A new life for Paris

So he would die. Death would finally come. One last night, and it would be all over. Paris closed his eyes, allowing himself to drift away to the lullaby of chatter around the fireplace. They could abuse him for all he cared. One last time wouldn't matter and then he would truly be free. Free to roam the winding paths of Tartaros, searching for Helen. But what if she did not want him? What if she was still mad? And what of his father? How would he ever manage to face his father? He could see the old man before his eyes – blood-drenched – his hair and beard a shimmering white like a halo in the dark encompassing him. What ever did I do to deserve such an ill-fated son? Paris thought he heard him say.

The camp grew silent. Spartans everywhere fell into slumber, dreaming of home and whatever awaited there. Hope grew in their hearts, while in the hearts of the enslaved Trojan men and women on the beach, all hopes shattered, knowing they would die with the first rays of the sun. Many cried bitter tears. Many mourned. Some entered the sea and never emerged.

Agamemnon did not sleep. He was too much agitated, unable to calm himself from his hour-long dispute with his brother, who together with his warlords, had settled on the decision to leave he Trojan shores. Unrest and political matters elsewhere had arisen, and Menelaus could afford to stay away no longer. A senator had been appointed, and he would be a pawn in the work to restore Troy to the liking of the Spartans. Menelaus had had his revenge. He was satisfied. One thing remained, however, and that was new intelligence telling them that Paris, prince of Troy was still alive among the soldiers on the beach. Agamemnon agreed to dispatch agents to roam the camps, searching for the heir to the throne, though he did not share his brother's motives at all:

Menelaus wanted Paris dead. And if Paris had survived this long, then it was possible he could survive beyond their departure. He would not risk the son of Priam to rally their enemies to recapture Troy.

Agamemnon wanted Paris alive. Too quickly had he given up the youngster. He found himself bored with politics and the wretched, desolate land they'd conquered. He would find a way to conceal the boy on the ships back to Sparta. And there, Paris would spend his life as Agamemnon's pleasure slave! But first, he had to be found before Menelaus' agents did. Those sworn to Agamemnon, would ensure the prince's survival, and the king had made sure they outnumbered Menelaus' men. It would all be worth it. To imagine once again burying himself to the hilt inside the soft flesh of a prince, no less! He'd tasted him before. And soon, come morning, he'd taste him again!

A few hours before dawn. Paris awoke to his own pleading mumbling. Looking around, feeling guilty to might have awoken somebody, his eyes landed on the crouching silhouette of Broethevs. He was sitting but a few feet away from Paris, gazing intently at him. Paris shuddered, remembering that he'd been given away to Broethevs. This man – this giant – would be Paris' last memory in the world of the living. He wondered how Broethevs would kill him – if it would be swiftly or slowly? Broethevs reached out and took Paris by the arm, raising him to his feet. Paris was being led to the outskirts of the forest nearby, where he'd first tried to die. He did not see the silhouettes of men who – upon noticing them – set their course directly after them or to intersect them. But Broethevs was on the alert. His watchful eyes had spotted them an hour before he'd awoken Paris. He had spent that hour observing, determining who they were and what or who they were after. Now, his suspicions were being confirmed. They wanted the prince. And if Broethevs got in their way, they would slice him up without question. He decided to pick up the pace, just as the sun's first rays climbed above the oceanic horizon. Immediately, the rhythmic beating of drums began to beat, urging the army to awake, to break camp.

Glancing up past Broethevs, Paris saw the ruins of the Temple of Apollo, and he was instantly reminded of Briesis. The memory of that sweet girl was like a stab to the heart. He shivered at the loud beat coming from the galleys. The drums heralded his death, and Broethevs seemed eager to finish it, since he'd picked up the pace considerably. It surprised him to see men wearing the king's uniform gathering upon them. Was there to be some kind of ceremony? Was he to please them also before he was to be eliminated? Why were they unsheathing their swords all at once?
Broethevs tugged at his arm and swung Paris into the shelter of the forest as he dodged the blade first to reach for him. Somersaulting, he was up on his legs in an instant, reaching and grabbing the man by the neck with his right arm and immobilizing the wrist holding the blade itself, with his left. There was a loud snap, and the soldier fell to the ground next to Paris. In one fluid moment, Broethevs caught the sword in mid-air, spun around and severed the head of the next soldier before he dodged another blade like a mountain cat, leaping into the air and severely injuring two more agents in the process. Picking up another blade, he started swinging them, creating and impenetrable wall of moving blades, and soon, agents fell around him like cropped corn in the golden fields. Realizing he'd bought himself some time until the agents farthest away would reach them, he spun on his heel and grabbed Paris from the ground, yanking him to his feet. He pulled and pushed Paris in between the woods until they entered an older part of the forest with larger and gnarled trees. Behind one of them, was a solid backpack with some thirty or forty kilos worth of equipment, skins and food.

Paris was flabbergasted, out of breath and clueless. What did this all mean?!