Chapter Text
Troilus let go of the string. It snapped against his wrist with a sharp sting, leaving a red mark. The arrow hit the center of the target, its feathers still shaking. He turned around, sweat sticking blond curls to his forehead, his blue eyes bright with victory.
"Got it," he said, breathing a bit hard. "See? Ten for ten."
Paris stood in the shade of the portico, lazily brushing dust from his silk cloak. He watched his youngest brother, thinking to himself that the gods were sometimes cruel to cram all the world's beauty into a single child. Troilus was not just handsome; he was so radiant it almost hurt to look at him.
"Impressive enough," Paris stepped into the sunlight, taking the bow from Troilus’s hand. "But this target doesn't run, nor does it know how to thrust a spear back at you."
Troilus scoffed, wearing the haughty smirk of a prince who had never tasted the mud of a battlefield. He wiped the sweat from his brow, leaving a streak of dirt across a face as perfect as if carved from Parian marble.
"Then let me go to war. Let me ride with you and Hector. I’m tired of standing here shooting at bundles of straw."
Paris stiffened. His hand, checking the tension of the string, tightened. He looked down at his brother’s hands: they were still soft, only just beginning to callous from practice, untainted by blood. He reached out and ruffled Troilus’s golden hair, messing it into a tangle.
"Not yet, little one. Wait until you are a head taller."
"I’m nearly as tall as you!" Troilus brushed his hand away, bristling with a childish stubbornness. "Hector says I have natural talent. Why does everyone keep me confined like a girl?"
Paris went quiet, his smile fading. He looked toward the sea, where thousands of Greek ships sat like vultures waiting for a meal.
All of Troy knew the secret, except for him. Their father, Hector, and Paris himself had sworn before the gods: Troilus must never set foot on the scorching sands of war until nineteen winters had passed. They sheltered him within the high walls, nurturing him on honey and wine, hoping that this pure existence would keep those very walls from crumbling.
"Stay here," Paris said, his voice dropping, almost pleading. "Master the bow. The battlefield has no need for another beautiful thing like you, Troilus."
Troilus stared back, still stubborn. Paris didn't say anything else, just handed him another arrow. They practiced for another hour until Troilus’s fingers shook from tired muscles and the sun was baking the stone floor.
Paris patted his shoulder and headed back to the palace. He had boring meetings to get to, where politics were just as messy as the war outside.
Troilus stayed behind. He didn't want to go in yet. He hated the stuffy palace and the smell of incense that stuck to everything. He needed something real.
He headed to the stables.
The smell of straw and leather made him feel better. His dark brown horse neighed when it saw him. Troilus smiled and rubbed its nose. The animal nudged his shoulder with a warm breath.
"Only you don't treat me like I'm made of glass, right?" he whispered.
Just then, a servant girl passed by with empty jars for the well. She started to bow, but Troilus stopped her. A risky idea popped into his head.
"Give those to me."
"But Prince Troilus, this is my job..." she hesitated.
"I’ll get the water. I want to ride for a bit," Troilus led the horse out before she could argue. "The palace is boring today. I need some air. Don’t tell Paris or Hector, I’ll be back before noon."
He jumped onto the horse without a saddle. With the jars at his side, he galloped out the back gate. The wind hit his face, washing away the feeling of being trapped.
Troilus rode across the dry fields outside the city. The sound of hooves on the dirt matched his racing heart. Once the walls of Troy were far behind, he slowed down and headed toward the old fountain near the woods, not far from the Temple of Apollo.
He got off the horse, tied it to a branch, and took the jars to the water.
He couldn't help but look at the white marble columns of the temple through the trees. He had been there a thousand times.
The people of Troy whispered that Queen Hecuba had been visited by the Sun God, that such agonizing beauty could not belong to a mere mortal. "Son of Apollo"- the title clung to him like a halo, but also a burden.
Troilus had once stood before the god's statue, praying until his knees were numb, waiting for a sign. A bolt of lightning, a voice in his sleep, anything to confirm that the golden blood of Olympus flowed in his veins. He wanted to ask if He was truly his father, and if so, why He had never come to him. But Apollo was always silent. The god only cast warmth upon his skin, his golden hair, and his deep blue eyes, but gave him no guidance at all.
He sighed, shaking off the idle thoughts. He wasn't here to pray today. He just needed cool water and a moment of freedom.
Troilus knelt, placing a jar under the gurgling stream. The water hit the bottom with a hollow, bubbling sound. He cupped a handful of cold water to his face, washing away the heat and dust. Droplets trickled from his chin, dampening his thin silk collar. His golden curls hung heavy over his slender shoulders like silk woven from sunlight.
He looked at his reflection in the water.
Troilus was fourteen this year. At that age in other houses, boys had already tasted the weight of weapons and bore their first scars. But looking at the reflection, Troilus only saw a face that was frustratingly soft. His large, deep blue eyes appeared even more luminous under the water, his long lashes and red lips making him look more too delicate to be a prince of the empire.
He splashed the water to break the reflection.
His frame was slight, his bones still possessing the grace of a child who had not yet matured. Compared to the bronze-like bulk of Hector or the effortless charm of Paris, Troilus felt out of place. The overprotection of his father and brothers was like a thick fog surrounding him. People looked at him and praised the beauty of the gods, but to Troilus, that beauty brought only helplessness. He didn't want to be worshipped like a marble statue in a temple; he wanted to hold a spear, to let the sweat and dust of battle forge him into a man.
They loved him, yes, but they loved the radiant shell more than they trusted his will. In their eyes, Troilus was a treasure to be kept in a cage, not a warrior who could stand firm on the field.
"What's the point of beauty?" he muttered, gripping the stone edge of the fountain.
Suddenly, the air felt heavy. The sound of the water felt lonely in the creepy silence that followed. The back of his neck went cold.
Troilus spun around.
A tall man stepped out from the tall grass by the stream. He wasn't bulky or gross like the giants in the training yard. Instead, he was lean and fit like a runner, with muscles showing under the most amazing armor Troilus had ever seen. The plate shimmered with a cold light, the engravings so intricate they seemed forged by the hands of the gods themselves. It far surpassed Hector’s bronze, far surpassed any proud general of Troy.
A thunderclap echoed in Troilus's mind. Through the horrific stories his brothers told of the man who wore armor crafted by Hephaestus, he recognized him instantly.
The man standing before him was the Aristos Achaion.
A paralyzing chill seized Troilus for a few brief seconds. Only when Achilles began to advance, each step slow and predatory, like a panther toying with its prey, did the boy snap out of his terror. Driven by pure survival instinct, he grabbed the filled water jar and hurled it at the man with all his remaining strength.
Smash!
The ceramic jar shattered at Achilles' feet, water splashing across his greaves, but those footsteps did not even falter. Troilus didn't stay to see the result; he spun around and ran for his life toward his horse. His heart hammered against his throat. He leaped onto the stallion’s back, digging his heels into its flanks, silently begging a miracle from his father, Apollo, that the beast might fly as fast as the wind.
The horse neighed and lunged forward. Freedom was only a reach away.
But Achilles was faster. He needed no spear or sword. In a heartbeat, he closed the gap. A powerful hand reached out, tangled firmly into Troilus’s long golden hair, and yanked him back with brutal force.
"Ah!"
A scream of agony choked in his throat. His scalp felt as though it were being torn raw. Troilus was pulled backward off the horse, falling hard onto the earth.
He ignored the searing pain and scrambled to his feet. Dust clung to his expensive silk garments and stuck to his tear-streaked, wet face. He gasped for air, his eyes wide with horror as he realized the war-demon was in no hurry. Achilles stood there, watching him with emotionless eyes, before resuming his slow, rhythmic pace: the pace of a hunter who knew the prey had nowhere to go.
In a blind panic, Troilus stumbled toward the Temple of Apollo. His heart thrashed against his ribs as he clung to a fragile shred of hope: He doesn't know who I am.
Hidden away in the palace all his life, Achilles had never seen his face. Perhaps he thought Troilus was just a lost Trojan boy, a nameless soul not worth the trouble.
But he was wrong. With a single glance, Achilles knew exactly who stood trembling before him.
"You must be Troilus."
His voice was low but echoed through the heavy silence of the temple as Troilus rushed inside. The boy froze, his legs turning to stone amidst the marble pillars.
"I have heard of the Sun God's bastard," Achilles said, stepping over the threshold. His shadow stretched across the stone floor, swallowing the light. "That the youngest prince of Troy possesses hair more beautiful than any gold or treasure in this land. And that... Troilus often comes here to pray to a father who has never once deigned to acknowledge his existence."
Each word was a poisoned arrow aimed straight at Troilus’s pride. He knew everything. He didn't just know his face; he knew the deepest, most hidden ache in the boy's heart.
Troilus turned, his back pressed against the altar of Apollo, his trembling hands gripping the cold stone edge. He stared at his enemy: the man who brought the breath of war and sacrilege into the holiest of holies. Achilles stopped a few paces away. His gaze swept from the boy's tangled hair down to his pale, frightened face, a look of cold assessment and... danger.
Now, Troilus could see a part of his face: emerald eyes burning bright beneath the shadow of his helm, features carved by the hand of a master craftsman. He was beautiful, hauntingly so, but he was death itself.
"So this is why Hector hides you behind stone walls," Achilles spoke, his voice resonating through the sanctuary.
"Your beauty... is truly an insult to the mortals out there. You are so radiant that I find this dying kingdom almost laughable."
Troilus held his breath, his fingers white against the altar. He struggled to keep his voice from shaking. "If it is ransom you want, my father will pay any price."
Achilles laughed, a dry, mocking sound. He took another step, closing in until Troilus could smell the scent of ocean bronze and dried blood on his armor.
"Ransom? You think I journeyed to this remote temple just for your father’s gold?" Achilles tilted his head. "I came here to kill you, Troilus. I came to slit your throat upon this very altar."
Troilus gasped, his blue eyes wide with shock. "Kill me? I have never even held a sword in battle. I have never killed a single Greek. Why..."
"Because your small, insignificant life is the chain that keeps Troy from falling,"
Achilles interrupted, watching the confusion on the boy's face with grim amusement.
"Did you not know? The prophecy your entire royal family knows by heart: If the youngest prince of Troy survives past his twentieth year, this wall shall stand forever."
Troilus felt as though ice-cold water had been poured down his spine. The prophecy. His twentieth year. Every restriction, Paris’s sorrowful glances, Hector’s extreme protection... everything suddenly shattered into pieces of bitter truth.
"They raised you like a bird in a golden cage," Achilles whispered. He reached out, taking a strand of the boy’s golden hair between his fingers, examining it with cold curiosity.
“They kept you alive to hold up their walls. But I am here now, Troilus. I am here to bring Troy to an end."
He paused, staring deep into Troilus’s eyes, eyes now brimming with tears of shock, before adding in a low, haunting tone:
"But looking at you now... to kill you this moment would be a most profound waste."
Achilles drew closer, the distance vanishing until his bronze-clad chest pressed against the boy’s trembling shoulders. His hand released the hair, shifting instead to caress Troilus’s pale cheek with a gentleness that was terrifying.
"I have changed my mind," Achilles murmured. "You shall not die today, Troilus. You shall be mine. I will take you back to my tent, and I will cherish this beauty as the most precious prize I have ever plundered. You will bathe in fragrant oils and rest upon the softest silks of Greece, rather than bury your corpse beneath the ashes of this temple."
A wave of nausea hit Troilus. A surge of humiliation momentarily eclipsed his terror. He gritted his teeth, glaring defiantly into the cold emerald eyes of his captor.
"You filthy demon!" Troilus spat the words, his voice hoarse with indignity. "I would rather die right here!! I would rather my blood soak this temple floor than betray my home to become your plaything. Kill me, if you have the heart for it!"
He pushed with all his might against the warrior's chest, a desperate attempt to break free or provoke a fatal blow. Yet, Achilles did not flare in anger. He stood firm as a mountain, watching the boy with a look of pure mockery. He let out a dry, biting laugh.
"Die? Little prince, you still do not understand," Achilles leaned down, his lips nearly brushing Troilus’s ear, which burned red with rage. "If you die this instant, the prophecy is fulfilled, and Troy shall fall before the sun sets. Do you wish to be the one who sentences your father and brothers to death?"
He tightened his grip around the boy’s waist, hoisting Troilus into the air despite his frantic struggling. The strength of the demigod made the boy’s resistance seem as trivial as a child's tantrum.
"Furthermore," Achilles growled, his voice thick with a sudden, mad possessiveness. "You are in the hands of Achilles now. Do you truly think you still have the right to choose? Here, I am god; I am the law; I am the one who decides whether you draw breath. You have no right to betray, for from this moment forth, your soul and your flesh are my property."
With a sharp, piercing gaze that extinguished Troilus's last embers of hope, he drag the prince from the sanctuary. In the depths of his agony, Troilus looked back one last time, his vision blurred by tears toward the towering statue of the god vanishing behind the pillars. He screamed until his throat felt torn, his cry echoing through the deathly silence:
"Father! Apollo! Please... I beg you, save me!"
His plea was raw and agonizing, but it was met only by the eerie silence of the great wild. The wind continued to blow, the sun remained golden, and the bronze statue of the god stood still, its exquisite face as soulless as ever.
Achilles cast a mocking glance back over his armored shoulder.
"From this day on, the only god you shall pray to... is me."