Atop a hill, facing a burning city, among the crumbled pillars of marble gates, a man was being suffused by tiny, spikes of energy. Unearthly powers struck him, whirling him about like a ragdoll and lighting that small section of the doomed city's palace gardens.
The man roared his triumph, his fury. Long had he sought his enemy, the bold Prince of this city. His enemy had been sly, eluding him in secret single combat, fighting him only when the eyes of mortals could spy upon their true natures. And it should be so, for the man was no mortal and neither was his fallen foe, or at least until the former had taken his head. For it was the way of their kind, to fight and kill and devour each other's powers, struggling to reach the time of the Gathering, when the few who remain will battle to the last.
Gradually, the lightnings weakened, their roars becoming fainter until at last, all that was left the man, the warrior, on his knees and breathing heavily. Before him was the body of his foe, clothed in roughspun and his arm bearing a jeweled xiphon sword. Near it was the head, bearded and black haired. It had the look of surprise, no fear, just surprise, as though he had been duped by some mischievous god.
For a moment, the man wanted to spit on the head, but weariness came over him, a weariness of the spirit, and at length, he closed his enemy's eyes and lay it next to the body.
He then stood up, and walked over to a balcony, there to look upon the devastation of the city. Ilion. Fair, eternal Ilion burned, the rooftops of its houses set ablaze, and screams filled the midnight sky. Above, the some wafted becoming one with the dour evening.
He closed his eyes and allowed his inner senses to stretch, and it stretched out all over the burning the city, and its buried predecessors beneath. For Ilios was not the first of its kind, but the latest layer of greater and more terrible cities. And his inner senses felt them, underneath the ground, sleeping places, and the unnamed powers who slumbered within them. They stirred at his trespass and the man swiftly removed his presence. Best to leave sleeping dogs to lie.
He picked up his bronze sword and shield, once luminous and beautiful now blackened by blood. He eventually found a stone bench, and there he sat to deal with his wounds. He grimaced, as he pulled out a broken spear-shaft from his shoulder. The wound healed almost immediately, and he quickly turned his attention to half a dozen arrows buried into his exposed arms and legs.
He removed his horned helmet to check the scar on his stern, red lips. It was gone now, where it had once been a deep gash. Gone, too, were the bruises on his right eye, the color of cerulean blue. With a groan, he removed the string that bound up his thick blonde hair, letting it fall off to his upper waist. He desired a bath. He desired to flee from this war, to rest and…
The man raised his sword and shield, and readied himself, for in the shadows, a cursed thing approached. "Hail mighty Achilles! Lord of Phthia and master of Myrmidons," a singsong voice cried out. "See how he has slain mighty Hector, brave Hector, Hector who only wanted to protect his city from perfidious Menele and Greed-stricken Agamemnon. Tell me, did you enjoy it?"
Brave Hector. Achilles scoffed. "Princess," he greeted. "How fare your allies?"
"The day is yours, fair king. What use to speak of the dead?"
"You, too, are dead, Princess," the man called Achilles answered, his voice stern despite his youth. "You came to Ilion only to doom Priam's people to the sword."
"As did many of the Achaens, fair Achilles," she answered, as she stepped forward, just underneath moonlight. Even in a simple woolen cloak, beneath a brown hood, and face clear of cosmetics, she remained beautiful: soft brown hair, a perfectly symmetrical face, and an almost ethereal grace. But then Achilles noticed the stillness of her chest, the predatory yellow of her eyes, the paleness of her skin, and the illusion faded just as quickly as it arrived. "Do not think that you've won. This war will benefit only Menele and his brood."
"I have taken Hector's head," Achilles said. "The bastard tried to run but I took his head, as I have taken the heads of your other minions, kindred and otherwise. Now, all that's left is Prias." And Achilles took a step forward. "Where is he, Helena?"
The Princess once known as Helena smiled. "He has already fled Ilion. I shall join him soon," Achilles spat at the ground, his face twisted in disgust, but showing no sign of violence. Yet. "I have other matters to attend to."
"And why should I not kill you?"
The Kindred woman laughed, and she appeared behind Achilles, then next to him, then in front of him again in the span of a heartbeat. She twirled, and her graceful form seemed to be one with moonlight. She whispered his name and her voice was like flowing water. She tried to caress him, but Achilles' hand shot up and grabbed her hand - her cold, dead hand. Frowning, Helena tried to pry it away, but as Achilles' hand grip remained firm, her eyes grew wide, surprised at his preternatural strength to match her own. She looked up at him and giggled. "How beautiful you are. So much like kindred…" and her other hand caressed his jaw.
"My kind are not parasites?"
"Aren't you? Diablerizing one another? What manner of maddened god created your kind? Oh, we are more alike than you think, Great Achilles."
"No more banter princess. Why are you here?"
"I came here as part of a bargain." She peered down at Hector's body. "He came here seeking me, to beg for aid." She smiled at Achilles, fangs bared. "And you came to slay him. Our meeting is the result of coincidences. May I have my hand back now, please?"
Achilles would have considered his options for violence had he not felt the distant buzzing sensation of another of his kind nearby, and that prompted him to let Helena go. There was only one other immortal on Ilios, and he frowned. "And what of Prias? Where is he?"
"My darling Prias is..." The woman smiled. "Far from here? Do you intend to slay him?"
"You know the answer to that." And Achilles then unsheathed his sword. "He was one of the fools who started this war. If the gods are good, I will slay him when I find him."
"Everything he did, he did at my behest." The woman known as Helena smiled. And the buzzing became stronger. "This world is more dangerous, my lord, and there are forces which cannot be slain." And she took a step back. "Your teacher knows that. Perhaps one day, you will understand that."
It was then that another warrior, bearing a sword and a bow, emerged from another alleyway. He had thin features, with an aquiline nose and eyes that studied everything he saw. "My lord Achilles," the man greeted.
"Lord Odysseus," Achilles answered back. Bastard. You planned all this. You tricked Hector to come here, knowing that he was looking for the vampire, knowing that I sought him.
"It's just Methos now," the other immortal answered. "Odysseus' life has ended with this war, and yours too," Achilles said nothing and watched as Methos, once known as Odysseus, inspected Hector's body. He then turned to Helena. "He wanted your help?"
Helena nodded. "But your pupil killed him before I could reach him. Just as you have planned. Pity."
"I did not plan his death." Methos sighed then walked up to Helena. "I have slain Menele's hounds. You may now leave Ilios safely." And he threw on the ground several axes and swords bound together by a rope.
"All of them? You killed all his ghouls?"
"And two of his childer." The kindred woman looked at the fallen swords, and her yellow eyes blazed with glee. "Impressive. Most impressive." She bowed before Methos who had once been Odysseus, gave him a brown, leather book, and whispered something to him.
"What is that," Achilles snapped.
Helena looked at him, chuckled, turned, and blew both of them a kiss. "Fair well my lords, and for your sake, I hope we shall not meet again."
"For yours, Princess. I have slain several of your kind already!" Achilles snarled, but Helena had moved inhumanly fast that she disappeared by the time he finished his sentence. He could only spit on the ground before turning to Methos, who was already putting the book Helena gave him inside a bag. "What is that?" He demanded.
Methos looked at him, disappointment in his face. "A book," he answered flatly, and before Achilles could speak further, he gestured for him to follow. Both men slipped away from the burning city, past their own rampaging men and to a small tent far from the Achaean ships and camps that faced infested Ilios' beach. There, Methos lit a candle and gestured at Achilles to sit next to him.
Achilles frowned when he read the book. They were not in any language he was familiar with. "These words. I do not know them."
"I do," and Methos began reciting a portion of the words written in the book: "I dream of the first times, the longest memories... I speak of the first times, the oldest father... I sing of the first times and the dawn of darkness... in Nod where the light of paradise lit up the night sky..." Methos' tone seemed ominous for a moment. "Those were words spoken before the great flood," and that caused Achilles to snort. "I assure you, boy. Those were not mere stories, and if you wish to understand our true nature, where we came from, and what will become us, you had best learn to respect the old truths."
"And that book holds them?"
Methos did not answer. He only flipped to the last parts of the books. It had no words. Only pictures. Methos motioned for him to look. The first image showed a worm creature, a giant spider, and something that looked like a chimera between a lion, a snake, and a bird.
Achilles looked up. "What is this thing?"
"I have to leave. Soon. And I don't know when I will be able to return. There is a danger that I might lose this book." And Methos' face became stern. "I must trust you to keep it. For myself and all our kind."
"Our kind," Achilles scoffed. "I have never known you to act outside of your self-interest."
Methos smirked, amused at the childish retort. "Oh but this is for my self-interest. Look closer!" And he turned t a page that bore the image of a sun surrounded by interlocking lightning bolts. Intrigued, Achilles peered closely at it. The image seemed to dance, and whirl, becoming almost real. Achilles' was shaken from his attention when he felt his quickening stir, compelled by the book to remember secrets only it knew.
The next day, Achilles and Odysseus parted ways, leaving behind their armies, the burning ruins of Ilios and their past lives. The latter sailed off to parts unknown. The former rode through the mountain roads of Asia minor, bearing the book and burdened by terrible revelations.
AN: Helena and Menele are Toreador and Brujah Methuselahs from canon. Prias was Helena's ghoul.