"It is funny how a story gets twisted and lost over time," a woman said softly looking at the men before her. Her hair was gray and twisted into a tight bun on the top of her head. Her eyes were that of the bluest ocean, so pale many wondered of her actual mortality.
"I am surprised you have honored my request to come here, many men disrespect older woman and defy their dying requests. Nevertheless, I am glad you came. Both of you have written about the legendary war between Troy and the Greeks. Or as you call it 'the struggle for the woman whose beauty launched a thousand ships." She paused laughing slightly at the men before her. "Call it what you will, whatever you desire, my only request now is for you to listen to what I have to tell you." A cough escaped the woman, causing one of the young men to stir.
"Grandmother, are you alright?" the concern was etched into his features as he slowly lifted a hand to touch her forehead.
"My dear Homer, I am merely old, I have lived far too long, it is my punishment from the gods after all."
Both men looked at her curiously; the old woman before them has been known as a storyteller for quite some ages. Neither can remember a time were she was not present. She has been known as grandmother to all and acts accordingly. It was strange to ask for their presence as a 'dying wish'. Their thoughts were scattered as they continued to wonder what story she would tell them today.
The old woman straightened, sighed, and slowly raised her eyes, "You wrote about the Trojan War, a war which has been reduced to a pure myth over the hundreds of years past, but let me tell you something, though it is your choice whether to believe me or not, you both have made vital errors. You focus on the gods' part in the war, on the sole brutality of the Greeks, and the lies of the Trojans. A god did not start this war, it was not about beauty and pure lust; it was about love."
"Grandmother, there is a love story, that of Paris and…" the other man began to say.
"You refer to the mere want you have reduced the attraction of Pairs and Helen. But you have misplaced a vital part of the story. The only romance and pain you focus on is that of Paris and Helen; you disregard, you eliminate the love between Andromance and Hector, prince and wife, Hector and Paris, brother and brother, Achilles and Patrocles, cousin and cousin, and most importantly Achilles and Briseis, enemy and lover."
With these last words the old woman stood walking over to a chest across the room. She opened it slowly and took out a shell necklace.
She sat down, her fingers lovingly caressing the necklace. "These shells are from Phita, the home of the legendary Achilles. It is the only proof left of the love of which I speak. Listen boys, for you know naught of the true story behind what you have written. Listen well, you are the only ones that will ever hear it".