Take Me Home

I'm really so sad to announce that this is the last chapter, people. It's pretty long, but necessary for the whole effect. Enjoy!


Part 28

(Nine years later)

Spring brings about the renewal of life after the bleak and cold abandonment. It was the time for Persephone to leave Hades and Demeter to welcome back her daughter with rejoice. It was a celebration of their reunion that the earth flourished once more. Flowers competed to bloom to their most splendid and perfumed the air sweetly. Little green buds sprouted overnight and speckled the branches as if some inanimate bugs still waiting to escape from their cocoon imprisonment. Creatures of the land and air emerged together, to ruffle their furs and feathers clean after the long rest while others already hard at work gathering food to feed hungry mouths.

This morning was the picture perfect of tranquility. From the veranda, one could see that the King of all Gods, Zeus, was already herding his obedient clouds across the bright blue sky and Helios in his fiery golden Chariot followed at a leisurely paced behind them. Poseidon in one of his good moods, commanded the wind to blow gently so that every crimson banner bearing the royal insignia of Priam’s House flapped gloriously above the taller towers in the city; a strong reminder to everyone that Troy still stand strong against her enemy. The stone houses inside the walls were still grand despite a little run-down due to neglect. Old men could still be seen lounging outside their homes watching over their grandchildren playing on the streets so that women may go about their usual chores. It was becoming more common now to find increasing number of widows wearing dark shawls over their heads as they made their way to the main agora to collect their daily ration of food.

The peacefulness was so overwhelming that it was hard to imagine a war had ever occurred and that the Greeks camping by the shore were only here to trade and transit. The Great Gates of the city of Troy were never closed for she welcomed her visitors at any time of the day. Rows upon rows of olive trees yielded abundance of oil and fruits each harvest was one of the most magnificent sight outside the walls for they dominated a vast field and up the soft slopes of Mount Ida.

Quiet and undisturbed in his room, a young Prince of Troy slept soundly in his bed. His right arm was thrown over his eyes while his left covered his sunken abdomen. Somewhere in the night, he had shifted and caused the cover to ride lower past his navel, exposing his undernourished body. His ribs stuck out plainly and his skin was whiter than the fairest maiden in all of Troy.

A ray of sunlight, having penetrated between the curtains, fell upon his head. The warmth of the beam woke him. He removed his arm and squinted, but unwilling to get up just yet he shifted slightly from the source of nuisance and continued to sleep. Since he could remember, Paris hadn’t slept as well as last night. There had been no dreams and faceless whispers to plague him.

What he didn’t know however was that last night Hector had come to visit him. The older prince was full of melancholy and his heart troubled. He sat on the bed beside the sleeping young man and watched his serene features for almost an hour. He said not a word all night because he doubt if Paris would’ve heard him. He had spoken to him for years, often coming during the night like this and telling him of his day at the battlefield and about his son as if reading a storybook to a child; yet Paris had not answered him.

Over the years the youth had grown older and he transformed into a handsome young man. His face had remained mostly the same except that he was thinner now than before. Hector had witnessed the changes and it saddened him further that with each passing day, Paris lost that opportunity to live every moment as a young man. It was like watching a flower bloom and die with no control over its destiny.

Nine years had passed since Paris returned home and this war had dragged on for ten. Time may go on for eternity, but Hector was afraid that time was running out for them. He had dreamt something terrible tonight, hence his reason for seeking his brother. He had an ill feeling that he would never have the chance to hear his little brother’s voice again.

In the dim light of one oil lamp, he noticed that Paris’ hair had grown longer, reaching past his shoulders. He smiled when he saw the shiny gold clamps holding the hair away from his face. Andromache must have added that when she came every morning to comb his hair and shave his stubbles. He loved her dearly simply because she was always so wise and loving to everyone around her.

Hector reached out to caress the side of Paris’ face and tucked a curl that had strayed behind his ear. He had cried for Paris many years ago and his heart still bleed to see him unresponsive. After they had saved the youth that day, Paris fell into a deathless slumber and had yet to wake from it. He stayed with his brother for quite some time and finally left the chamber with an even heavier heart.


[Paris.]

Paris’ eyes snapped open. He didn’t know who called for him; he just felt he had to wake up. A strange feeling began to invade him, a command that he rouse. Obeying without thinking, he climbed out of bed. His limbs felt strangely heavy and a little awkward so he stumbled at his first step.

Realizing that he was naked, he went to the clothes chest expecting to find a neatly folded chiton placed on top, but did not see any. This was unusual to him because the slaves never forgot to prepare his clothes for the next day every night before he retired. He would have to speak to the slaves about this later. He opened the long chest and seeing his favourite tunic on the top pile, he picked it up. It was of pure white silk, bordered with gold ribbons and tiny horses, the emblem of Troy, sewn over it. His brother Hector had given it to him on his coming of age birthday.

After fastening the brooches on his shoulders and tying the belt around his thin waist, he put on his sandals and left his room. He remembered that today he was going to persuade his brother to let him go with him to Sparta so he made his way to his brother’s room. Hector had just gotten married a week ago and he knew that the eldest prince would still be lazing about there with his new wife. He couldn’t stop smiling by himself when he thought how irritated Hector was going to be when he interrupted their little intimacy.

He met quite a few slaves along the way and was puzzled by the strange look they gave him; it was as if they were surprised to see him. No one smiled to him and neither did they greet him as they usually did; they seemed too stunned to react. Stranger still was that they looked so crestfallen and in despair. What was wrong with them? Were they being mistreated, but the King would never do that?

Once Paris made to the front door of Hector’s bedchamber, he knocked. When no one answered him, he knocked again. Hector was clearly not in his room. Instead of going away, Paris grabbed the handle and pushed the door aside. He scanned the chamber and saw no one, as expected.

Leaning on the corner across from where he stood, his eyes caught a long bow and a quiver stocked with arrows. They were his, but why would Hector take them and placed them here? His brother had gifted him his bow and quiver on the day he won his first archery tournament. He had been the youngest at that time, barely fourteen when he begged Priam to let him take part. Hector had given him encouragement, promising his prized bow as the trophy if he won.

In reminiscence of their younger days, Paris went to fetch the bow. He picked up the beautifully crafted weapon and caressed the smooth wood. He had been the happiest boy that day, much happier than winning the contest for he saw his father’s pride shining in his eyes for the very first time.

The weight of the bow felt familiar in his hands; he had practiced many hours with it. He looked into the quiver and found ten arrows inside, their fletching undamaged and kept in good condition. He pulled one out and inspected the shaft, noting the painstaking details to perfect it. Just as he turned the tip around, he pricked his finger. A globule of blood oozed from the small wound. It was a bad omen; an archer could not possibly hurt himself this way.

A panic gripped him, causing his pulse to race and his breathing deepened. It made him nervous.

[Come to me, Paris.]

The young Prince perked up. That voice. He recognized that voice yet he couldn’t remember where he had heard it before. A nice warmth began welling in his heart and spread to his whole body. Like the snow in spring, all the burdens, the uncertainty and questions in his mind, melted away. He hadn’t felt this contentment and uplift since he was a shepard boy in Mount Ida, idling away under the shade of a plane tree.

He slung the quiver across his back and held the bow in his right hand. Then he left the room as if one in a deep trance.

Tap! Tap! Tap!

Every step that he made, his sandals seemed to make the loudest echo through the hall and invisible dust to stir under his feet. The little jewels sewn onto the sandals glittered when light struck the faceted stones, throwing the reflections on to the walls. His silk chiton hugged his body like a second skin, emphasizing his thinness even more. Paris was still beautiful to gaze upon and he bored a very likely image of young Apollo, the Messenger.

The air around him hung heavy – stale and sickly. It was the scent of death. The faces that he met when he passed by looked sad, overcast by shadows. He didn’t stay to find out why; he was only aware that his legs obeyed a master that was not him. He continued towards the main entrance into the bastioned fortification. It was the safest place on the walls where the King could sit on his high chair and watch the battle going on outside his fort.

Once he stepped through the doorway, a gush of wind blew at him, flinging his curls haphazardly. Immediately, Paris felt his whole body became light and his feet were not touching ground. His mind was lulled by a beautiful music he knew not where it came from. He closed his eyes for a moment and listened to the wind as it whispered something to him.

Minutes later, he nodded his head. When he opened his eyes, they revealed to be crystal clear and unfaltering. Keeping his back straight and his head help up high, he approached the parapet with confident strides. As his eyes and ears were veiled from his surrounding, he did not realize that the fortification was filled with people. Everyone was there, even Helen and Astyanax.

All were surprised to see Paris walked in. Even more shocking, the young man could walk so steadily even after so many years laying on his bed. Has the Gods woken this man so that he might witness his folly that would cost the entire nation? Was he driven to this fortification solely to watch the downfall of his beloved brother? Why was he carrying a bow in his hand and the quiver slung on his back?

Thinking that he was all alone, Paris ignored the stares and whispers. Priam had called for him, but he heard none of that. When he reached the battlement, he leaned against the stone wall and looked down. He saw Hector crumbled to the dusty ground and Achilles roared like a feral beast to the cheers of his fellow Greeks.

This blond warrior was someone he did not know and had not met. This man called Achilles was Troy’s enemy therefore his enemy and he had just murdered his brother.

Prince Paris of Troy raised the bow and with the other hand, stretched back to grab one of the arrows. Coincidentally, it was the very same that had pricked his finger earlier. All in one swift, smooth motion, he pulled the shaft up above his head and out of the quiver, nock the arrow and pulled back the bowstring. He had done all these like a cool, confident killer.

The bow groaned a little as the string was stretched taut.

[I am your guide, you are my executor.]

The arrow was let go from his fingers, an act accomplished by invisible hands. The shaft aimed right; it had no choice for Apollo manipulated its course so that it would stray no where else. It was all Apollo’s devise right from the very day Paris had returned to Troy. He had waited for this moment to avenge for the sacrilege of his temple and the murder of his priestesses. It would be a fitting end to the warrior who had been so arrogant before and his chosen executor could be no one else but Paris; Achilles must be punished severely.

Achilles looked up all of a sudden from where he knelt as the corner of his eyes perceived a glinting movement. He was just in time to watch the deadly tip of an arrow come towards him and pierced his heel.

He let out a sharp cry for the pain was unlike any he had ever experienced. It numbed his mind and paralyzed his reactions. He could not even move to pull out the arrow as his body became tense and he fell to his side on the ground beside Prince Hector. He was rendered helpless.

The fiery pain and dark foreboding clawing inside him increased with each passing moment, causing him to cry out again. His breath was shallow and laboured, becoming more difficult as his life force slowly ebbed away from his heel. He sweated profusely and his face turned gravely pale.

Perhaps this was the doing of some forces beyond the human comprehension because no one had made a move to come forward and help him. It was as if every living soul was stuck in time of eternity, like a fresco depicting a tragedy.

Achilles knew his time was coming to an end. He felt it in his bones. And it was now that his mother’s prediction was remembered. Her voice echoed in his mind like a farmer driving his ox through the mud field.

In his dire moment, he thought of no one else and nothing of himself, except Paris. The image of the boy giving him a smile lingered in front of his eyes, but he knew this was a hallucination of a dying man. Somehow, he managed to shake himself back to reality and he looked to the fortification, in time to see the one who shot him.

He smiled as much as his facial muscles could work and he would’ve laughed if he was capable at the ironic of his ending. Fame and immortality was tied to Troy, both living a life of greatness and destroying themselves over a beautiful boy. However, he bore no ill will towards anyone. He had come here willingly to save his love while knowing what awaited him. He feared not his early demise and no regret to die by the hands of Paris. His boundless love for the youth needed no forgiveness. He was thankful instead that Paris had delivered his eternal bliss personally.

If he could, he would yell to Paris that he loved him one last time before he drew his last breath, but his ashen lips refused to co-operate. It was too late. It was not fair. He had waited for nine long and lonely years to see Paris once again and now that he did, he was not given the possibility of announcing his eternal love for the boy.

What was left unspoken was snatched away by the wind that brought forth a sad sigh; a mute proclamation of its witness to the death of two great men.

As his sight began to dim, he saw the Trojan Prince stepped away from the battlement. That was when a pang of sadness stabbed him in the heart. Had the youth no courage to watch his doing? Where was the youth’s love for him? Had Paris lied to him?

His vision was darkening and he barely heard anything else except his own noisy respiration. At the very last moment, he thought he heard someone calling his name. Was it Paris? ……….

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

“The prophecy has come true. The prophecy has come true. The prophecy has come true,” Cassandra chanted. She had hugged herself and rocked back and forth on her seat. The thin veil she had wrapped around her head had fell away thus revealing her soft, brown hair that she wore unbraided. She was terrified and shaking, but no one would comfort her because no one would believe what she had seen in her waking dreams.

Seated on the high chair was a very pale King, wearing a frozen mask of shock defeat on his face. He could not belief still what he had just witnessed – the death of his favourite son and his avengement. He saw Mighty Achilles fell to his knees and finally tumbled to the dry earth of Troy; the exact envision of the invincible walls the Gods had built to protect the city, cracked and crumbled. Thick black smokes and thousands of carrions feasting on rotted flesh obscured the ruins for months before there was nothing left, but the silent stones in a dead desert.

Distraught Andromache was huddled by Priam’s feet, crying and wailing; her laments were even heard by the gathered Greek soldiers just as the edge of the ground. Helen was standing near the battlement with Astyanax clutched tightly against her legs. The child cried in terrify of watching his mother so miserable while she was stunned stupor by the events that had unfolded in front of her eyes. It was her fault. She had made Paris bring her here and caused so much death and sorrow to this family. This war should not have started; then people wouldn’t have died.

And now, the nation had lost a son, a husband, a father and a champion. Helen had ruined Troy.

The young son of Priam was completely unaffected by the commotion around him. He was rigid as a statue with bow hanging by his side while his other hand gripped the hem of the tunic till his knuckles turned white. He lived through this moment with naught of emotions in him. He had no memory of what he had just done.

His desire fulfilled, Apollo released Paris. He lifted the mist in young man’s eyes and cleared his mind. He wished he could erase the love beating in a mortal’s heart, to ease Paris’ suffering after all what he had done for him yet even as a God, he was not allowed to interfere. The only thing he could do was let Paris see his lover for the last time; therefore he made the young man leave the fortification and run to the city gates.

When Paris came to stand in front of the twin awesome Gates, he yelled, “Open it!”

Every soldier stationed at that section gaped or stared at him dumbly. No one moved, not even the generals. Without Hector’s order to open the gate, they dared not do it. But Prince Hector lay dead outside. What should they do?

“I order you to open the gate!” Paris shouted angrily this time.

It was after staring sometime at one another for an answer that one of them finally went to open the small door located beside the gate. It was used only during the time of a siege.

It was an act of compassion based on a brother’s love. Every Trojan may spit on Paris’ name, built not a great tomb to remember his living days as the most beautiful youth under the Greek sky, but no one could turn away or refuse his true love for his own flesh and blood. After all, did he not just extracted revenge for Hector’s death and saved Troy from doom? Did he not just kill the invincible ‘Golden Lion’?

Hector had died a hero’s death while protecting his city, his family and his brother. He had taken up the sword and donned his armour without qualms and that his big heart could even forgive Paris’ foolishness. Could they not, the loyal soldiers, obey and follow Hector’s example?

Paris deserved to carry that body back into the city so that they may give him a hero’s funeral.

The moment the door flung open, Paris rushed out.

“Achilles!” he yelled as he saw the blond Prince lying beside his brother.

All eyes were at the small figure running towards the downed warriors. They had thought that Paris wanted to finish his job, making sure Achilles breathed no more. Expectations rose high within the walls and helpless dread of the Greeks surrounding the fort.

Paris practically threw himself to kneel between the motionless bodies. He ignored the flash of pain when his knees scrapped the hard ground. He looked first at Hector and knew even before then that he could not save him – Hector had met the ferryman and crossed the black river.

“I’m sorry, Hector. I’m sorry,” he whispered in a voice full of tremors. He was about to cry while stroking his brother’s bloodied forehead. There was nothing he could do now. Perhaps it was not too late for the Greek warrior? He turned quickly to his lover.

“Achilles?” Paris called him, more gently this time, but his lover would not open his eyes. “Achilles, please open your eyes and look at me,” he pleaded desperately. His bottom lip trembled and his eyes glassy. Still Achilles remained ‘asleep’.

“Please?” his voice now mousy.

The very thought that those beautiful gray eyes so warm and loving whenever he gazed upon him, would never open again and set sight on him almost stopped his heart. He realized that those tender moments exists no more in this world.

Completely powerless and at loss to do anything, Paris felt a profound grief welled in his heart. Had Apollo not being fond of Paris and mercifully wiped all memories of him killing his own lover, Paris would have succumbed to madness by the guilt of his terrible crime.

“You … can’t … leave me,” Paris was gasping; he was trying hard not to cry. “You promised that you will take me home with you.” Drop after drop of tears cascaded from his eyes and fell to land on Achilles’ cooling cheek.

To everyone’s shock, Paris picked up Achilles, and not his brother, to cradle him against his chest. They saw Paris began to rock back and forth as if comforting a frightened child while stroking the back of his head. No one could ever imagine the devastation pounding the young Prince from all sides and when Paris could only hold so much pain in him, he poured forth the most tortured sorrow a broken heart could suffer.

The Gods in Mount Olympus had witnessed everything that transpired and they were all touched by Paris’ great love for Achilles. Their own sadness overshadowed the sky and their tears turned to gentle drizzle.

Suddenly, Paris turned to the sky and screamed his anguish in a most heart-wrenching scene. He cried not for one, but for two.

Strange and surprising at it may seem to the Greeks and Trojans alike, it was clear that Paris loved the Mighty Achilles. It was a brave confession of true love between two enemies and in the midst of war.

Someone had unsheathed his sword and beat the flat side against his shield. Soon a wave of dull thundering spread across the sea of men. It was a moment of respect for the dead, for the brave and for love. This was a final salute to the heroes whose names and glories would remain spoken for many millennia to come.

Pity, Achilles heard none of Paris’ despair. He was already blind and deaf and one with the Air. If he had heard Paris’ call for him perhaps his soul would turn back. However, he saw Patroclus wave for him on the other side. The blond young man had distracted him from returning to the Prince of Troy.

Agamemnon saw his moment of opportunity – the Trojans would be ineffective without Hector and his men were now driven by one heart to destroy their enemy for the downfall of Achilles.

“Attack! Attack! Hector’s dead!” Agamemnon shouted from his chariot. He ordered his driver forward so that the soldiers would follow.

Utter chaos was ensued. Priam having not fully recovered yet from his shock, made a bad decision to send his armies out to reclaim his sons. He should have realized at this moment that there was no saving Hector and Paris. They were both lost forever.

“I want Paris dead!” Neoptolemus screamed. His face was dark red with rage and veins stood out on his temples and neck. He had no love for his father, but he had to show his filial responsibility.

Neoptolemus couldn’t be happier that his plan was going as expected. He knew the crafty King of Kings would use this vulnerable moment to attack the Trojans. The man was no valiant warrior, resorting to backstabbing if he could. It was a pity though he had to sacrifice Patroclus, but he was doing his father a last favour by sending both of them to Hades Realm so they could accompany each other.

There was a small oversight though. He hadn’t thought that Agamemnon would place him somewhere in the far side of the battlefield. They were quite a distant to reach Paris in time before the young man was rescued by the Trojan soldiers.

Neoptolemus and his men were already halfway towards the fort, but more soldiers were pouring out from the gates and they were fighting back the Greeks with ferocity. The blond Prince was getting desperate. He was watching his chance slipping slowly away.

Then Pynder thought of an idea. He scanned around them frantically and saw the person he was looking for. He was a tall man with strong arms and currently, he was assigned to be an archer.

“Philotetes!” Pynder yelled above the chaos. The man heard him and jogged immediately to his side.

“Yes, My Lords?” he said with a curt nod of his head.

Neoptolemus immediately realized his friend’s intentions.

“I have heard of you. They say you have eyes of an eagle and your hands guided by Athena herself,” Neoptolemus remarked.

“I am he, My Lords,” Philotetes replied confidently. His dark brows were wet with beads of sweat; the day had been terribly hot and moist.

“I want you to kill that Trojan dog with your arrow,” Neoptolemus commanded. “You will be well rewarded.” Philotetes looked over to the lone man bent over Achilles’ body that Neoptolemus was pointing at.

“I’m sorry, My Lord. At this range, I can only injure him, but not mortally,” the archer gave his assessment.

Neoptolemus looked disappointed.

“However, with some poison if not treated immediately can do the job. He will die after some suffering,” Philotetes added quickly. Everyone knew of Neoptolemus’ temper and misforgiving.

“Do you have any with you now?” Pynder questioned. The Prince of Phthia looked hopeful again.

“Yes.” Philotetes grabbed a small vial from his belt that he happened to carry today.

“Good. Do your job,” Neoptolemus said with approval.

Philotetes nodded curtly again. He had been a soldier all his life and he followed orders like one.

Swiftly, he opened the cap of the vial and poured the colourless liquid to the tip of the arrow head, making sure to smear both sides to guarantee its effectiveness. He wanted a large amount of poison to spread inside Achilles’ murderer as fast as possible.

After he put the vial back in his belt, he nock his arrow and took aim. He saw that Paris was still crouched beside the fallen hero, refusing to move away despite two soldiers trying to drag him and his brother away from the battle scene. He released his arrow.

With abated breaths, all eyes followed the travel of the deadly shaft with Paris’ name on it. When the arrow hit target, imbedded itself into Paris’ thigh, a pair of cheers erupted amidst the clamour. The bow man wiped the sweat streaming more profusely off his brows. He had done his job even though he was not proud to kill an unarmed man; he had to save his own neck.

Paris didn’t understand immediately the sudden white hot pain that struck him on his right thigh. Too swiftly the hurt came and the fiery burn began to spread to his whole leg. Within seconds it consumed his body. Numbness overtook him and he fell paralyzed beside his dead lover. The soldier who was instructed to take him away was also struck by an arrow from another archer. He had died instantly.

Paris saw an arrow shaft sticking out of his limb, but it was too late to pull it out. His strength was quickly waning and he wasn’t able to move his hands without using a lot of effort and energy.

Death came to his mind now. He wanted to laugh with joy that he would soon join his lover on the other side yet he was afraid. He didn’t know for sure if he would find Achilles again.

Images and faces flitted in front of his eyes as he lay beside Achilles. He recalled many things in that short span of time and the most memorable was when he was on board the trireme as a hostage to Achilles. They had sat in silence to watch the rising sun. They were really looking at their future together and when the sun sets again they would die … together.

Oddly, he remembered of Oenone and her predictions when he was still a child. She had told him that only her magical herbs would save his life, but in exchange that he love her and stay with her. It was too late now, wasn’t it?

Perhaps the delicate nymph knew when it would happen because she magically appeared beside Paris.

“Hello, Paris,” she greeted him. She saw that the Prince stared at her with disbelief. “You remembered my words so you must know that I will come,” she added, knowing what was in his mind.

Despite all the killing around them, while she was there nothing could touch them.

“Come home with me, Paris. You will be happy, I promise you,” she said affectionally, a sweet smile on her beautiful face.

[“When the chaos is around you and your people slaughtered, you will come upon a decision that you must make,”] These words echoed all of a sudden in his mind. Thetis had told him this.

He had pondered over her puzzling augur for a long time and had not a clue of what she meant, but Oenone’s words and offers had answered that puzzle finally.

He had two choices now – life or death – and there was only one way to be with him. All he had to do was wait till his breath stopped and he would be by his side in Elysium for eternity. Or on the other hand, he could postpone his promise by living a full life without regrets. He would not be far away from ‘him’ anyway for every breath he filled his lungs, he would inhale part of Achilles inside him. His heart would remember the love it felt and his memories and legacy would live on.

So he must choose between life and death; love for his life or for Achilles.

The poison had spread to his heart now. Panting laboriously, his breath came in sharp stabs. Every air he drew into his lungs hurt a lot, but it was nothing compared to the pain that wrenched his heart. He turned feebly to look at the man lying motionless beside him, his dead right hand stretched out. Paris dragged his hand on the rough ground with difficulty towards it and clutched the cold hand weakly in his.

This was the man he had lost his heart entirely to. It was this person he had vowed silently in the dark so long ago to the Gods that he would share his pain and happiness, in life and in death.

Oenone knew she was too late. She saw the look in Paris’ eyes as he gazed with deep affection to the dead warrior beside him. Paris’ heart and soul belonged to Achilles.

“I’m sorry, Oenone,” Paris hissed; pain laced his voice. “You are a sweet girl, so kind and beautiful, and I do not deserve you. Find a better lover than me. Love is only worth when both are willing to die for each other. Achilles had died for me. I cannot do the same for you because I have only one life and I had already given it to Achilles. Farewell, Oenone.”

“Take me home, Achilles,” Paris whispered his last words. With his final strength, Paris tightened his fingers around Achilles’ until they slackened.

Tears fell from Oenone’s eyes. She had loved him the most.

When Neoptolemus finally came upon the three dead Princes, Oenone was no longer there. His anger flared again when he saw Paris’ and Achilles’ hands clutched together. He brought his bloodied sword above his head and let it fly down swiftly. There was a brief sound of bones cracked and then blood splattered on his face. He didn’t make the effort to wipe the blood away. A smug satisfaction appeared on his lips instead as he surveyed his work.

THE END

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

According to Homer’s Iliad, Neoptolemus survived his father after the war and sailed home. Sadly, all our beloved heroes died (bravely and in glory) and the women were carted off as war prizes or slaves.

It is not my intention to change too much of what was written in the book for history will change us all (yeah, right!). Therefore, you must blame this Homer fellow for not killing the Neoptolemus character.

Frankly speaking, I prefer my version of how Troy came to ruin, don’t you agree? (hehehe…besides the fact that I authored this version). Yeah, I see smiles there. I wanted the romance portrayed with more human feelings, something we can all relate to. The mistakes, misunderstandings and abject cruelty were something quite normal if you looked at their simplicity of life in ancient days. You take abuse and rape as part of a bad deal in the war business. It’s to kill or be killed. While I don’t claim to be an expert historian (I had a crash course in Greek culture and history in 3 months put together), but if you read the books that the experts had written about our ancient ‘cousins’, you’ll see what I mean.

Well, how did I do? I’ve promised you a grand finale, so was it good? You can flame me. I can take it. Or better yet, you can praise me like one praises the awe-inspiring Apollo and raise me to the altar (not for sacrifices, mind you!!) If you have to kill me, sorry I cannot die for you. I’ve already given my life to Orli. Hehehehe…..

Ah, once again, another wonderful fic have come to its conclusion and I’m terribly sorry to see it end. It was a lot of fun while I was doing research into ancient daily life of the Greeks and recalling as much as I could what I’ve read of Mary Renault’s books. I am greatly fascinated by their lifestyle, culture and arts. I’ll probably pick up latin in the future. ^_^

Oh yes, there is also a surprise for all of you; that’s why there was a slight delay in posting this chapter. I had to finish two chapters, with the length of about 14 pages all in all at one go. This is my way of saying thanks to everyone especially Knightrider, Mereneith, Lauren, Lydia Nightshade, Kally, Carmela, Ylith, Masquarade, Sagittarius, xtine to name a few. I appreciate very much for your most encouraging and precise reviews.

Now, after all the heavy duty gloom and deaths, we need a simple therapy called TLC.

I must warn you though, this one shot ficlet has nothing to do with Hades’ Realm, Tartarus, Hell, Stygian River, Heaven or whatever you may call it in your language or culture. This is just a young man’s love for another. It’s called ‘Because He Kept His Promise’. Enjoy it and love ya all!!