It was unfair that the moon should be so beautiful on this night. "Gods take me. Free me. Apollo, Athena, Zeus…"

He was being a fool, of course. The gods did not act on a mortal's request. But he had seen them once, long ago when he had been a young boy. Perhaps they would listen again. Perhaps they would grant him the peace from the emotions that haunted him.

But the gods were not generous, and Paris continued to live.

The beach was littered with only a handful of large rocks and a few shrubs, and though they were many paces behind, both Achilles and Briseis saw Paris fall to his knees and turn his head skyward. "Gods," Briseis whispered, bringing her hands to her face.

Achilles's grip around her waist tightened, but he said nothing.

Briseis shuddered against him. Her shoulders were shaking. "This is my punishment for forsaking Apollo," she said. "There is my dear cousin, who I grew up with. We used to sneak out into the gardens together and pluck fruit from the trees." Her voice faltered.

And there's you, were the unspoken words, and though the sky was alight with stars, Briseis felt smothered by darkness.

Hector had, long ago, taken Paris and Briseis down to the beaches in the dark of the night. "Hurry up, sleepyhead!" he'd said, his eyes twinkling, "The guard is changing and this is our only chance!"

"Wake up, Paris!" Briseis bounced up and down cheerfully on her cousin's bed.

Paris groaned and tossed his pillow at her. Undaunted, she smacked him back. "You've always said you wanted to see the waves at night," she accused. "Get up!"

So he'd grudgingly rolled out of bed and followed Hector as the Prince of Troy had deftly lead them through the corridors of the palace. His knowledge of secret passages was disturbing, but Paris had long come to accept that his brother simply knew everything.

"I'm tired," he grumbled as they rounded yet another corner. "This is stupid."

"No it isn't!" Briseis said quickly.

"It'll be worth it, brother. I promise," said Hector.

Grudgingly, Paris' feet continued to blunder forward. Hector had promised. He knew it would be kept. And after what felt like ages later, the trio at last stumbled free of the winding corridors and into the soft sand.

"The river! Look!" Briseis cried, pointing.

The wind blew and ruffled Paris' hair, and as he looked up and gazed into the moon, he felt his heart pound and swell with pride and satisfaction. This was their home. It was beautiful. These were the beaches of Troy.

Hector's arm, warm and reassuring, wrapped itself around Paris's slender shoulders. "It is beautiful, isn't it, brother?" said Hector, his voice now the deep one of a man's. "This is the gift of the gods, that we should drink of such beauty."

"I've dreamt of a woman," Paris said quietly, "The most beautiful to ever live."

Hector chuckled. "And what became of her?"

"The gods gave her to me."

There was a short pause. "Did they really?" said Hector, and then he smiled, "Congratulations, you."

…and then Paris's reminiscing was rudely interrupted by the presence of a blade slipping under his throat.

"Get up," an unfamiliar voice said harshly. He could hear the sounds of running footsteps. There were at least five of them.

Greeks, Paris realized. He'd been captured by Greeks.

So it seemed the gods had decided to grant his wish after all.

tbc (soon)