Author's Notes: Well I never thoughtthis wouldhappen, but here we go with the final chapter. Huge thanks to everyone who has come this far. Your reviews and encouragementhave been much appreciated. :-)

Special thanks to Victoria Wolf, Mat Glu, LadyOfNyght, DragonWraith, Kal's Gal, Chrissy Kat, and King kevorn17 for their words; those kept me writing!

Chapter V

Achilles was first to notice the threat. "Stay here, Briseis!" he ordered curtly, running forward. His practiced mind leapt with strategies, his eyes already acknowledging every grain of sand that might hamper him, every rock that might aid him.

He was not so sure when he had become protective of the Prince of Troy, but supposed that somehow, someway, the blundering young fool had staked out a portion of his heart. His vulnerability reminded him altogether too much of Patroclus.

He had already failed once. Achilles never failed twice.

He flew across the sand.

Trying to ignore the fear that was suddenly rushing through his veins (for in his mind, Paris belatedly realized that he had not truly wished to die, not yet), he stood. The sword continued to hover a centimeter from his bare throat.

"Turn around," the same voice ordered.

Slowly, hesitantly, Paris obeyed.

And then the eyes of his captor widened. The sword – and he recognized it now! – lowered from his throat. "Prince Paris?" the young man stuttered

"Aeneas!" the word came almost as a sob.

"My prince! Forgive me," Aeneas said, quickly gesturing for the other men to lower their swords. "We thought you were a Greek and – "

"Likewise," said Paris, and in his relief reached out and clasped the other man on his shoulder. It was real, solid under his fingers. This was no mirage. Oh but it was so wonderful to see another Trojan! There were seven men in all, and each and every one of their faces undid a crease in Paris' face. He and Briseis were not alone. Others had made it!

"This is yours, my prince," said Aeneas, handing him the sword hilt-first. "The Sword of Troy."

Unbidden, Paris's fingers trembled as he took the hilt in his hand. The blade felt good in his palm, as though it had always belonged there. This was the blade his father had carried, and his father before him…the blade the founders of Troy had bloodied enemies with. A flicker of something rose in Paris – hope. "Thank you," he managed to say. "How many of you are there?"

"Thirty, my prince," said Aeneas. "Eighteen men and twelve women."

"And Helen? Andromache?"

"Both alive and well, given the circumstances."

At those words, a true smile split the prince's features. All the events of the past few days were dashed from his mind. Helen lived. Andromache lived. Other Trojans had lived. And oh how there could be more!

Then his ears caught an altogether familiar sound (the sing of a sword)…and his heart plummeted

Achilles had arrived.

At the first sound of Achilles' blade, Paris acted instinctually. "Stop!" he shouted, in a voice that he hardly recognized as his own. If there were to be bloodshed, if Achilles killed these Trojans...he dared not even entertain that thought.

Remarkably, Achilles obeyed. His blade stopped short a hair's width from gutting a man through. Belatedly the Trojan flinched back and began to draw his sword.

"I said stop!" Paris insisted.

Achilles' eyes burned with a fresh intensity with the familiarity of battle, but he straightened and slid his sword – unbloodied – swiftly back into the sheath. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the other six Trojans angling for positions around him, some with swords already drawn, others attempting to surreptitiously rest a hand on the hilt.

"So I presume these are not Greeks, prince," he said, almost conversationally.

Swallowing hard, Paris moved between him and the Trojan he had been a millisecond from killing. Aeneas hissed in warning, but Paris ignored it. His fingernails dug into the skin of his hand as a sign of his tension, but his next words were said evenly. "Where is Briseis?"

"I told her to stay back." Still the same calm tone. Achilles might as well have been speaking of the weather.

"Then undoubtedly she is near."

His words were true. The men heard the sounds of running footsteps, laboring breaths, and then Briseis stumbled into view. Her chest heaved as she struggled for air, but she made her way to Achilles' side and stood there defiantly. Certain that neither man was on the verge of killing the other, she paused for breath and looked around, her eyes widening with wonder as recognition came. Some were faces she had seen in the market, others in the palace as they had appealed to her father, but each one was welcome.

"It would appear you were correct," said Achilles mildly. He folded his arms and looked back at Paris. The silence stretched on.

"Paris – " Briseis began, but she found no further words. He continued looking back at her, and then at Achilles, his brow creased. In his life, Paris had made very few decisions of importance. Oh of a surety there had been those silly ones, such as deciding to borrow his father's horse or deciding to spend the third night of a festival with Briseis, but all paled in comparison to this.

If he attacked Achilles, he would fulfill his sworn vow. It was his duty. For the honor of his brother, he should kill the murderer.

If he attacked Achilles, he would likely die.

If he won, and that was a very improbable if, Briseis would suffer. And it would be by his hand that she did. She was one of the last of his family…the others had died in Troy.

His mind in turmoil, his eyes simply flew back and forth as his mind endlessly cycled through his reasons and excuses. Somewhere deep in his heart, he fancied he could hear the sea whisper. The sand moved beneath his feet, cooled by the night. A distant memory rose to mind – of Hector, patiently trying once more to teach him to swim. Another memory, this one of a gallant, white stallion. It was his father's horse; he had snuck it out without permission.

That horse had tossed him into the sand the second he had mounted it. Paris still remembered the sting of his scrapes, the gritty sand mingling with the blood. He had tasted iron in his mouth as he'd lain on his side and wept bitterly.

Hector had found him first, of course. "You fool, what were you thinking?" he'd snapped, his anger evident as he'd swung himself off his own mount and dashed to Paris's side. But his tone had softened upon seeing Paris's tear-stained face. "Oh you're a mess," he'd said affectionately, and wiped a tear away. "Come, let's get you cleaned up."

"Father will kill me! I lost his prize horse!" Paris had sniffed.

"Do not be ridiculous."

"Wait!" Paris had clung to Hector's arm, blinking at him sorrowfully. "Do you love me, brother? Would you defend me against any enemy?"

Hector had rolled his eyes. "You're being melodramatic. Father will not kill you."

"Yes he will!" Paris had insisted.

"Come on," Hector had sighed, and hauled the young boy to his feet. "You know Father is a merciful man. And he's never yet been able to lay a hand on you."

Hector's words had been true. Priam had been angry, true, but after Hector had spent two days tracking and coaxing the horse to return, he had been free with his forgiveness. And that was ever the way Paris could remember his father.

As he gazed in the sand, another image flashed in his mind: of Priam, sneaking across the sand, his blue eyes brimming with tears, kneeling, kissing the hands of Achilles…

Paris shivered.

The same man stood before him now, his golden hair shimmering even in the moonlight. One arm, which still bore a fading scar, was protectively draped over Briseis's shoulders. And his eyes, so fierce and intense, were watching his every movement.

Aeneas finally broke the silence. "Let me kill him," said he, his voice burning with hatred, "My prince, allow me the honor of killing him. For Prince Hector, for Troy, I will do so gladly!"

At this proclamation, nothing moved in Achilles' face, but Aeneas shivered and stepped back.

Well there was one thing Paris did know for sure. If anyone were to attack Achilles, it must be him and him alone. He had asked too many others to fight his battles for him in the past. So he said:

"Aeneas, I'd like a moment of privacy."

The protest was swift, "But my prince – "

"Now." Where the commanding tone had come from Paris himself was not sure, but it worked. Aeneas bowed respectfully, and gestured for his men to fall back.

"You are learning, prince," Achilles said, almost idly.

Paris flushed. "Do not compliment me. I don't care for your opinion."

But to his shame, he realized that he did.

"Cousin," Briseis laid a gentle hand on his arm. "Please. I'm sorry."

"For what?" the tone was colder than he had intended.

"For…" she began, and then faltered. "For – "

"I - " whatever Paris had been expecting, it was not that. His heart melted at the forlorn expression on her features. "Oh Briseis," he finally said, folding her in a tight embrace. "What fools we are both. Father would laugh at us."

She sniffed into his shoulder. "But what now?" she said, raising agonized eyes to his. Gods! Paris staggered. He could not be the cause of more of her pain.

To Achilles, he said slowly, "You should know I swore an oath to kill you."

The other man raised an eyebrow. "I had assumed so."

"Cousin," Briseis pleaded.

Paris stared at both of them for a long moment, his brow wracked with indecision. Finally he smiled, a mirthless smile. "The gods know I have broken oaths before." He turned his head slightly, looking to the ocean. "Forgive me, brother," he whispered. Then, without looking at Achilles, he said, "I foreswear my oath."

With legs that felt as heavy as lead, he walked away.

Under strict orders from Paris, not a man dared challenge Achilles as he walked into the Trojan camp with Briseis by his side. He could see by the gleam in their eyes that many desired to, but Paris was their king now, and their king had given them a command.

Aeneas alone had dared asked why.

"My father ruled always with mercy," said Paris shortly, recalling his conversation with Briseis on the beaches of Troy. Had it truly been only a night ago? It felt like a lifetime ago, a distant dream. "In honor of his memory, that will live on."

Perhaps nightmare was a more fitting word.

Helen had been delighted to see him, and he her. Though her hair was tangled and her face streaked with mud, she had never looked more beautiful. Paris kissed her deeply, passionately. Her hands wound in his hair as she nibbled on his lower lip, her legs wrapping around his torso as he hoisted her into his arms and carried her to the tent.

The following morning, Paris awoke and drank some water, looking fondly at Helen before buckling on his armor and stepping outside. To his surprise, Achilles stood there.

"What is it?" Paris demanded, trying to conceal his suddenly racing heart.

"I will build a ship," said Achilles. "And sail with Briseis to my home. It would be unfair for me to stay in Troy."

Indignation flared to life. "You can't take Briseis! I forbid it."

Achilles' jaw set. "Whether your permission is granted or not, Briseis will come, and it will be of her own will that she does."

"I may have forsaken my oath to kill you, but you are not any higher in my favor this day than yesterday," said Paris through clenched teeth. "You remain the man who killed my brother."

At the mention of Hector, Achilles' own anger melted away. "Such is the way in war, prince. I understand your position." He sighed deeply, struggling with his words and pride, and finally looked away as he began to speak. "When your brother killed my cousin, I too swore an oath. That you could forsake yours is a strength I did not have. You are the better man today."

Paris blinked at him, and through the weight on his chest still felt crushing, it was more bearable, somehow. Never before had he thought of Hector's death in those terms. Never before had he considered it might be something more than a cold-blooded murder. But those were not words he could say to Achilles! So instead, "I told you not to compliment me."

Achilles's teeth flashed. "Then let me tell you this. You may be the better man, but you are an atrocious swordfighter. You must learn to guard your left side more and conserve your wild swings."

Paris gaped at him, and he tried not to smile, truly he did, but the past few days were too much and he began to laugh. He still did not like Achilles, and doubted he could ever truly forgive him, but it was a start. And that was enough.

"If Briseis consents, then I consent," he said, and though his words were said with reluctance, he recognized the necessity of them. The past few days had shown him the depth of Briseis' love for this man, and Helen had reminded him just how powerful love could be. For her happiness, he must let her go.

Surprise flew across Achilles face, and then the warrior nodded. "You have my thanks," he said, slowly, and then smiled. "King."

The End