Chapter 9
"Ghosts"

"You should sleep."

The fire crackled noisily before them. Its shivering orange and golden flames threw a thin halo of warmth, and both Haemon and Aurora crowded near it until they smelled of the ashes and the proximity burnt their skin. They were propped against the rocky edge, resting their tired backs against the stony wall, and within hours, their muscles had become too numb to mind the way the rock stuck into their backs and buried into their bones. Night had fallen long ago, so thick in the woods that it seemed a sheet of black had been drawn across them, and they could scarcely make out the lines of trees let alone what lay beyond them. It was eerie sensing the depth and yet blind like gazing into the sea and unable to reach the bottom. What was filled in the interim she couldn't hazard a thought, but she searched it like a restless steward. During the time since they had narrowly escaped Savas' men, they had spoken few words. It seemed appropriate. They had never been forced to entertain each other for extended periods of time. In fact, Aurora had almost become an expert at evading him, and now, seated together, facing a most certain death, they couldn't think of a thing to say, except…

"Savas' men won't find us tonight," Haemon added as if that were what frightened sleep from her.

Aurora shook her head and readjusted her grip on the cloak around her. She had forgotten that she was naked beneath, that her red gown still stretched out beside the fire, reluctant to dry when lying down and in the cold weather. By morning, she hoped she could slip it on once more. She was afraid she would grow too comfortable, and accidently the folds of his cloak might slip if her grip faltered… Her fingers knotted a bit tighter on the fabric, and she glanced at him, only then wondering how he could bear the cold in only his Alban clothes. Seaside attire was not fitting for the mountains and the woods, yet he didn't even shiver.

Feeling her gaze, he turned to meet it, and each stared vacantly and exhausted at the other. "Sleep," he repeated. "You'll need your strength."

"I can't," she answered at last, and in the fire's light, shadows flickered across her features and made her mismatched eyes glitter unnaturally. "There's something in these woods… and it knows me."

The darkness settled into the crevices of his features, then carving out a frown, and he jockeyed mentally between laughing at her superstition and allowing that unsettling feeling to disrupt his gut. "There is nothing, Aurora."

Ignoring him, her head swiveled to face the endless pit of black, and she continued in a distant tone, "You hear them speaking. Sometimes you see the shadows they cast." She inhaled unsteadily, and her profile grew more severe against the night behind her. "We call them the ukai, lost spirits the Keres have trapped here. Hades always calls for them, and they never stop searching… When you sleep, you see them."

"Enough," Haemon said shortly and dismissed her ridiculous stories. "If you're so afraid of the night, you can take first watch."

He settled deeper against the rocky wall and regretted it immediately for the fresh burn of stone prodding at his shoulder blades, but he closed his eyes and pretended he didn't notice them, having already committed to this stance and too stubborn to show pain. His arms crossed loosely over his chest, and he eased his head back to balance against the wall. He had learned at a young age to take comfort in the most austere of places. It was years spent travelling across the seas and through distant lands before he had a bed to rest upon. Sleeping in the black wilderness almost felt more natural, and already weariness was falling down his forehead and draping lower across his eyes. Still, his mind would not release, and sobered briefly, he opened one eye on her and warned, "Don't fall asleep –not without waking me first."

She didn't answer but continued her silent, uncanny watch staring out across the black, her eyes darting from point to point as if truly she could watch those lost spirits moving through the woods.

He exhaled irritably but didn't feel motivated at the moment to chastise her about acting like a child. Rather, he listened to the crackling fire, saw it reflect in the web of his closed lids, and felt it roll off his skin. The rest of him had gone numb with cold, his nose particularly and his fingers, but he focused on the part of skin where he felt the fire, tricked himself into imaging it touching all of him. He didn't notice the rocks jutting into his back or his head. He didn't hear the wordless groan of the woods. He focused solely on the fire, pulsing in his mind, and the deeper he fell, the hotter it blazed behind his eyes until it flared so fiercely he lifted his hand to block out the flames.

Though he shielded his eyes, the light was blinding, all-encompassing, burning everything. All he could hear were the clashes of bronze, feel the rasp of sand beneath feet, and smell the dense ashes of destruction. His hand fell, and he squinted to see the battlefield, blindsided by the indecipherable number of soldiers engaged around him and even more so by the familiar street. Time was impossible to tell given the fire's force tearing through the dark blanket of night and stars above them, the heat was palpable, and the battle was in full force. He was unarmed in the center of their sea, yet a soldier rushed past him as though blind to his presence, and as he turned to follow the man's path, he felt the armor weighing down his shoulders and chest. A bronze linked plate molded to his ribs, bronze wrist fenders and shin guards adorned his limbs, and his sandaled feet were covered in sand and blood. He could feel it in his mouth, making his tongue gritty, and he swallowed to clear away the taste. When he turned to face the surge of soldiers, he noticed a figure standing still from the edge of his gaze, both of them statues in the eye of the carnage swirling recklessly around them. He spun uncertainly toward his unannounced ally, and immediately recognized the bronze helmet and blue plume spilling from it like a lost memory springing to life before him. His chest capsized with the weight of the image shuddering against the heat, all crackling edges and crisp angles, and his head was concrete, too heavy to hold up but stuck permanently in the same hardened expression.

The helmet slowly rotated atop those sturdy shoulders and allowed him a glimpse at chestnut eyes which were an exact mirror of his own. He removed the helmet, and Haemon watched his father's features fall into place as if not a day had passed since he stepped outside the gates. He looked young, strong, and invincible as Haemon had once known him to be. His chest ached, feeling hollow within, and it was alien to him realizing something belonged there that he had lost long, long ago. Hector's chestnut curls moved in a slight breeze, and even with his brow knit to keep out the blaze, the pale scar shone white against his bronze skin. The Thessalian giant… An impossible victory. Hector offered his helmet between them, and Haemon couldn't understand something so insignificant when the gods had granted them a moment together. They should speak, embrace, fight, anything! But his tongue was swollen with the sand, and his chest too barren to find the will to speak. He took the helmet if only to please Hector, to be sure he'd stay, and he slipped it onto his head until the sounds of war were muffled and he could hear the rumbling thunder of his heart in his ears. Hector removed his shield and extended it next, and Haemon stared at the shield embossed with the symbols of Troy upon it and couldn't understand this exchange, less deny it. He slid his forearm into the leather straps so that it was fitted perfectly to him. Finally, Hector drew his sword from the sheath across his chest, and as it met the light, the engravings in the bronze blazed, momentarily blinding Haemon's eyes. He winced to block out that gleam seeming to grow with every moment and making his eyes and head ache to suppress it. He instantly recognized the blade: Aeneas kept hidden away and would not sell it during their travels –not when they were almost starving –not when they had but one horse left –not when their shoes were falling apart –not ever. Hector provided this blade too, and Haemon assumed it as silently and obediently as the rest. Once he was fully adorned, Hector seemed to admire his eldest son prepared for war and standing tall enough they were eye-to-eye, and Haemon rose proudly beneath his father's watchful eyes.

"I can protect you now," Haemon promised, and Hector smiled in that fatherly way he would sometimes, a small curve which harbored years of wisdom and endless understanding. Above it, his eyes were vacuous pools, infinitely dense and yet empty, and Haemon stared into them searching for something to latch onto yet feeling that this was all sand slipping through his fingers. Not even a palm full remained. He raised his sword to show his resolve, his weapon, all that he could offer, but Hector turned away.

"Father…"

Hector stepped into the melee, unarmed, comfortable, unrushed, and soldiers paused amidst their battle to take notice of the Trojan Prince who joined them.

Realizing Hector's intent, Haemon sprung forward, eyes darting to assess each threat, and he yelled out, "Father!"

Hector continued his easy stride further into the ranks of enemy soldiers, and Haemon buried his sword in the first man who impeded his path, growling out his warning to the others but too preoccupied staring at Hector fading into their lines to realize the depth of his opponents.

"Father!"

He didn't turn, and a sudden rush of panic consumed Haemon, melding with his rage, with his guilt, with his sorrow, and he lashed out at another soldier tearing open his gut and watching his insides spill onto the ground. Yelling, he severed a man's arm, he sliced open another's throat, he cut someone's leg, he split one's helmet. He attacked mercilessly until the dead carcasses and severed body parts and blood piled around him, and for every man he killed, another took his place until a sea of soldiers collapsed upon him. He swung endlessly, sweating, breathing haggardly, exhausted, and so furious. His eyes never ceased their search for Hector, but his father was lost in the swell of soldiers funneling to take him.

"Father!"

He couldn't protect him. His eyes burned with heat, the sand, the pressure building in his head.

"Father!"

He couldn't save him. Howling like an animal, he fought, stabbing, ripping, tearing, cutting, and lunging. Blood covered him from toe to nose, and his weapons had fallen to his feet leaving him only his bare hands to reach for throats and eyes and ears. He was vicious and uncouth and lax of the honor his father had taught him. Honor. He couldn't breathe. Each time he opened his mouth, he drank in the blood. It was blinding his eyes. He crawled over the carcasses, slipping on their wet skin and falling over them. He struggled to gain his footing, but the soldiers were buckling around him like a wave crashing over him. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't see. He fought. He couldn't stop fighting, and he couldn't stop howling.

"Father!"

He shot forward, arms swinging against invisible enemies, and the black was almost more blinding that the fire of his dream had been. He was gasping, shaking, sweating, and he searched his body finding his black robes in place of the Trojan armor and his bronze skin clean of blood. The cold made his lungs burn, made his throat crackle, and the pain was real to him, as much as the blood and the gore of his nightmare. Feeling eyes upon him, he spun to meet her watchful silence. The fire reflected in her eyes, making them shine in a supernatural way, and they pulsed all the more in contrast to her pale face which was relaxed in understanding, sympathy even. Haemon stiffened uneasily, realizing he had called out in his sleep, and he looked away from her to his hands still curled into fists at his sides. He couldn't acknowledge what had passed if only in his head. It felt too real to be a dream, and the pain in his chest was an empty throbbing so severe it seemed he had watched his father die yet again. He stared into the fire as vibrant as the flames licking at his lost city and knew now there would be no sleep for either of them –not in these black woods.

‡‡‡

The red gown settled unevenly across her, receding in places from the gash in the front and crumpled in others, and Aurora worked her palms across the fabric to calm it and mold it to her needs. It did little to affect the dress and more to agitate her nerves, but she found any excuse not to turn and walk out of the line of trees to find Haemon who was destroying the remnants of their camps. He had promised a plan but delivered none thus far, though she imagined his sleepless night had distracted him. In her eyes, he was a wall of a man: impenetrable to attack and shielded from inquiry, but last night she had glimpsed at the demons which tormented him. The woods had that unique ability to magnify the small tremors in one's psyche, making them crumble at the seams, and she had warned him. Still…

"Father!"

His voice had been so desperate, so earnest. What was she to make of that? He fought in his sleep, and she wondered faintly if that were natural for him to fight whether conscious or not. He had seemed startled, but perhaps he was only confused to awake in the middle of the forest beside her.

Why do you call for your father, Prince? she wondered and continued adjusting her dress. Does he not wait for you in Alba Longa? Do you fear someone will steal him from you?

A rustling in the brush distracted her, and her head snapped to full attention, concentrating her gaze across her left shoulder. The woods were silent with pale morning filtering through the canopy and dancing across the rocky ground. The forest looked peaceful and still, but she had the sense something lurked beyond its edges and knew her intuition to be true since their ambush the day before. Without hesitation, she turned on her heel and hurried into the clearing once more, no longer caring about the gash in her gown, and found Haemon bent over and destroying the evidence of their campfire.

He didn't turn when she approached, and she whispered forcefully, "Haemon!" to draw his attention.

He immediately stood, and judging by the severity of his features, he realized something was amiss.

"There's someone," she continued, keeping a low, forced tone, and she pointed in the direction of the noise. "I heard it."

His dark eyes rushed to follow her hand, and he drew his bow and arrow and stepped forward to shield her with his body and weapon. The rustling renewed, seen only as the intermittent glimpse of a shadow, and Haemon's body stilled with his attack prepared and waiting. The sound rushed closer, swift as the breeze through the trees, and all at once a black dog charged out of the brush.

As swiftly as the beast emerged, Aurora knocked Haemon's arm and yelled out "No!", and his arrow flew into the ground barely missing its prey. The Princess then knelt to welcome the husky dog into her arms, and his tail wagged contentedly while he licked at her face, making her laugh as she massaged her fingers through its heavy coat.

Startled and confused, Haemon watched their reunion like old friends finding each other again, but he was forced to fetch a fresh arrow when another stepped into the clearing. This time he recognized the tall, burly man with pale blonde hair knotted at his nape and worn grey eyes, but he saw less an acquaintance than an adversary. Yet again, his betrothed was not similarly shrewd.

"Atlan!" she gasped the moment her eyes found him, and she rushed forward to embrace him.

The old huntsman folded her against him, engulfing her in the length of his arms, and a faint itch sprung between Haemon's shoulder blades that travelled up to the base of his skull. He frowned a fresh, raw look of disapproval and maintained his stance with the bow stretched and prepared to meet its mark.

At length, Atlan recognized the unyielding glare facing him with effect of his body stiffening and neck straightening. Sensing the shift in his posture, Aurora looked up to understand his distracted attention and traced it over her shoulder to Haemon. She mirrored his frown and placed herself before Atlan, effectively marking out her allegiance.

"He's a friend, Haemon," she condemned as though her body didn't speak enough, and her gaze flattened to mimic her distaste.

"I have no friends," he corrected, "not until I know who my enemies are."

"You're wise to suspect all, Prince," Atlan agreed before more spiteful words could spring from Aurora's tongue, "but I am one of few who is not among your enemies… So long as you protect Aurora."

His eyes narrowed at the implication, concentrating each to pits black and hard as stone. "Why are you here?"

"I explained that to you the last time you interrogated me." He stepped out from behind the Princess, and Haemon's arrow followed his every move seamlessly. "Aurora is a daughter to me. I needed to find her before the King's men did."

"They search for us?"

"Yes, but you knew they would."

"Do they think us alive?"

"That is more difficult to answer," Atlan confessed, and his grey eyes flashed with a wash of rage the Alban Prince didn't anticipate. "When Aurora didn't return to the palace by late afternoon, suspicions were drawn."

"Not until the afternoon?" Aurora blanched in simultaneous insult and horror.

"You do have a reputation for disappearing…" Atlan whispered, and there seemed to be a hint of a smile in the edges of his lips though his eyes remained stern as ever, a clouded storm building in their depths. "Savas sent guards at once to search for you. They claimed there was evidence of a fight, though no bodies were found. Savas decided you must have been ambushed by rogue men and taken for ransom. By this time, night was drawing near, and Savas announced a grand search would commence at daybreak."

"No one found this odd?" Haemon interrupted, his frown now creased with disbelief more than anger.

"Your brother, for one," he answered. "He offered to take his men and search for you while there was still light out… I visited him and convinced him otherwise."

"You did what!" the Prince growled, and the bow groaned as it was drawn even greater.

Atlan caught Aurora before she could step in front of him again, and for once her eyes nearly looked the same shade, so dark with fury and directed solely toward her betrothed.

"I told him to run, Prince," Atlan continued. "I tried to explain that this was an elaborate scheme –that there was no kidnapping-"

"How could you know?" Haemon interrupted once more, but it was evident he would ever be distrustful and hunting for deceit.

"I searched the site where the guards claimed to have found signs of a battle. The tracks read like an account. I could nearly tell every move made, and there was much blood –too much for there to be no bodies. It felt wrong… I have no other way to describe it. I knew something was amiss, and Savas' behavior… I had held suspicions for many years, and I thought finally Savas has made his move."

"You based your belief on a feeling?" he asked with an incredulous gleam to his words.

"I'm a hunter. I can learn more from someone's tracks than their words, and I trust my instincts… I didn't know I was right until now."

Arrow still notched, Haemon changed direction, "And my brother? What of him?"

"He didn't believe me initially. He thought I was trying to distract him from finding you. He threatened to disembowel me multiple times if I hindered him, but then, finally, he seemed to realize there was truth to what I was saying." Atlan quirked a brow in both amusement and aggravation. "He realized his older brother would never be bested by common thieves, lest allow himself to be captured by them."

The strength of the words resonated between them, and amazingly, one corner of Haemon's mouth edged into a smile. He nodded as if to applaud Ascanius and his judgment.

"He rode for Latium in the night," the huntsman continued. "When Savas discovered your brother's disappearance, he began making ridiculous claims against you and your family. He said you kidnapped Aurora, so that you would not have to honor your agreement… I think he understood he had been found out and tried to distract those around him by charging your family with these atrocities. He sent guards after your brother."

"They won't catch him," the Prince noted immediately since Ascanius was the strongest rider in all of Alba Longa.

"Let us hope not… As for you, they are searching, and Savas will not give you the chance to speak your piece if he finds you." It was then that Atlan removed the various packs piled onto his hefty shoulders and deposited them onto the ground in offering. "Your only option is to run like your brother."

At last, Haemon released his hold on the bow and slid the arrow into his quiver. "We won't make it to the border, let alone Latium before Savas' men catch us."

"No, you won't," Atlan agreed, "not if you head that direction."

"What are you suggesting?"

The huntsman grimaced briefly as he straightened and stood tall once more. "Are the Samnites not allies of yours?"

"Yes…" the Prince admitted, and his gaze wandered like his thoughts rushing to reach an end brought by this reminder.

"You think we should ride for Samnium," Aurora spoke up more tentatively than the men and looked to Atlan for confirmation.

"Samnium and Apulia have been at war on and off for decades. There's an irreparable vendetta between the two kings. I believe the Samnite king will help you if you go to him."

"To reach Samnium, we would have to cross the mountains," Aurora understood, waiting to see whether Atlan had considered this as well, and she frowned when his features showed no change in thought. "How is that less dangerous?"

"Because Savas won't expect it," he answered shortly. "You know the High Pass. If you take it, you will cut across the mountains and go directly to the capital of Samnium. There is an outpost, but it is poorly guarded."

Facing an impossible decision where death seemed certain and success futile, the Princess turned from Atlan to consider her Alban Prince. Where her gaze had been clouded with anger, he discovered the mismatched eyes appealing to him now, torn and confused.

He slid the bow onto his back, so simple an act yet it made her even less comfortable for he was fully disarmed. By contrast, they stared at one another as though equals, and he confessed, "I don't know these lands."

"Aurora does," Atlan intervened, but his contribution has no visible effect on the silent conversation passing between the pair, Aurora uncertain and timid where Haemon was resolved and waiting for the final word.

At length, the Princess swallowed, and her features opened with a question, "Do we have a choice?"

"No." He exhaled shortly, compressing his chest and shoulders into a stiff line. "We try for Samnium, or we die."

"I brought supplies –everything I could carry—to help you," Atlan tried again, and this time Haemon stepped forward to look through the various bags the huntsman had brought.

With her betrothed distracted and their decision rather coldly decided, Aurora implored him, "You won't come with us?"

The old Apulian sighed when he met Aurora's alarmed look, almost pained by her fear and his inability to shoulder it, and he tentatively stepped closer to her and lowered his voice. "I have my family to look after, Aurora, and I can be of better service to both of you here. I'll keep watch of Savas' movements and send word to Prince Ascanius so that he knows you're alive and making for Samnium."

"But…" she worried instantly though the silence crept in as she recognized how selfish her disapproval was. Brazenly, she admitted, "I need you."

Atlan glanced at Haemon who was ignoring them and sliding the packs onto his shoulders. Taking Aurora's arm, he squeezed it briefly, but his attention had fallen to the bruises circling her neck. "No, you don't. Look what you've already faced and overcome without me… Let him be your guardian now."

Her lips trembled to match the uncertain quaking of her eyes, and they glistened in the fresh morning light, staring up at him both vacant and full of fear.

Atlan touched her cheek then and smoothed his fingers along her skin as though comforting a child. "My lost girl," he murmured and forced an encouraging smile, "you're meant to survive. Your destiny lies beyond these lands. I know you're afraid to leave what is familiar, but this is not your home –not anymore… Make your family proud. Live for them."

The first tear fell past the barrier of her lashes, and Atlan swiftly wiped it away. He bent forward and kissed her forehead much like he had when she was young and fearful, and she felt the same sense of relief soothe her heavy mind. Haemon stood at last when there was nothing more to be done, and the huntsman squeezed her arm once more to warn her that the time had come.

"Thank you," she muttered in a broken voice and felt a renewed prick in her chest for how inadequately those words encompassed all that she felt. "Without you... I can never repay you all that you've given me."

"You can," he assured her. "Make it to Samnium alive, and all that I've done will not be in vain."

"We must hurry," Haemon commented, but it was a knife through their tender moment.

Aurora glared sharply at him for there was no better place to direct her frustration.

"I've left my horse at the edge of the trail," Atlan said, "or I would offer it to you now… If you have the chance, you must take one. Steal it. You'll be too easy to catch on your feet." He then untied the money pouch he carried at his waist and handed it to Aurora. "This is all I've carried. Do not waste it. It's barely enough to bribe a man, but it may help you along your journey."

"Thank you," Haemon said earnestly with a stiff nod of recognition like a silent promise among them. "If I make it to Alba Longa, you will be rewarded, huntsman."

Atlan smiled almost sardonically, at once amused and insulted. "The only reward I need is Aurora's safety. Protect her, and consider your debt paid."

"I will."

"Go now," the Apulian said to Aurora who still stood before him, donning a look too similar to the lost expression she had worn when he found her that he could not bear to face her. He grimaced faintly and turned away. "I will cover your tracks. Go."

The ground crunched beneath his heavy feet, but Aurora didn't turn to follow Haemon's retreat into the forest. Her eyes were buried into her adopted father's back, and in that space all her fears, her sadness, her loss flourished. Yet, an unknown string tugged at her chest, pulling her toward the forest line where Haemon had disappeared. So their fates had been tied, and she felt him drawing her away from everything that she knew. She wished to tear that seamless thread which joined them but knew it futile when there would be nothing to catch her. Apulia held nothing for her. She had died in the woods long ago the same night her family had been murdered, and her life was now bound to this man who was as much a stranger as her husband. Hot, sticky tears filled her eyes and burned her cold cheeks. She wanted to reach for Atlan, but her fingers wouldn't brush him. He was lost to her too. The thread tugged harder, sending a sharp flash of pain resounding against her bones. It was impatient. There was no question. Gritting her teeth, she turned from Atlan, feet leaden like she were wading knee-deep through a tumultuous sea, but she treaded forward, one step after another after another. She caught up with him though she hardly noticed how his pace kindly slowed so that he wouldn't lose her. Perhaps he felt the commanding thread joining them.

Briefly he glanced over his shoulder at her, but she couldn't meet his inquiring look, knowing how her cheeks shone with tears she could not stop.

Look upon your queen, Prince, she thought bitterly and bit her lip to still its trembling. Would you still take me if you knew the storm I bring?

‡‡‡

The town center pulsed with activity like the heartbeat of Alba Longa whose residents rushed to prepare the games, feast, and adornments for their king. The same handsome rogue had won their loyalty and hearts years before, and he now bore an uncanny frown across his features, carved out of discomfort and humility, as he watched them toil to please him. Their attention would be better served mending the wall guarding their city, destroyed months earlier in an attack by Scipio's army, and preparing for winter, but in assembling a celebration, they seemed much more lighthearted and content. It seemed honoring his life was the perfect way to distract them from the death that had plagued their city since its formation. They needed to time plant their roots, peace with their neighboring lands, or at least a more skilled army to protect them, but as he well knew, these things could not be bought, less bartered for. Even after all the offerings he had sacrificed in the gods' names, he knew they could not give him the one thing he most needed most… Myrina. How that fiery spirit and sharp tongue kept the trickster in him honest and made a man out of the most narcissistic demigod. Years the wound torn by her passing had closed, but it was poorly tended and subject to tear at the slightest provocation. The scar was ugly, raised, and angry. There was no harsher mark left in all his years of waging war as that from the loss of her.

Absently, he touched two fingers to his side near his ribs where he knew the slight wisp of an old wound remained, and similarly, he sought out those memories locked deep away like the most favored and expensive of all his treasures.

How many years ago was it that he first saw her face?

Blue eyes paling with age closed, providing a screen upon which to project her youthful features… Those unusual blue-green eyes were wide and round as a babe's, contrasted starkly by the blush rushing to consume her face, and how her full lips subtly trembled as she faced him. She looked upon him as though he were the sun, oblivious to how her naïve, innocent stare dug beneath his skin and pricked at something tender in his rotting heart. For the deceivingly good looks his mother hand granted him, his youth was lost to an endless revelry of drinking, whoring, and charging carelessly into battles. He was a hollow man, bitter and jealous of his cousin who was promised everything when he was the one of divine blood. Yet Hector constantly surpassed him, revered for his bravery, loyalty, and honor where Aeneas was condemned even in his attempts to be a better man. Honor had never been his virtue. In trying to win Myrina's love, he had stolen her from her home and family. In keeping his promise to Hector, he had neglected his vow to his wife. No good deed went unpunished.

"Sometimes I wonder, old friend, how these days would look had I gone in your stead," he spoke and opened his eyes to the silence of his walls, imaging the Trojan Prince seated in his chair and listening to the regretful grumblings of a grizzled king. Aeneas turned toward the empty chair for the Prince was already moving to the door, and he mused, "You took his cousin. Do you think Achilles would have been satisfied taking yours?"

"Would you have died for me?" his phantom asked while pausing in the threshold.

"I think it might have been easier than living in your shadow," Aeneas answered and smiled wryly. "I could have died a hero. Imagine the odes they would have written to my valiant sacrifice."

"And what of the odes to your… other conquests?"

The edges of his mouth hiked up higher, hiccupping briefly with a soft chuckle, but soon he broke out into laughter when the sensation grew too colossal to sustain. The sound swarmed the silent room like a sudden attack, and in its resonance, the humor of an unspoken quip grew in his mind. By the time Iliana entered donning a perplexed and reproachful expression, his ribs ached, his lungs burned, and he was wiping away the tears caught in the creases at the edges of his eyes.

"Have you gone mad, old man?" the young Alban princess demanded with two fists planted on her hips.

"Perhaps," Aeneas answered and grinned so broadly the sun seemed encompassed in his features, lighting them up with spry delight. "There's a point where age and madness cross."

"You've convinced the servants!" She motioned toward the door behind her where his attendants were no doubt eavesdropping.

Rolling his eyes, he grunted with masculine derision, and Iliana shook her head.

"It's a pity… We'd so hoped you would have a few more salient years," she taunted, a smile sneaking in between her lips to disrupt her stern look.

"As do all kings. At times I'm tempted to let your brothers fight over the crown while I ease into Hades drunk and content as a babe."

"What a legacy you would leave," she muttered and couldn't contain herself from sauntering toward the table and planting herself in the seat a certain, invisible Trojan Prince had occupied moments before.

"I aim to be nothing if not memorable." Aeneas' grin faltered as he saw more Hector's daughter than his own for a brief moment.

"What were you laughing about?" she asked when the jokes faded and her curiosity remained.

He strolled to the table as well and balanced one palm on the top beside the worn map that had guided them through the years. "I was thinking of the upcoming celebration."

"That amuses you?" One brow cocked dubiously, and Aeneas realized Iliana had inherited her mother's uncanny ability to pry for the truth.

"Yes," he responded, "I think of what my lost friends would say to see me so old."

His warm, casual tone did not transfer, and Iliana assumed the forlorn look that aged her features and made Aeneas' heart recede deeper into his chest. Her chestnut eyes fell to consider her lap where she was picking at her dress and arranging the folds in her lap. "I'm certain they would clap you on the back and wish you many more years…"

"Some were not so noble as you." He took her chin and eased her head back, offering her a hand to retrieve her from the sudden gloominess. "What do you suppose your mother would say?"

A smile warmed Iliana's features as she imagined, "She would march into your chambers and tell you you should laugh more, even if it is alone like a crazed man, and that you should accept the love and devotion of those around you and be grateful for this celebration rather than stewing in here and looking over your maps and plans each day!"

His shoulders fell subtly, and he nodded, a candid pained smile passing across his face. "Fortunately… I have you to nag me instead." He straightened to his full height and plucked one of the pieces of parchment from his table to consider as he recalled his upcoming meeting with his sons and lieutenants. "Is that the only reason you've come to see me?"

"To nag you?" she understood and narrowed her eyes as though insulted. Abandoning the look, she stood and admitted, "No. I came to tell you I'm leaving to visit Eione and Chara. I'll return before supper."

"You and your sister-in-law have grown close as of late," he noted though he was oblivious to how intuitive his statement was.

"I worry she's lonely without Ascanius around," Iliana lied in part.

"Yes. We all wish Haemon and Ascanius would return soon." Perhaps Aeneas was too trusting his youngest for he didn't seem the slightest bit aware of her deception.

"And Haemon said nothing of his plans for the journey back?" she continued, guiding the conversation away from herself.

"No." His eldest son's latest letter had arrived only a day before, and its contents pestered the old king more than gave him peace. Judging by his letter, it will not be long before he rides through our gates…empty-handed. "Go and see Eione. Give her my blessing."

"I will." Sweeping toward her father, she reached to place a chaste kiss on his cheek, the grey bristle of his beard scratching her skin in a way that echoed memories long ago and making her feel childlike. "Do not let concerns about Scipio and his men consume you, or they'll send you to the pyre before your time."

"I'll have to marry you off if you continue to worry over me like this," he warned and smiled. "Go."

She grinned guiltily and left the room, finding the few servants who worked for her father gathered uncharacteristically in the corridor at once. Their heads were uniformly bowed to the ground though she still granted each the weight of her gaze oscillating to consider them and silently warn that she knew their purpose. Pleased with the effect she gained, she moved through the home to find a veil for her hair and gather the bowl of stew she had made the day before. No matter how menial the tasks, her skin was buzzing and vibrating as if the anticipation were humming within her. Each passing second doubled its resonance until she fought to still her hands shaking while they fretted arranging the veil over her and around her face. She then took up the bowl and stepped out of the home, glancing about to be sure none were watching her.

Finally the previous night had brought a front of cooler weather, signaling the gradual shift from summer to fall which was too oft delayed in their lands. There were times she wondered what it would be like to live in an area with true seasons, with changing leaves and snow, but as she felt the cool breeze sweeping in from the sea and rustling about her, a sublime sense of peace settled within her. This was her home. Odd that they abandoned one coastal city to settle in another, but perhaps their people would always be drawn to the sea, searching for what was familiar in the foreign. She shook off her brief thoughts though she was incapable of shucking her pensive mood and started across the small town center. The branches of trees were being adorned with dyed fabric and candles, and she smiled at the women dressing the trees with the diligence of handmaidens. Truly it would be a beautiful sight to behold when the day of the celebration came and night fell. She couldn't deny the pride blooming in her chest at how each man offered what he could in honor of her father. She knew he doubted himself, but Aeneas was a good man. He was only haunted by a past of poor decisions, indiscretions, and youthful carelessness, and in truth, Alba Longa was built of lost men with their own secrets and histories –men like Damian.

As usual, the door to the forge was propped open by the mutilated helmet to allow a fresh breeze into the dense space. The air tasted cleaner, absent of the oppressive heat that accented her discomfort around this man, yet her heart reached a crescendo of excitement and regret when she rapped on the door and stepped inside. She was struck firstly by the number of spears, swords, axes, arrows, and shields piled up and crowding the main room, and for a moment, her eyes were lost trying to understand the culmination of his work in such a seemingly short period of time.

The reason for his newfound productivity soon bobbed into her line of sight and almost caused her to lose her handle on the bowl of stew. His blonde curls were mussed and stained with ashes like his clothes and skin, and she could scarcely recognize the bright blue eyes staring at her.

Eber's boy… What is his name?

"My Lady," the juvenile said, looking as startled by her appearance as she was by his. "Forgive me… I thought you were Kain come to deliver more wood." Like most young men, he had sprouted up before he had the opportunity to fill out, and his long, lithe limbs accentuated his nerves around her, all sharp angles and rigid lines.

She gathered her wits demurely though was fretting to explain her reasoning for arriving unannounced and without chaperone to a man's home. "I brought a meal for Damian," she said at last and glanced over the boy's shoulder to see if her blacksmith would materialize and pluck her from this awkward situation, "as a sign of my family's gratitude for all that he has done."

"That's… That's very gracious of you, My Lady." His tone wavered subtly, matching his gaze which was pinned to the ground.

His anxiety was catching, and she found herself unnerved simply recognizing how uncomfortable he felt. Yet she was a better handler of her emotions than the young man, and her voice sounded strong, almost imposing as she requested, "Is he here?"

"Yes," he answered promptly and paused, head hanging, stance rocking back and forth over his feet.

A slight crease grew between her brows where her nerves were swift turning to annoyance. "I'd like to deliver this myself."

"Yes," he agreed immediately and obediently, but again he hesitated. Glimpsing at her, he recognized her aggravated look and explained, "But he-he's resting. It's my fault… He asked not to be disturbed."

His report only confounded her more, and she struggled briefly for the proper manner to address him but was interrupted.

"Enough, Pelicles," his gruff tone barked, causing both Iliana and the boy to startle. "You do not refuse a princess."

He stepped forward from his private quarters into the forge, rather inelegantly treading around a pile of spears, and her confusion tripled when she noticed his gait. The normally rugged, sturdy blacksmith now concentrated his weight on his left leg, then stepping swiftly with his right as though to avoid placing too great a strain on that side of his body. Her eyes followed his every movement while she attempted to understand and locate his injury.

"Go home to your father. I've no more use for you today," Damian decided in a clipped tone that was pregnant with aggravation, and even his features were fixed in a stony expression.

"I'm sorry," the boy muttered, and his willowy body nearly buckled under the weight of Damian's stare. "I thought you might need… Are you certain? I can be of service–"

"You've done enough," he interrupted curtly, and his raspy voice made the words more jagged.

Pelicles struggled momentarily with this dismissal and wondered, "When should I return?"

"I'll send word."

His head hung the more heavily, and he directed it toward Iliana as though bowing in respect. "Excuse me, My Lady."

He brushed past her and hurried out the door, nearly stumbling over his growing feet in the process, and Iliana frowned sympathetically. She had never sseen Damian so short and apathetic, though it was not difficult to imagine his motivations when he drew closer to her, one stiff step at a time.

"You're hurt," she commented, frown deepening.

One edge of his mouth pulled back in a grimace of vexation, and he offered his hand to take the bowl of stew from her.

She held fast to it, forcing him to look at her, as she continued, "How badly?"

"I can still finish your father's blade," he countered, and his eyes shaded more darkly under his knit brow.

Her features immediately mirrored his own, looking insulted by the insinuation, but then how long has this game gone unacknowledged and unfulfilled? Time made their attraction spoil to frustration.

"Has anyone tended to it?" she pursued stubbornly.

"No…" he admitted and seized the bowl from her hands as though to end this discussion. He turned from her to place the bowl on the tabletop where they usually sat, and Iliana followed if only not to be ignored.

"Let me see the wound."

"It's of no concern," he snapped. "I will call for the healer"

With his rising frustration grew her own, and her stance set making her appear as unyielding as her tone. "You do not refuse a princess…"

He exhaled shortly through his nose and glanced at her, looking aggravated to have his words fed back to him.

By effect, her guard eased, and she amended, "If you wish me to leave, ask it… Otherwise, let me help you."

His gaze remained as dark, but she sensed a shift beneath the surface. Reluctantly, he reached beneath his right arm and drew his shirt from the material around his waist. As it rose, she saw the appearance of a dressing, and her horror grew while she watched him pull his shirt over his head, wincing, and reveal the size of the bandage nearly encapsulating his whole chest. How could he say this was of no concern?

His pigheaded need to hide the injury suddenly infuriated her, and her chestnut eyes snapped up at him ablaze. His attention was directed away so that her look went unnoticed, and she frowned deeply and found the edge of the dressing and began unwrapping it from him. He held his arms away from his ribs, giving the space for her hands and arms to fit, and were she not so angry with him, she might have flushed for the proximity and her undressing him. His jaw was set stiffly, and he fought away a grimace as she gently pulled the material away from the burn stretching down his side and onto his back. There was no incision, but the wound was angry and the skin blistered and bloody.

"How did this happen?" she murmured softly and took his elbow, guiding his arm slightly higher so that she could better see the wound.

"Eber offered his son to apprentice with me," he grumbled. "I've taken on a few as a trial –to see which was best suited and the least irritating… Pelicles was the most eager and learned quickly. Today I allowed him to shadow me and practice the process with a scrap piece of bronze… I was looking at my plans when he stumbled with the hot metal and fell into me."

Each word seemed to relive that foolish mistake, making his eyes flare even as he tone grew increasingly cold, but Iliana was better able to understand his motivations now.

"It was a foolish mistake," she noted as she recalled Pelicles' behavior and realized the poor boy was wrought with guilt. Damian made no move to agree with her, too caught up in his anger, and she decided, "Sit while I fetch some herbs."

Without giving the opportunity to object, she rushed out of the forge and toward her home where they kept a small garden with medicines for this purpose, and she drew her veil across her face, ducking behind the corner before any could notice her. She was swift as she knew precisely what she needed and tore the leaves from two plants and wrapped them in the edges of her veil. Moments later she returned to the forge and pushed aside the helmet so that the door would fall shut behind her and keep out any wandering eyes. Visiting a man unchaperoned was scandalous enough. She didn't need others realizing the same man was half-naked and waiting on her return.

His dark eyes unsettled her gut as they followed her every move, and the brief time away reminded her abruptly of her nerves. Her heart picked up its pace within her chest while she settled the herbs on the table and noticed a small vessel of tsipouro, a pale, potent liquor stronger than wine.

She pushed it toward Damian and commanded, "Drink." His wound was already causing him great pain, and she knew one of the plants she had taken would only worsen his suffering before taking effect.

For a moment, she expected him to decline, but it seemed he had committed himself to her care and would object no more. Sweeping up the vessel, he drew a long swig, feeling the liquid burn down his throat and settle in his belly. It lingered in the back of his throat and nose, making his eyes prick with the heat, and as the burn faded a slight sweetness spread across his tongue. Meanwhile, Iliana had dampened a piece of cloth with fresh water and knelt beside him to clean the wound before she dressed it. She waited for Damian to take another, longer gulp, and he set the vessel on the tabletop once more and steeled himself for her care.

Gingerly, she touched the damp cloth to his wound, hearing the sharp inhale that was the only signal of his pain, and applied slight pressure to be sure the skin was cleaned. The cloth stuck to his blistered skin, forcing her to peel it away, and she frowned with the effort to be gentle. He did not move even to allow breath into his lungs, and she replaced the towel a little lower, working her way along the wound. The angry, violent red skin protruding from his ribs was a constant reminder to take care. He hid his pain well, but when she reached the lower section of the lesion where the metal had done its worst, he jerked at the touch of the compress. Immediately, Iliana bent forward, pursed her lips, and blew a steady stream of cool air along the area she had already tended. His skin shuddered subtly, and she glanced up to gauge whether it was pain only to find his eyes closed and features knotted. Eyes still directed toward his face, she inhaled and repeated the same action, daring a bit closer to be sure he felt the cool touch. She watched his strong neck compress and release as he swallowed heavily, and an unknown sensation settled deep within her gut, tense as though anticipating something she couldn't understand and faintly shivering in excitement. She found her own mouth dry and throat tight, but she pursed her lips again and blew the same, slow, soft stream of air, feeling her waist flex as she bent down to reach the length of it and somehow the tense muscles magnified the feeling within. Her eyes flickered shut momentarily as her attention turned to the sensation, trying to understand it and how it pulsed out through her limbs, yearning for something… When they opened once more, they strayed beyond the limitations of his wound to his naked skin stained with ashes and glistening with sweat, providing an odd exchange of shade and light to carve out the lines of his chest. Faintly, he ribs prodded through the muscle and skin, stretching and compressing with each uneven breath he drew, and she wished for nothing more than to follow the lines with her fingers as if etching out the body of this man for whom she had thirsted for so long.

She reached the edge of his wound and realized her wandering attention and the ardent turn of her thoughts. A fresh blush charged into her cheeks, and she bowed her head to hide it while she flattened her palm on the tabletop and helped stand onto her feet. She was even more alarmed and mortified to discover how weak her knees felt and wished she could throw the cold water onto her face to cool the fire burning through her. It shamed her to be so young and inexperienced to react this hotly, and she barely noticed how she chopped the leaves of one plant and extracted the juices from the other, forming a paste between the two.

The former was an old, medicinal herb they often used for all manner of injuries, and it was made infamous for the pain it inflicted while its healing sap mended all wounds. When she was a child and had been playing with her brothers, she had slipped and sliced open her foot on a rock. Her mother chopped some of the plant's leaves and placed them on the open wound, and Iliana had cried as it felt like her foot had been doused in flames. Each day the wound throbbed angrily until the pain pulsed all the way to her knee, and each day her mother fussed at her to place her weight on the herbs bundled against her sole so that the juices would ease into the wound. She limped for two days, but when the bandage was removed and her wound considered, the cut had scabbed and was healing, almost miraculously.

She couldn't anticipate how the herb would affect his fresh burn, but she added the sap from the other leaves which were known to have a cooling and calming effect, thinking it might ease the pain. Once the paste was fully incorporated, she turned her attention to Damian who was drawing another, thick swig from the vessel. Undoubtedly he had recognized the herbs she mixed, and her features softened sympathetically. His eyes found her, hooded and dark, and they hammered directly into her belly as if commanding the growing tension knotted there. She was the one to swallow uneasily as she knelt beside him once more, and her body recognized the proximity and position with the effect of her heart thumping pitifully in her chest. Taking some of the balm between her fingers, she raised it to the top of his wound where the burn was not so severe, hesitated, and quickly smoothed it across the skin. His body settled to stone beside her neither fighting nor fleeing, and she attempted to move swiftly but was curbed by her compassion. Her other hand cupped the skin beside his wound, more for her own benefit than his. The balm met the worst part of his injury. He jerked as he had with the compress though more violently, and she swept her thumb gently across his skin as though that could offer him any comfort.

"I know…" she muttered softly and used the final bit of balm to smooth evenly over the whole wound, and she reached for the dressing. "Lean forward. Lift your arms," she commanded, and he obeyed without hesitation so that she could wind the cloth around him. The herbs stained the linen yellow, and she continued to wrap and layer the cloth until there was no sign of the wound or space for the balm to seep out.

She tied off the ends and eased backed onto her heels, realizing faintly that a light sweat had gathered on her brow. She tilted her head back to look to Damian. Though his features were contorted, his dark eyes opened and swept across her as if assessing her state. When they settled on her own eyes, her instinct was to shy from him, and briefly her gaze fell to her knees before an unwarranted bout of courage lifted them once more.

"Don't look away," Eione's voice chastised immediately. "You speak with your eyes… Let them say what you wish you could."

Inhaling shakily, their locked regards kindled a pressure between them as if mirroring the tension building inside her abdomen and painting it for him to see. By effect, his stance was guarded and uncertain, and she felt her brief conviction drying out. Hadn't months of placid inactivity warned her of how hopeless this was?

She looked away, scrambling to pull herself out of this cycle of hope and disappointment, and she parted her lips to say something, anything. Instead, his hand gripped her hair, cupping the base of her neck and wrenching her unapologetically to him. The shock struck her first with such force she was numb and stiff, but that chill was swift to burn away, the paralyzed feeling fading with every pump of her heart racing to wake her. The sweetness of his breath swept between her lips, searing the soft flesh, and his mouth massaged the heat into her skin until her lips were burning from him and for want of him. Her hands had unconsciously caught his knees and clasped her fingers against the bone to steady herself, and her grip provided more leverage as her thirst consumed her. She drove forward bounding off her heels to balance on her knees, and he rewarded her by catching her waist with his other hand and helping support her even his mouth bore down on her and forced her neck back. It felt like they were two worlds colliding recklessly and inelegantly into one another, all burn and no question. The levy from months of shared glances had broken and taken no prisoners. She had envisioned something sweeter in a kiss and could never have prepared herself for the desire rushing through her. Her hands still steadied her on his knees, her final grip keeping her from submitting fully to him, though he soon yanked at her waist as if to gather her into his lap. Her grip slipped, and her body fell forward, digging his knees into her belly and making her hold to his chest then so that she didn't crumble into his arms.

He groaned low in his throat, and she tore her hands away as she registered the touch of linen against her palms, rebounding with such force she nearly tumbled over her heels. She was breathless, dizzy, flushing, and she feared guiltily she had injured him though she couldn't bear to see for herself.

"Forgive me," she murmured in a voice much raspier than usual, and she cleared her throat as if that could cure her throbbing desire. "I didn't mean…"

"Iliana," he said near a growl, and uncertainly, her gaze darted up through her lashes to consider him. He was smiling wryly though without humor, those dark eyes resonating within her like a howl. "You can't understand what you do to me."

She blushed a fresh, raw shade of red even as her heart paused inside her, and she wet her lips as she sought a way to answer such a comment. They were swollen and tasted sweet like ouzo, like his kiss, and the sensation unraveled horrible, new thoughts to taint her mind. Couldn't he see what he did to her?

A curt knock on the door interrupted their exchange followed by the healer calling out, "Damian… Eber's boy found me. He said it was urgent."

In an instance, Iliana bounded onto her feet with an agility which evaded her only moments earlier. Her features paled while Damian cursed Pelicles' name beneath his breath and stood as well.

"I must leave," the Princess whispered gently as if the old healer could possibly hear them within and stole her veil from the table to wind about her hair once more. She realized her fingers were stained yellow from the balm as though she were marked from their encounter, and she promptly curled her hands into fists to hide the discoloration.

"Yes," he agreed reluctantly, and she realized his mood had shifted like a pendulum swinging to the opposite of spectrum. "Go through the back. No one will notice you."

She nodded her assent and hurried toward the threshold leading to the rest of the home, only to feel a grip on her arm restrain her and jerk her into him. She tumbled into his chest without the grace to twist and catch herself, and his lips smothered any objections from her. Her body submitted easily to his assault, her knees almost buckled, but he gripped her close, kissing away her equilibrium. When he released, he couldn't fully remove his grip, and she unsteadily gripped onto his arms for the balance to right herself.

"We will meet again soon," he said, but it resonated as a command to which to nodded her assent obediently.

Finally she stepped away from him, easing back with her gaze tangled in his own, and she swore there was a hint of a playful smile hiding in the blackness despite his aggravated expression. She flushed and turned, hurrying through the back of the home without registering its contents or lines and out the back where the cool air swept across her, fanning her skin while her insides were tumultuous and burning as a fire pit. She paused to adjust her veil and dress for safe measure, somehow fearing she was wearing the encounter on her. The taste of him lingered on her lips like the sensation of his skin on her own, and she struggled not to tumble backwards into the dizzing fall of her lust.

What would Mother say to see me like this? she wondered in the most ill-timed of self-reflections and promptly brushed the thought aside. It lingered in the base of her mind, and she stepped out from the shadow of the forge and hurried across the center of the town which was oddly vacant as the residents took a break from their work. It was late afternoon judging by the falling sun, angle of shadows, and reddening of the sky. Her pace quickened, sensing she had been gone much longer than she had anticipated. Suppose someone sent for her at Eione's?

Oh you foolish, foolish girl! she condemned herself and walked brusquely toward her home.


Author's Note: Hello my lovelies! Argh I'm such a slow poke lately. In my defense, I've been preoccupied writing much less gratifying things like a 25-page research paper... but I never forget! This is the one thing that keeps me sane, and I was so excited for this chapter because of Iliana and Damian! I was going to make this happen sooner but decided to be mean and delay it haha Oh the things I have planned... I've hinted at the skeletons in Damian's closet, but I can't wait for the big reveal in a few more chapters :))

Thank you as always to my favorite ladies AmyLNelson and klandgraf2007 for their sweet reviews!

Amy: Long time, no read again? haha Ah! I'm so happy you liked the last chapter. I was so, so excited about it, but I didn't want to give it away. I was like, 'Bear with me! Shit's gunna go down! I promise!' Bonding time in the woods... Basically, but that sounds so funny, doesn't it? Like campfires and s'mores and kumbayah. Hope you liked this chapter as well if it wasn't as action-packed :D xoxo

klandgraf: Full on action and drama! Such describes my writing style in its true essence haha And that chapter was definitely the epitome -thus far. Oh gurl, you know I got more craziness in store :)) Yes, I understand the comparison between Haemon and Hector, which I expect and welcome. Haemon's had to fight his whole life, so he's less bound by honor like Hector was. I big plans for my boy, though, so hopefully you'll begin to see a shift. Hope you enjoyed this chapter, and thanks for the kinds words! xoxo