Chapter 15
"Here Lies The Truth"
"Not now, Iliana. I will deal with you later," Aeneas snapped coolly over his shoulder while striding through the corridors of his home. Dawn had broke. A new day was brimming, but she never knew daylight could be so dark.
"Please, Father," she begged, as mute as she had been to Damian and her brother but insistent to speak or scream if need be, and chased after him. "I need to speak with you."
"Later!"
"No!" she retaliated with a sudden rush of anger making her flush. Her throat burned like the fires of Hades and fed her growing exasperation. She wouldn't be overlooked! Steeling herself, she warned, "I won't let you kill him."
"He tried to slit your throat, Iliana! He will be punished!"
"It was my fault! Please…" Her irritation and impotence manifested in the sting of tears lining up along her lashes. Her raw throat caught, and she grabbed his hand, forcing him to look at her and to acknowledge that she mattered in all of this. "Please, Papa."
Aeneas ceased his pace but kept his back to her, stiff and uncomfortable to hear the name she had called him as a child. Of all Myrina's children, she was the first to love him and take him as her own with those plump little fingers grasping to his hand and large eyes looking to him for protection and guidance. Given his record, he had never wanted for a daughter, thinking the gods would show their sense of humor with the manner of woman she would become, and yet through a cruel jest of fate, he had been given a beautiful, wounded little girl. He would kill anyone who so much as spoke against her. He would fight the gods if it meant protecting his only daughter.
"He loves me," she whispered, gripping tighter to his hand and feeling her lips tremble like her features contorting when he would not look at her. Drawing an uneasy breath, she tried to calm her racing nerves and explain in a trembling voice, "He told me he planned to ask you for my hand, and when he did not, I was impatient. I was nervous. I thought he had changed his mind, and I snuck out to see him and speak with him… I know better than to sneak up on a sleeping man. It is all my fault—"
"Iliana," Aeneas interrupted and at last turned to her revealing his face which silenced her instantly. Never had she seen the handsome features cut with such severity, like marble beautiful, fixed, and cold. His wrath extended far beyond the limits she had known, and he barely kept his tone or face stable when he said, "No blacksmith –no innocent man sleeps with a dagger in his bed."
His thoughts strayed to Nereus' account from the morning…
"Nothing! He said nothing at all!" His son's blue eyes were sharp enough to cut a man down, his hands were bloodied, and he couldn't bear the stillness of sitting when his fury swarmed inside him like pests feeding on his guilt for not protecting his sister. "No matter what I did, no matter what I threatened, no matter how I made him look death in the face, he did nothing!"
"He's dangerous," Aeneas decided, both horrified and suspicious of this realization. No normal civilian handled an interrogation so stoically, so calmly. Aeneas shuddered to think he let this man into their community, accepted him as one of their own, and allowed him in his home and near his family. There was much more to this blacksmith. Pale and hoarse, he knew, "He would have killed you."
"Let me speak to him," Iliana pressed as if immune to her father's trepidation, but she knew Damian. He was a good man who had done nothing wrong. Couldn't they see she was all to blame? Let them cast her with scourges, but first let her clear his name. "He'll speak to me. He'll tell me the truth. This is all a horrible misunderstanding. Please. Please."
Ignoring her blind loyalty to the man who had threatened her life and mangled her beauty, Aeneas turned and strode out the door. He would decide Damian's fate and end this matter.
Without hesitation, Iliana was at his heels once more, desperate to make him believe, and she suddenly snapped, "You're swayed by his station. You don't think him worthy. Mother would not judge him!"
Her blow met its mark for Aeneas spun on his heel, drawing his full height above her, and bellowed, "The man put a knife to your throat and cauterized the wound like an animal!" His nostrils flared, and his blue eyes were electric with rage, sparking and teeming as if waiting to implode. "If he loved you, he would never hurt you!"
"He tried to help me," she countered, aware how meek and unsure her voice sounded against her father's outburst. She tried to gather her courage, and her response grew stronger with every word, "He was afraid he had cut too deep. He wouldn't hurt me –not intentionally!"
"Enough!" he snarled, turned his face away, and lifted a hand to quiet her. When he faced her again, his eyes speared her as he threatened, "Go inside, or by the gods I will drag you there, tie you to your bed, and lock you away!"
That tone demolished any objection Iliana could voice, and her tongue was still and cowardly for she said nothing even as Aeneas lingered, facing her, struggling to contain his rage. Seeing that she wouldn't retort this time, he turned and left her.
‡‡‡
It was four days' ride from Lovisa to Rytilä, the mountain town which was the final stop between Apulia and Samnium and the entrance to the High Pass. Rytilä was as much a fortress as a town, and along its streets merchants and soldiers alike strolled within the walls. A contingent of soldiers were constantly assigned as stewards to the outpost to guard the border and warn Barion of attack should troops march from Samnium as they often had during the tumultuous history between the two lands. It was only in recent decades since the unspoken cease-fire that the High Pass was safe for merchants and travelers once again. Since its birth, Rytilä flourished in the same manner that Lovisa had, with entertainment, food, and drink for the soldiers, merchants, and travelers who passed through its gates. The market likewise was large and teeming with activity in the afternoon that Haemon and Aurora arrived. While he questioned the townspeople about lodging, Aurora attempted as best she could to become invisible. Every glimpse of a soldier in uniform turned her blood cold, though she could scarcely see anything for how low the hood of her cloak draped over her brow, and she could only identity their rank by the shin guards above their sandals. She kept close to the horse, leaning slightly against its barrel chest, but in the time spent alongside its new companions, it had become accustomed if not friendly toward them. It didn't ease away but bowed its large head and absently tossed its mane. Haemon patted its neck and drew his hand along the short fur while still engaged in his conversation with a potter who had come to market to sell his work.
"The start of fall is a busy time for our city," the potter remarked to Haemon, echoing sentiments from the other townspeople. It was becoming increasingly apparent that lodging was a sparse commodity during this season. "The last stragglers from summer are trying to outrun the rains."
"There must be something," Haemon pressed, proving he wouldn't be discouraged or dismissed from the potter's stand so easily.
The man glanced about them and warned, "You're blocking my stand."
"Answer my question, and I'll be on my way," the Prince countered.
Huffing irritably, the potter rearranged some of his clay pieces on the table and said, "I don't know of any room that has not already been filled—"
"You've barely considered it," Haemon interrupted, still planted in front of the man's table.
Aurora could feel the tension crackling between the two men but seemed the only one in attendance to this conversation who was unnerved by it. She gave her nervous hands an outlet by patting the horse's neck and rubbing at its fur, but she dropped her hand a moment later when she accidentally met Haemon's, her pinky touching his thumb. They hadn't touched or kissed since Lovisa –not unless riding together, and already feeling him between her arms for those moments was enough to rouse her memories and worst intentions. Her intuition told her what awaited her inside the lodging Haemon would find for them, and her stomach was knotted with nerves, impatience, and excitement. The latter of these she pointedly pretended not to notice, but her body had assumed an agenda of its own. Like an animal rousing from a long sleep, it was nipping for something to eat.
"There may be something," the potter muttered discontentedly, and Haemon stepped forward, forcing the man to continue. "There's a wine maker, Balbus, who has a spare room. He's not rented it to strangers since before the last war, but you may be able to convince him. You'll find his home up ahead on the left."
"Thank you," Haemon replied stiffly though he seemed to mean something else, and he grasped the reigns and guided the horse in the direction the potter pointed with Aurora keeping close for safe measure. She kept her gaze on Haemon's feet peeking out from the bottom of his heavy cloak because she did not dare to lift her head and possibly reveal her features. It was doubtful any of these peasants or soldiers would know her face, as Haemon had suggested earlier in their journey, but she was mistrustful and suspicious of all those around her. Any hand could wield the dagger that struck them both down. It was better to be cautious than unconcerned.
Haemon led them up along the street that was the largest offshoot from the market square, pausing from time to time to consider the houses lining the road. He asked a few wandering peasants about Balbus and was shown the way to the wine maker's home. It was a relatively large residence with two floors which was unusual to find in these mountain cities, but Rytilä was undoubtedly the most prosperous with residents eager to exploit their riches.
Haemon pushed on the door only to discover it locked and frowned. Without hesitation, he knocked loudly on the door, and both waited but heard nothing above the ruckus of the market. His jaw set with aggravation, and he knocked again, heavier, thinking the man couldn't hear him. Again, there was no answer. Grumbling under his breath, he wondered if the potter hadn't lied to be rid of him. Perhaps the wine maker was out selling his product, but a final time, Haemon beat on the door, nearly making it shudder beneath his fist.
"Enough! Enough!" a voice called back, and the Prince held his fist before it could hit the door again. They heard a bolt slide, and the door cracked open enough to reveal a sliver of a middle-aged man's face and hastily applied robes. By his worn and drowsy expression, it seemed they had awoken him, even if it were past noon. "The dead in Hades can hear you!" he grouched and considered Haemon through glossy blue eyes.
"Are you Balbus?"
"Yes. What is it you want, aside from disturbing a man's sleep?" The ends of his words slurred together, hinting that he had enjoyed much of his own product.
"We're travelers," Haemon answered, "from the south. We need lodging to rest before crossing the High Pass. I was told you have a room."
"I don't like strangers in my home," Balbus said with a dense frown. "Be on your way."
He began to close the door, but Haemon's hand on the door hindered him from shutting it. "I have my wife with me," the Prince continued. "We bring no trouble. We only need a warm bed for the night and a meal. I have money to pay you."
"Are you deaf?" the man croaked irritably. "There's no room for you or your wife here. Go on!"
Still, Haemon's strength kept the door from shutting, and Aurora could see it trembling between their struggle and inhaled anxiously. So they would sleep on the cold, hard ground again…
"I'll call the guards!" Balbus warned.
"Please," Aurora chirped up before she could stop herself, but the threat of the soldiers coming chilled her bones.
Too late did she realize Haemon had overpowered the man, and the door had opened wide enough that Balbus was revealed fully and peering distrustfully at her.
"Everyone else has turned us away," she continued softly, keeping her head bowed so that the shadow of her hood cast over her face. "Would you force a woman to sleep in the cold?"
Balbus' attention sought her out, and he glimpsed around Haemon's brawn to the small figure bundled up in too large a cloak. "I don't take in strangers," he slurred again. "Too many secrets. Too much trouble."
"We only need a room for the night," Haemon countered and stepped in front of Aurora, shielding her away from Balbus' prying eyes. Perhaps because female travelers were not so common, she had a way of drawing unwanted attention which aggravated the Prince. She should never have spoken. "We'll cause you no trouble."
Balbus snorted through his nose and glimpsed up at Haemon. "Let me see her face."
"You've no right to look upon my wife," he retorted, tone lowering to that dangerously cool and low level that usually threw men off.
"What are you hiding?" the wine maker wondered and arched his brow arrogantly.
"Nothing," he grumbled. "I'm a jealous man."
"Jealous or not, I need to know who wishes to stay in my home. Secrets are trouble…"
"You're a drunken fool," Haemon growled suddenly, realizing the man had latched onto the one concession he couldn't allow. "Keep your room. We'll find lodging elsewhere."
Balbus chuckled and grinned with victorious conceit now that Haemon was withdrawing. "Perhaps you can sleep alongside the horses!"
The Prince shot the man a sharp glare that silenced his tongue, but he gathered the reigns and stepped aside to head toward the market once more. He hadn't asked every citizen. There may be a possibility he had overlooked. Yet, something drew his attention behind him, and he turned in time to see Aurora drawing back her hood so that her straw blonde hair glinted in the afternoon light and her pale features were revealed. Unconsciously, Haemon reached for the dagger tucked away at his waist and glanced about them to be sure no soldiers were within sight. What was she doing?
"Please," Aurora repeated, aware that her hands were trembling and itching to draw her hood once more, but she wouldn't let them be denied for so simple a reason when there was nothing else. If Haemon were right, this man would know nothing of her aside from that she was Haemon's wife.
Balbus' face textured in a look Aurora had feared, and he stepped across the threshold to better see the woman. His attention lingered on her eyes, glimpsing back and forth between the mismatched orbs, and suddenly he dropped to his knees, nearly falling onto his hands as well for the drunkenness inhibiting him. "Princess," he gasped and cowered before her, "forgive me! I did not know."
"Stand up," Aurora snapped sharply, fearful that others would notice the man bowing before her.
Balbus grasped onto the frame of the door and tried to hurry to his feet, almost tumbling again but holding himself steady. He would not raise his head, and in contrast, Aurora's spine lengthened, her shoulders flattened, and she gazed down upon him and assumed an air fit for a queen.
"Will you turn me away now?" she questioned icily, and her eyes hardened.
The tone stole the color from Balbus' pasty expression, and he stuttered, "N-no, My Lady. Please! It would be an honor to house and serve you. You are welcome so long as you wish."
"I am travelling in secret," Aurora continued and stepped forward into the doorway where Balbus hurriedly backed away to be clear of her path. Her gaze followed him though he didn't dare to meet it. "I trust you'll keep your tongue silent so long as you enjoy keeping it."
"Of course," Balbus swore hoarsely and cleared his throat.
Aurora appraised the space without a word, taking into account the dim lighting for the drapes were drawn across the windows and only a few candles were lit. "Where is my room?"
"Up the stairs, My Lady," the man said and started toward that direction. "Allow me to show you—"
"That won't be necessary," she intervened. "Where is your wife?"
"Dead. It is only me…"
"Very well," she brushed aside more casually than she cared to, but years in the palace had taught her how to behave like royalty even if she despised it. "Take my horse to stable and do not bother me until dinner is prepared."
Balbus lingered, looking fraught at the idea of the Princess wandering his home while he attended to these tasks, but he was wise enough to seal his lips. Their new king was not so benevolent as his predecessor, and he had heard stories of this princess and the power she held. He feared her more than he could justify, and he only knew to obey her and hope she would leave him be. What if she chose to curse him? He could feel the chill of those haunted eyes like death creeping upon him…
"Now," she said brusquely, and her command may as well have been a whip for the effect it had on the man. He hurried out the door and took the reigns from Haemon who then followed Aurora into the home.
His chestnut eyes were mesmerized watching her assume such a powerful, lofty appearance, ordering the man about as if he were no more than a pest to her. He had seen glimpses of this woman, he had known she was hidden away, and he looked upon her with simultaneous awe and attraction. Aurora turned to him, and immediately her shoulders dropped with a swift exhale. The mask was swept away, revealing the uncertainty in her eyes, as her hands wrung before her.
"I told you they would recognize me," she muttered and pinched her brow. "Do you think he will tell anyone?"
"No," Haemon admitted earnestly, disappointed, and wished that assertive princess had lingered a moment longer for him. "You intimidate him."
She shook her head somewhat and thought aloud, "Peasants will always gossip."
"He won't –not until you've gone."
It's too late to hide, her mind pointed out, and she turned from Haemon and took up one of the candles from the table.
"We should find our room before he returns," she decided and gathered the edge of her skirt in one hand to keep her from tripping on its length as she alighted the stairs. Haemon followed after her with their packs piled upon his broad shoulders, and she opened the first door she encountered, letting it swing open to reveal a sparse room with a bed, table, stool, and lamp. She used the candle to the light the wick of the tarnished oil lamp and watched it flicker to life. The untrimmed ends smoked but barely bothered her. She was only pleased they had a room away from the wilderness, and though revealing her identity made her stomach ache with fresh concerns, part of her was relieved to be treated with respect again.
Haemon unloaded the packs from his shoulders onto the table and untied his cloak as well. The room was dusty though tidy, and he held no reservations that the sheets and bed would be musty from lack of use. Still, it was better than sleeping on the ground, and he turned to see Aurora had placed the candle aside and removed her cloak. She was scanning the room briefly as well and drew back the drapes from the sole window so that some fresh afternoon light and air flowed into the space. With nothing more to occupy her, she looked to Haemon and felt her stomach drop at the darkness in his eyes. She knew that regard, and her heart was electrified, shuddering in her chest and racing as the blood warmed beneath her skin.
"He doesn't know who I am," the Prince commented softly.
"He probably thinks you're my guard," she said and felt her fingers curl around the coarse fabric of her skirt if only to keep them from shaking.
Haemon smirked wolfishly, sending a private flush into Aurora's cheeks before he even said, "Or that you've run away with your lover."
She dropped her chin to her chest for the thought mortified her, and she was blind to Haemon's approach though she felt his hand mold to her waist. Her head rose more eagerly than she had hoped, craning back to look up at him and was enlivened not intimidated by his proximity. He wouldn't hurt her –not unless she wanted him to, and her fingers twisted more tightly in the fabric until her knuckles turned white. His other hand circled her waist as well, and she searched his dark eyes for his next move, too timid to reach up for what she wanted and too hungry to hide the pleading look from her face. His nose brushed her own, and she held steady, closing her eyes prematurely and waiting for the spark of his lips on hers. In the darkness, she didn't see his gaze appraise her patient desire or the way his smirk twisted. All at once, he picked her up and tossed her back onto the bed, and she shrieked shortly with surprise as her eyes burst open to stare him grinning guiltily with amusement.
"We should keep up your act, Princess," he decided and removed the heavy fabric from draping around him.
She had caught herself on her elbows, and once more her chin rested on her chest with the lingering coyness that humbled her before him. But her eyes were heavy and watching him from beneath her lashes. His shirt slid from his torso and down his arms next, and then he unknotted the material wrapped low around his hips. It fell away, his naked body daunting and making her feverish with nerves. Her cheeks flamed, she swallowed dryly, and she couldn't keep a handle on her eyes which strayed from the safety of his face to explore the angles and lines of his flesh standing before her. She chewed on her lower lip, too mesmerized with what lay before her to think of her mother's chiding, and glanced at him impatiently when he didn't move. Her knees were pressed together, intensifying the expectant pulsing between her thighs. He hadn't touched her in days, not like in Lovisa. She wanted him to touch her again.
"You're not as shy and frightened as you pretend," he taunted, patient where she was sizzling.
How could she feel anything else when he was standing naked at the foot of her bed? She bit down harder on her lip, felt her knees knead together, and frowned anxiously. She wasn't accustomed to being teased and handled it poorly, almost receiving it as an insult. She huffed irritably through her nose and buried her fingers into the sheet.
"You know how to talk down to men," he continued in that low, raspy voice that sent chills huddling across her skin, and he watched her seething with a mixture of desire and frustration in front of him and fought away a smile as his game played out. "How to make them do what you want."
She sensed the challenge laid out for her and faltered with her heavy tongue, hiding deeper into her sunken shoulders. I'm not that brave, her mind retorted with a rush of chilling apprehension. She wanted to look away from his eyes and conceal her torrid thoughts, but those dark depths grasped on deep inside her and did not let go. Hot, agitated breaths shuddered in and out her mouth, and she slowly planted one hand after the other behind her hips and pushed herself to sit up. Her arms were shaking like they might collapse if she placed too much of her weight in them, and her legs curled in toward her. He followed her every movement, and her heart thumped uneasily inside her hollow chest. She placed her hips over her heels, rose up onto her knees, and found herself close enough to him she could reach out and touch him. But she didn't want to extend so far, her elbows felt glued to her chest, and she reluctantly edged her knees closer to him until she knelt at the edge of the bed in front of him. A small smile had snuck into his lips, framed by his dark beard, but she hadn't looked away from his eyes to notice. Drawing closer to him, seeing the expectation build in his gaze, she unearthed her courage and felt empowered. Maybe she could be brave, braver than she knew. Bolstered by this thought, her hands circled his neck, her elbows spread across his shoulders, she pulled on him slightly, and she stretched up to meet his kiss. She was lost in the heat searing her tender skin, his beard scratching her cheeks, his palms kneading into her backside, and she submitted immediately when he pinned her beneath him back on the bed. Her boldness had been unleashed, and though she flushed still to know how she hungrily she clawed at him, she gripped at his neck, commanding his kiss, and circled her hips with a blind order beneath him. She wasn't sure how to translate the desire coursing through her into silent instructions for him, and before she knew it, he had rolled onto his back and planted her on top of him, giving her free reign to do as she pleased. She was at once flushing, timid, and eager, and she soon discovered there was one battle he would let her win.
‡‡‡
It had been four days since Damian's capture, and the blacksmith still lived. Each time he sought to declare his death, Aeneas saw his daughter's pale, torn face before him and spared Damian another day. What rush was there in dealing out death? It came to all soon enough, and it would give him no greater pleasure to execute the man and see Iliana despise him for all eternity. Every night now he found her crying, sobbing like a child in her bed, and the sense of guilt was more than he could bear. He had never been prepared for this sort of situation with his child. He knew how to raise men, answer their questions, coral their boisterous nature, and nudge them along. A young woman, however, was an enigma to him. Standing outside Iliana's door, hearing her sobs echo from inside, a fresh burn gripped his heart. He needed Myrina. She would know what to do and how to handle this situation. Bowing his head, the guilt spread through his limbs until they were numb with regret. What would Hector do to know Aeneas turned his eyes for a moment from their little girl? Probably skin him alive, and he thought he deserved such a fate. He should have kept a better watch on her. He should have known something dangerous was brewing. He had tried to speak with her, but she was too furious to see him or listen to his reason.
She would only offer the same cold threat, "If you kill him, I'll never forgive you."
Iliana was never one for violence or idle remarks. He had never seen her so distraught, angry, and depressed. He knew she would keep her word, and so on the fifth morning, he agreed to let her speak to Damian because he did not know what else he could do.
Her eyes were swollen and red from days spent crying, her skin was sallow, and her chestnut curls were untidy for she could not remember the last time she had them brushed. They were hidden beneath the thin veil she draped across her head, and her hands felt raw from how they wrung and tangled in the ends of the veil. Her father's concession washed her with relief, knowing that she would have the chance to find out the truth and speak on Damian's behalf. She could right her wrongs, but as her father guided her through the town, she was not immune to the gazes pinned on her. She had not emerged from the house since Damian's arrest, and everyone was eager to see the princess who had nearly been killed by the blacksmith. They looked sympathetic which worried Iliana because she knew how public opinion of Damian had swayed. Even if he were released, would he ever be rid of this black cloud? She cringed, feeling the sour guilt salt her wounds, and held the veil across her throat so none could see the bandage around her neck. Since it had happened, she couldn't bear to look at the wound. Each day the healer came to tend to it, she saw the repulsion in his face. She didn't want to look in a mirror and face what Damian had done to her.
They entered the building where the Albans stored the surplus from their harvest and where a small quarter had been converted to house criminals or war prisoners. A guard stood sentry at the entrance and bowed his head when Aeneas and Iliana approached. She had expected Nereus to accompany them as well, and his absence made her wonder if Aeneas had told anyone of his agreement with his daughter. She was sure Nereus would have talked Aeneas down from this path with his eloquence and reason, and she was abruptly glad her brother was missing.
"Open the door," Aeneas commanded, and the guard glimpsed at Iliana, face full of misgivings, before he did as he was told.
The guard passed Aeneas a torch who stepped inside first, and Iliana was the one to hesitate. Intuition struck deep within her. It told her to turn away, but she stared inside the dark confines lit only by the crackling torch her father carried, thought of Damian rotting away inside, and hurriedly stepped across the threshold. She had to save him.
Her nerves reached a peak of sizzling discomfort as she searched the barren room and finally followed her father's gaze to the man hunched over in one corner of the room. The sight of him nailed her feet to the floor when she so desperately wanted to turn and run. He was similarly undressed as he had been that night with only the material about his waist to shroud him. His skin was smeared with a mixture of ashes, dirt, and blood so that she couldn't see its natural shade. His head hung lax between his shoulders though his hands were tied behind his back, and she realized, her stomach turning, that the bandage around his wound had been torn away. The angry, red, blistered skin was as dirty as the rest of his skin, and the wound was festering, turning sallow with puss, and growing infected. He'd die from that alone, and her eyes pricked, feeling raw and sore. She wanted to cry for him, but she was drained.
"You have a visitor," Aeneas barked gruffly.
Damian's head slowly fell back, leaning against the wall behind him, and the blood fell hard as concrete into her feed when she saw his handsome face mangled by the untended broken nose. His face was swollen and bruised, almost unrecognizable, the blood dried and caked on his chin and neck. His dark eyes parted as much as they cold, spinning from Aeneas then to Iliana where they pierced her skin and stabbed her heart.
"How could you do this to him?" she whispered, and her throat jerked suddenly, pulling at her raw wound, and warned her she might be sick.
Before Aeneas could answer, Damian groused through a parched and dry throat, "Go."
She frowned heavily, hurt that he would want her to leave, but she couldn't abandon him. "I need to speak with you," she retorted and fought against the nausea coating the back of her throat, "alone."
"No," Aeneas said without hesitation. "I won't leave you alone with him."
"He can't hurt me," she growled. "He can barely lift his head. You said you would let me speak to him!"
"No."
"Father…" she said stiffly and turned her head to bury her wounded eyes into his profile. "Please leave."
He glanced at her from the corner of his eyes but couldn't face the emptiness in his daughter's face. "I'll give you a few moments," he warned, "and no more."
Iliana said nothing, and Aeneas handed her the torch and stepped outside where the door closed behind him. Now alone with Damian, she approached him and knelt at his side. His black eyes followed her, she heard his breath wheezing through his throat, but he didn't move or say anything. Her eyes burned as she drew closer, the light illuminating the extent of what he had endured, and she wanted to touch him but couldn't bear the thought she might misplace her hand and add to his pain.
"I'm so sorry," she gasped and shook her head. "This is all my fault."
"No," he muttered, voice oppressed by his broken nose and gravelly throat.
"I should have listened to you," she pressed. "I should have waited, but I couldn't… I never thought this would happen. I'm so sorry."
"I deserve this," he groaned. "I never meant to hurt you."
"I know. I know you would never hurt me."
"But I can only bring you pain."
"What are you saying? You don't know what you mean," she decided brusquely and nervously. "I'll have the healer come to see you. I'll have you released. I'll clear your name, and all will be well."
Damian closed his eyes and leaned his head further back against the wall. "You know it won't… I'm going to die, Iliana, and I don't want you to remember me like this."
"Don't say that!" She gritted her teeth and reached out to touch his cheek, careful that her fingers were no more than a brush on his skin. "I won't let them kill you."
He inhaled too deeply and coughed, heaving forward to clear his throat and chest of the oppression. He was breathless as he eased back, and he cringed and recoiled when his side touched the wall.
She had never seen him in so much pain, almost numb and dizzy from it. "I won't let them hurt you anymore, I swear it."
"We don't have much time," he commented and opened his eyes to see her again. "Now that you've come, I need to tell you something."
"Wait and tell me when you're stronger," she coaxed with blind hope and was worried he would strain himself speaking when he could barely breathe. She doubted they had fed or given him water often enough. She wanted to take him in her arms, heal him, protect him…
"No," he barked hoarsely. "Will you hold your tongue and listen to me for once!"
Her eyes widened contritely, reminded of her constant insubordinance and what it had cost both of them. "Yes. I'm sorry."
Gathering his breath and his strength, he admitted, "I never lied to you… but I did not tell you everything." He wet his lips and lifted his head to look directly at her. "I was raised as the son of a freed slave who worked in the stables at the palace in Sparta. My mother was a washerwoman for the royal family…
He hid outside the sole window of their home, overhearing the tense and crude voices yelling back and forth. His mother was crying, his father bellowing like the very thunder of Zeus rumbling through the heavens, and he noticed his younger brother creeping up to join him. His fiery curls sprung up like flames in all directions, freckles scattered across his face, and large blue eyes stared at him. Damian placed a finger to his lips, signaling the boy to keep quiet like him, and pushed his black hair out of his face. It needed to be trimmed. He hated it. Amid their fiery hair and pale complexions, he was the black sheep, but he never wanted to be. They'd never spoken of it –not until he was six and the differences were too obvious to overlook any longer.
"I've raised him like my own!" his father's voice poured out of the small window. "Everyone has laughed at me while I've provided for another man's bastard!"
"Please," his mother sobbed, and he felt his gut twist as his young mind sensed some unseen threat. He couldn't understand. They were a family.
"I can't do this any more! I won't!"
"He confronted my mother to discover the truth," Damian continued slowly, pausing from time to time to catch his breath, "and sold me because he could not bear the shame of raising someone's bastard." Swallowing, he seemed to hesitate before he continued, "Particularly not when that man is the king."
"I don't want to hear this," Iliana blurted out, pale and trembling.
"You need to hear it," he countered and flashed his heavy eyes at her with a burst of aggravation. His head bowed toward his chest for it felt too heavy to hold up so long, but his voice wouldn't stop even as it waned, hoarse and dry, at times. He kept on, "He made a habit of collecting beautiful women to wait on him. My mother was only another trophy for him, regardless that she was married…
He was jostled by the dense crowd forming and lining the streets. Growling under his breath, he struck out with his elbows in all directions, trying to clear a space for his willowy body to fit, but a man pushed him back, grumbling, "Watch it, boy."
Damian tumbled back onto his backside and felt someone else step on his hand. He punched the man's leg, groaning in pain, and when he hand was free, he scrambled to his feet and pushed his way through the crowd to find a better place. Craning his head back, he couldn't see over the tall shoulders shrouding the road from his path, and he searched for something to bolster him up. His black eyes landed on an awning protruding over a merchant's stand, and without hesitation, he jumped up on a barrel near the stand and reached for the edge of the wood.
"What do you think you're doing?" the merchant stammered and grabbed onto Damian's tunic, pulling even as he clung onto the edge.
Damian kicked, hitting the man in his chin, and the merchant sputtered, "You little bastard! Get down from there!"
Damian kept kicking, this time hoisting himself up, and his arms shook with the effort to hold him steady in the air. The trumpets called out, drums sounded near, and he looked toward the curve in the road where the troops were processing victoriously through the streets. The King had left for war in Troy when Damian was just a babe, and now, over ten years later, he had returned.
The merchant pulled on Damian's legs, and the boy almost lost his grip. He kicked again, groaning as his arms burned and his sweaty palms threatened to give out. The wood buried into his stomach, and he tried to balance himself.
"Let me see," he begged under his breath, and his black eyes searched and searched until finally the King's chariot rounded the corner. The crowd was swept up in a roar of praise, arms thrown overhead, and gifts and flowers tossed into the street for the King. His helmet was beneath his arm, and even through the grey, Damian could make out his thick, black hair falling down past his shoulders. His dark eyes oscillated from side to side to drink in the sight of his countrymen celebrating his return, and his tanned skin glistened with sweat from beneath his armor. At his side, his young wife Helen didn't restrain her tears, sobbing even as her husband celebrated, but Damian barely noticed her. The whole of his attention was on this man –this king- this stranger. His father. The King rode through the crowds, smiling and waving, but not once did his gaze land on Damian. He didn't know that his bastard son existed, flourished, and pained in his absence. A sudden, overwhelming desire washed over Damian as he stared at this man: he would force the King to acknowledge him even if it were only a glimpse.
All at once, he went flailing backwards and landed on the dirt ground with a cry of pain. The breath was knocked out of him, the dust pricked his eyes, and the merchant kicked him in the side growling, "Go on! Get out of here, you son of a bitch!"
Damian rushed to his feet, holding to his wounded side with both hands, one still red and pulsing from the man who had stepped on it. He stuck his tongue out at the merchant who gathered up his robes and looked like he'd chase him off. Before he could, Damian went running down an alley between homes and hurrying back toward the forge. The blacksmith would beat him for sneaking away, but he didn't care. He knew now what he was meant to do.
"I needed him to know who I was, and so when I grew old enough, I left the blacksmith and joined Sparta's soldiers," Damian kept up the story, clearing his hoarse throat and trying to keep his voice intelligible. "It was a brutal initiation especially for a nameless bastard like me…"
"The only use we'd have for you is to die at the front of the lines," one of the soldiers sneered. They'd become arrogant and drunk on their pride since returning from war. They had no place for him, but Damian had nothing else to grasp onto in his life. Even sprawled in the dirt, victim to their blows and kicks, teeth bloodstained and lip cut open, he pushed himself onto his hands and knees so that he could stand once more. Another kicked landed in his ribs and sent him toppling over onto his side, curled up and cringing as he waited for the fire of the blow to burn away. He forced his eyes open, inhaling the dirt into his lungs, and tried to stand again. He was bruised and battered and sore.
"Go home," the soldier said for the second time that week and motioned for the soldiers to stand down for the moment. Damian had faced the same harassment every time he came around and tried to enlist. Four times thus far, and Damian had no intention of there being a fifth. He couldn't stand to stagger back to the forge where the blacksmith would beat him too for leaving.
This was his last chance. He had nothing else. He stumbled to his feet, swaying uneasily as his wounded body tried to gain its bearings, and stared into the soldier's face. A smirk drew the man's lips back, and without thinking, Damian spat in his face, the bloody gob staining his cheek, and grinned. The soldier lunged at him, growling out curses, and both went tumbling onto the ground. Bare fists collided again and again, cracking into each other, and they wrestled for the advantage. Something broke, and Damian put his hands around the soldier's throat, ready and willing to kill for what he wanted. Another hand gripped him by the scruff of his tunic and threw him back. They kicked him, huddling around him, and he was sure this time they'd kill him. At least he would honor his father, the victorious warring king, by dying fighting.
"That's enough!" a harsh voice interrupted and ripped one soldier after another off of him. The soldiers saluted him, and by his uniform, Damian could guess he was high-ranking. Frowning, the general wondered, "Can you stand?"
Damian groaned and rolled onto his side, forcing his knees and hands under him. One foot was planted, but he struggled to heave his body up and get the other under him too. At length, he succeeded and stood swaying and uneasy before the general who appraised him with a heavy scowl.
"What's your name?"
"Damian," he answered and swallowed down a mouthful of blood.
"Son of…?" the general pressed.
Gritting his sore teeth together, he admitted, "No one."
"I see," the man muttered and eased his weight over one leg. "You want to be a soldier of Sparta?"
"Yes."
"It is not for the weak," he warned.
Bloodied and bruised, Damian countered, "I'm not weak."
"You can take a punch," the general seemed to agree, "but soldiers need to know how to fight too."
"I want to fight."
"Why?"
His black eyes searched the ground, and he wiped away the blood from his broken brow so that he could see clearly. "I don't have anything else…"
The general hesitated, looking at Damian poised to collapse in front of him, and decided, "Iunius, take him to the armory to pick up his sword and armor."
"He said that I'd begin training the next day, and I did," Damian recounted, and his throat hurt so much it felt raw and blistered like his side. He ignored it because all that mattered was telling her this even if he saw the tears streaming down her cheeks like he were burning her all over again. "During that time, I learned of the bounty on your family's heads…
He guided the horse along the rocky precipice, gazing out at the Aegean to his left. It had been more than a year since he had deserted Sparta's ranks to chase after his own glory. Numerous soldiers had tried and failed to find the last of the Kings of Troy, Prince Aeneas who would now be King of Dardania and Myrina, Hector's widow who would be Queen of Troy since no other siblings of the Crown Prince had survived or escaped captivity. The first soldiers to search for them had looked east of Troy in Assyria and further still but found nothing. Other men looked north or south of the conquered lands, following the Aegean, but still, there was nothing. Rumors had spread in the silent years that followed Troy's fall that the remnants of the royal family had died at sea while attempting to escape, but a fascination with their legacy remained. The legend of Troy's lost sons and daughters lived on. The Spartan King's victory would never be complete until all those of royal blood from Troy were killed or captured.
Damian sought to end this by finding them himself though he was neither a tracker nor a seasoned soldier. What he did hold that no others did was blind determination. His only reason for meeting the dawn each day was to be recognized one day by the King. He would find Troy's heirs, he would find their trail, he would succeed where other men had failed, and he would finish what his father had begun so that the King would look at him not out of spite but with pride. It was death to desert Sparta's army, but he held no real loyalty to the soldiers around him. His one desire was to train and learn so that he could ride west where none had ventured. They thought it too far and impossible a journey. He knew he would likely find nothing, but he was both driven and blinded by his past. Something deep inside him was calling him West, and so he had ridden and ridden and ridden for more than a year until the people stopped speaking Greek –until nothing was familiar. He kept to the coast because he assumed if the Trojans had reached the shore, they wouldn't have made it much farther inland. He kept riding south. The journey was long and arduous and had gone on too long. By this time, Damian was certain he had failed, but only death and defeat awaited him in Sparta. So he kept riding…
One day, he was trading with merchants in a distant market when he heard the impossible: two men speaking an old dialect of Greek. Damian was so stunned by what he heard, he had traveled so long with nothing to reward him, that he almost mistook the sound for a trick of his own mind. Yet there they were. He didn't dare to approach them, cautious not to give away his position, but he followed them to a city on the western coast. For three days, he lingered outside the walls and watched the fishers and farmers enter and exit the gates. He was too superstitious to enter. He couldn't face the possibility that he had been wrong again, not when all his faith was tucked inside those walls. On the fourth day, he finally gathered the courage to enter the city and journey to the market where he lingered about, taking everything in.
Seeing a small boy, as scrawny and dirt-ridden as he had been at that age, he offered the boy an apple and wondered, "What city is this where you live?"
"Alba Longa," the boy answered and tore off so large a chunk of fruit that his cheeks bulged and he could barely keep the white flesh from falling from his lips.
Damian waited, letting the boy chew, and casually glanced about to be sure none were interested in his presence. He wasn't ready to be noticed yet.
"Who rules over these lands?"
"The great King Aeneas," the boy answered through his full mouth, and for a moment, Damian thought he had misheard.
"Say again," he commanded more sharply than he meant to. "Speak clearly."
The boy swallowed and winced as he forced the large chunk of apple down into his belly. "King Aeneas!" he snapped back and took another bite of the apple.
This time Damian was grateful for the boy's preoccupied attention because he had lost all sense of what passed around him. Aeneas… Aeneas… The name echoed within his mind, and he knew: Aeneas. The Prince of Dardania who was said to have fled Troy with Hector's wife and children. Could it be a coincidence? Victory had eluded him for so long, and their trail was unperceivable. He had only been led within these walls by chance, by overhearing two men in a market three days' ride away, but the possibility was too sweet to dismiss.
He decided to stay. He kept to himself and sought out lodging, but most turned him away. The city was teeming and the homes too few. He continued to search for lodging and caught word that the old blacksmith had died months earlier and there was none to replace him. It occurred to him then that this was no coincidence. Some god had led him here, had guided him within these gates to find the heirs of Troy.
"I took up the blacksmith's post, and though people were suspicious of me, they did not exile me. I kept a constant watch of your family, but I was afraid to ask questions, afraid of drawing more suspicion for being too curious…
It had been more than a month since Damian had lived within the walls, and he was startled to realize the unusual nature of Alba Longa. It was a home to those who sought it, and suspicions about him had given way to curiosity. He found his neighbors visiting him with gifts to welcome him into the community, asking about his work, and extending offers of help. At first, he was the one to be mistrustful. He'd been beaten down by life, tossed aside by his parents, unknown to his true father, and now, in a city established by his enemies, he was welcomed. It unnerved him, and he kept his guard up, being kind without being friendly. Soon people took the hint and avoided him when they could. He had no use for friends –not from Alba Longa, but he was tempted by the promise of a community when he had travelled alone for so long and so far.
"Then I saw you," he recalled, and his gaze tangled with her own, complicated by their brief past and now the details of his story. "You were so comfortable among your people, as if you were one of them, not a princess set upon a pedestal…
His black eyes scanned the crowded village square, absently looking through their ranks and spouting off names in his head. He'd met or heard about most of them, but there were still many he did not know. One of them caught his attention for he'd never seen her before, which seemed odd to him since she stood out so fiercely from those around her. She was tall for a woman with a veil poorly hiding the length of her wild, chestnut curls tumbling down her back and a well-made, expensive blue gown molded to her slender body. Beyond her looks was the air about her unlike he had ever seen. She was brimming with life, almost shining out through her bronze skin, and as she passed by a woman she knew, a friend given the candid smile she flashed her, he was stupefied by the way her features lit up. She had the sort of smile only the gods could create. He'd never seen a woman like that and followed her with his gaze, curious and mesmerized, as she worked her way through the square.
"I'd keep my eyes to myself," Eber warned, and Damian glanced at the older man who had become the closest thing he had to a friend since they were immediate neighbors.
"Why is that?" he wondered, forgetting for a moment how he tried to ask as few questions as possible. Curiosity was normal, but he had to be sure it didn't seem unwanted.
Eber didn't seem to mind and smiled briefly. "Because she's Aeneas' daughter, the princess. Wouldn't want her father or older brothers to notice your wandering eyes. They're not too keen on anyone taking an interest in her."
"I've never seen a princess walk through her city," he confessed before he had the good sense to shut his mouth.
Eber chuckled and agreed, "Aeneas and his family… They're not like most royals. When the city was first founded, the King would fish and hunt for food, and his wife would stay behind and till the earth with the farmers. They bear the calluses and scars from building and defending this city. Alba Longa was made with their blood and sweat."
Despite Eber's warning, Damian couldn't help but glance at the princess again. She had paused to speak with one of their priestesses, and amid her conversation, she looked up and met his black gaze. He knew he should look away, not draw attention, but he wanted to look at her face and understand this enigma of a young woman. Her large chestnut eyes widened, and she stared straight into him. He had the sensation her innocent eyes pierced through his vest, his skin, his muscles, his bones, right into his soul, and his blood ran cold as he thought she could see exactly who he was and why he had come. But she ducked her head shyly away, interesting him all the more as she continued her conversation and pretended not to notice him. He felt the edges of his mouth hiccup in a smile and took the sack of lentils from Eber.
"Thank you," he muttered, nodded, and headed back toward his forge.
Damian grew silent for a moment, reflecting back on that memory, before he finished, "I had spent long years clinging to threads of a life that was never mine. I was never truly Menelaus' son –just a bastard, discarded and forgotten. Then by some jest of fate, I found myself welcomed into the heart of my enemies' city…
"I should leave before my brothers take notice..."
He stood with her, and she granted him a subdued look. "Sit," Iliana prompted. "I'll let myself out."
Ignoring her request, he remained standing to at least follow her retreat across the small space with his dark eyes. "Thank you for the meal."
She glanced over her shoulder as she reached the threshold and smiled a final time. "We have a deal, blacksmith," she reminded him in a tone bolder than she usually held, and it heralded a new friction between them. But she ducked out the door before she could buckle beneath it.
Damian stood after she had left, staring at the spot she had once held, and tried to ignore the guilt creeping into his chest. It was leaden, making him fall into his seat once more, and he no longer had a taste for the soup in front of him. She was too sweet, too innocent, too naïve… He couldn't let her near him, but he didn't know how to send her away. Moreover, he didn't want to send her away.
He could have returned to Sparta a hero. He could have revealed his true identity to Menelaus, and yet he had lived in Alba Longa for more than a year now. He ignored it for as long as he could, but he didn't want to return. Here, in this city, he could abandon the stain on his past and start anew, and no one questioned him.
"I destroyed my armor," Damian said, and immediately Iliana pictured the mutilated helmet he used to prop open his door. It had been there, all this time, the symbol that he was a son of Sparta and her sworn enemy. "I dedicated myself to my work. I finally had a grip on my life. But you…" His black eyes searched her face, hooded beneath his knit brow, and he shook his head.
"You wouldn't lie to me," she said abruptly, and he seemed to hesitate, whether unsure if it were a question or statement or something else.
Dropping his gaze pensively to the dirty floor, he said, "I wouldn't hurt you."
The differentiation between the two confused her, and she felt no greater satisfaction in his response than before. But for once she knew she needed to walk away and give them both the space to consider what they were promising. Her life would never be the same, and she wasn't sure how to resolve her complicated feelings on that matter.
"Be careful carrying such heavy things with your wound," she said, and another humorless smile traced his lips. "Be well."
As always, he was left staring after her, but their tender words moments earlier soured the longer he looked at the emptiness in his home. Without thinking, he took the full vessel of tsipuoro, swung back as if to throw it, but changed his mind. He placed the edge to his lips, tilted his head back, and drank one gulp after another until the burn spread from his belly, up his throat, through his nose, and to his eyes. He caught his breath, glanced at the empty stool where she had sat, and cringed.
"You can't do this," he growled under his breath. "You can't pretend."
He drank again, as long as he could, until he thought he might be sick and be rid of the heavy alcohol warming his belly. He bent over his knees, felt a cold sweat break across his brow, and sucked down the air as the nausea faded with the seductive pull of the tsipuoro sinking into his blood. Staring at the dirty floor, he was reminded of his poor station and shook his head. He had welcomed every chance to look upon her, but he should never have let her into his home. He should have fought harder, resisted longer. He couldn't cut his past when he looked at her hopeful face, so eager and so enamored. She was killing him with every sympathetic word and kind gesture. He didn't deserve her. He was a liar. He was a nameless bastard.
"You see why I refused you for so long? Why I tried so hard to push you away?" he asked and wanted to smooth the tears from her cheeks, but his hands were bound. Instead, he tried to reach her with his words, "I wanted to give up everything to remain here with you, but I can only cause you pain. I would never hurt any part of you, but it's in my blood… I am Menelaus' son."
The truth rang through the empty room, echoing in their locked regards, and it hurt to hear them, to know they were authentic, and to feel the fresh tears they called to stain her cheeks.
"You led me on," she whispered and inhaled shakily. "You told me you wanted to marry me. You lied to me."
"I never lied to you," he croaked, and she didn't notice how his black eyes were wavering because she was too blinded by her own tears.
"I can't…" She couldn't finish the thought and rose to her feet. Her muscles were sore and her knees ached from kneeling on the barren floor, but she hardly noticed. She felt numb like some god had finally taken pity on her and stolen her pain for just this moment. She stared down at Damian who couldn't crane he neck back far enough to look up at her from this angle and meet her wounded look.
"I'll speak on your behalf," she revealed, "because I fell in love with the man before me, son of Menelaus or otherwise. I won't let them kill you, and in exchange, I only ask one thing."
His chin rested on his chest in the same way she had found him, so that she stared down at his matted black curls but could think of nothing other than they were the same shade as Menelaus' –the man who had stolen everything from her and her family.
"I never want to see you again."
With that she turned and realized the door was open and Aeneas was standing in the back corner, listening to every word they spoke. He hadn't intervened, and somehow she wished he had to stop Damian before he admitted everything. Her father's pale blue eyes searched her face, torn between anger and sympathy, but she bowed her head with shame and stepped past him. Aeneas followed her though she tried to avoid him and took her arm to hold her from fleeing across the square like this.
"Iliana," he murmured and pulled her toward him so that she would face him, but instead, she buried herself in his chest and began sobbing with such force her body shuddered and wracked against him. Aeneas folded her in his arms, holding tight as if he could still her, but he couldn't calm away her fears like when she was a babe. It wasn't so easy now, though he tried, holding her in the midst of their storage building without caring who looked upon them.
"I know it hurts," he said softly and eased his chin against her forehead, "being betrayed."
He thought of the daggers that had stabbed his heart when Myrina revealed her mystery soldier, the man she loved was Hector. He would never wish that pain upon one of his children, but he had become aware of it much too later. He wasn't sure which was worse. Falling in love with the woman who would be his best friend's wife, or falling in love with the bastard son of the king who killed her family and stole her lands. How did he let this happen? How did he fail so miserably as a father? Hector would never have left this happen.
"You'll never see him again," he consoled, remembering her final words in the room.
Here, Iliana sucked in a breath and pushed at his chest and the hair clumping to her face. She was at once pale and flush with tears, reddening her nose and eyes as she gazed up at him. "You won't kill him," she commanded.
His features deflated, realizing she was still committed to this path, and tried to steer her way, "Iliana—"
"You heard me," she interrupted. "I swore to him he would be released."
"I can't do that."
"Yes you can. You're the king. You can do whatever you like."
"Not here. Not in this case…"
"I swore to him!" she said and wrung her hands in the front of her father's robes. "I told him he would be safe!"
Aeneas was bewildered and astonished as he realized, "You truly love him."
Her face puckered, but she admitted, "Yes… No matter his past. I love him, and I won't let you kill him."
The King was speechless, mouth ajar and poised to speech, but the words fled from him. All he could think of was Myrina –how he'd loved and protected her even after she betrayed him, even after she was Hector's wife. Love didn't wait for the right circumstances and time to announce itself, and he'd long learned how it could tear someone down and build them up again. He faltered, unsure what he could say, because he could never attribute what he felt for Myrina as possible by anyone else. He was a son of Aphrodite. Only he could stand something so powerful, but who was he to judge Iliana?
"I can't release him," Aeneas conceded, admitting he wouldn't kill Damian, not until he was sure it was the right course of action. There was no undoing death.
"He'll die if you keep him in these conditions!" Iliana said, eager to gain more ground now that her father had taken a step back.
"What are you asking me to do?"
"If you must keep him imprisoned, then have the healer tend to his wounds. Give him food and water."
"You expect me to care for the man who came here to betray us and nearly killed you?" Aeneas seethed and couldn't hide the aggravation from tainting his gaze.
"Yes," she answered, "and when Haemon returns, let him decide what is to become of Damian."
Her father's face stiffened and twisted. "You trust his judgment more than mine?"
Iliana knew the insult she provided, but her only thought was to buy Damian more time –to find a way to release him and uphold her promise. "Yes, because he will hear of this matter with fresh ears and be able to decide for himself what is suitable."
Aeneas stepped away from her and looked toward the door. If he had known this blacksmith could turn his own daughter against him, he would have bladed Damian the moment he laid eyes on him. As it was, his sympathy for the man was fast turning to regret.
"Promise me you'll do this for me," Iliana prompted from behind him, now dried of her tears, but Aeneas still couldn't look at her.
He loved her unconditionally. He would do anything for her, even if it tore through him to agree, "Yes."
Author's Note: SURPRISE! Hello lovelies, did I catch you off guard? So Damian's past is revealed, and I sincerely doubt (fingers crossed) that it's what any of you anticipated. Does it all make sense? What will happen next?
Thank you to klandgraf2007 for the super sweet review! Yes! I know it was a huge unexpected twist, but this plot line occurred to me after I'd already begun writing on the story... It was too good to ignore :) I mean part of me feels bad because they both really care about each other and are tormented by this accident. Now Damian's heritage is revealed, and I wonder how Iliana's brothers will react when they realize he's Menelaus' bastard son. Admittedly, he's had a horrible life, and he really has no connection to Menelaus at all. Being in Alba Longa proved that to him, but he'll still be judged. Do you think Aeneas will keep his promise and wait for Haemon? Do you think Haemon will listen to Iliana or get some vengeance by killing Damian? Hm, only time will tell! Thanks so much for the review, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter! :D xoxo
