Authors Note: Hey, sorry for the delayed update. I've come across a point where some of the readers would like me to continue further than what was originally planned, so I had to devise a completely new plan. So, this is the new summary, an addition to the previous.

Summary: Achilles is the greatest warrior the world has ever seen, untouched by such occurrences like love. Briseis is the Trojan princess that has given herself to Apollo in devotion. When these two met in the infamous war that launched a thousand ships, their betrayal of their countries was lost in the nights they stayed locked in one another's embraces. One kingdom pitted against the other, the rivaling city burns. Running for the vow that she made to Achilles, Briseis flees into the arms of her savior. Will they escape Troy? If so, how can they insure their safety?

P.S. I'm leaving for Miami on Monday, so I'll be gone for a week. I'm going to try to get you guys another chapter by Sunday night so I don't leave you completely hanging.

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The world ended with a scream.

The cries echoed through the burnt shells of Troy, the anguish of dead souls trapped in an alternative chaos that they could not escape from. They staggered through the ruins in a daze; arms extended as their guide for their eyes had been cut out by the Greeks, now rendered blind in the underworld. The flames of destruction still blazed, climbing higher into the black, passed the golden gates of Mt. Olympus into the kingdom of the slumbering gods. They slept, ignorant of the suffering of the charges they swore to protect. How could any victim trust the gods now? They had been abandoned in peril with no line of protection drawn.

Troy had always been ruled by the notion that freedom and peace were the necessities of life, but now the city was plagued with nothing but war. The city was a battlefield. The streets were lined with packs of invading soldiers, traipsing through the barren alleys and markets, pillaging through the rubble for loitering Trojans. Black ashes of the souls they had claimed stained their faces, blood imprinted on their blades. Their sandals sunk into red pools as they crossed a field of corpses. The city had been painted red and black rocks clumped the pavement.

Small bands of citizens or remnants of broken families crouched in the shadows, hidden between collapsed building pieces that devised a sort of crevice. Their palms were faced together in prayer, eyes closed, lips quivering as they ushered the pleas. They wished to be saved. Yet the cold, merciless eyes of a soldier discovered their cowering forms and they were yanked by their hair from their closure. The women and children grasped the wrists of the Greeks, struggling to be released from the firm grip, then they were silenced. Kicked to their knees, the children and youngest women were sparred.

The night had ended the murders. But the executions had just begun.

Agamemnon stood in the center of his pride of lions, framed by their bellicose bodies, and encouraged the savages on. Every man was ordered to be killed, executed before the eyes of their neighbors. Any woman or child that interfered would suffer the same fate. The King of Kings brushed his red mane and watched with a smirk as small groups assembled across the dead city. He breathed in the screams; their souls were his.

Briseis crouched around a corner, his fingers dug into the stone of the other wall, and watched the heinous acts. Her face was hidden in the shadows, unrecognizable to the assassins who held a man at the tip of their swords, sneering in the crusade. The man kneeled to the men, his hands formed in mercy, begging that they spare his life and the life of his wife. The woman to the side held the soldier's arm that held her hostage, tears freely falling down her wet cheeks, staring with unflinching loyalty at her husband who grabbled at the feet of the enemy. Trojans had once been proud people, but this war had turned their loyalties. The line between right and wrong had blurred in the last few hours.

The brunette woman felt her eyes water as the soldiers laughed in the man's face, nudging each other, and lifted their sword. The metal came down in one swift motion, the eerie slice of flesh causing Briseis' stomach to churn. The man's head rolled to the stone; his body slumped to the ground. The woman screamed, collapsing, her hands cupped over her lips. Briseis gasped, the breath torn from her lungs, her eyes closing immediately to protect her from the image of another dead person that would haunt her dreams, and looked away. Her hand instinctively grabbed the person beside her, clenching the man's arm so tightly that her knuckles began to lose color.

Paris kept his eyes focused on the sight before him. He wanted to look away, but each attempt failed like the other and he found himself unable to. The Greeks dragged the woman unwillingly away by her arms, overpowering the fighting widow whose screeches pierced the air. She wailed for her husband and for the loss of her home. Paris shook his head and turned to Briseis. His cousin, ridden of her frailty since the dawn of the war, buried her face in his arm, biting back tears that threatened to fall. The prince didn't understand. Wasn't his duty in Troy to protect his people? With Hector gone they looked upon him to protect them. Yet here he was, hiding in his own home from the men that had stolen the kingdom from his family. He couldn't protect his people and now he couldn't find the strength to comfort his cousin.

His kin fell back on her heels, the dust rising around her in a transparent cloud as she landed with a thud beside Paris. The blue midnight brought her peace, allowed her to shy away from the massacre that awaited their eyes outside. In the blue she was safe…but only for a while. She drew her knees to her chest and locked her arms around her legs, hugging them close to her chest in a fetal position. She wanted to be small, she wanted to be transported out of this hell, and she wanted to be permanently safe. She tipped her head back so her skull touched the stone and inhaled.

The images of the killings flashed across her mind every time she closed her eyes. There wasn't an escape, not a loophole that would free her from these. She would be haunted, cursed for her decision to love one man, blamed for what she laid on this city. Her eyelid fluttered open and her dark eyes found the form across from her, descended deeper in the hall, balanced on his the ball of his foot. His hair was a curtain over his face, closed over the stage to disguise any flicker of emotion that he could display from hearing the murder, and his hands rested helplessly over the edge of his knee bone.

"How could you let them do this?" she asked him harshly.

Achilles slowly turned his head, his sight trained on her shriveled form. She wished to know, but he didn't want to tell her the reason he allowed such events to happen in his presence. Even when he had the power to end it, he didn't. Her forgiveness meant something, and that would disappear if he told her the truth.

"What would have me do?" he retorted.

"Anything—"

"They outnumber me. Thousands to one."

"I think you're a coward." Paris muttered, rolling his head to the side to face the Greek warrior.

"You think that of me now, but I have gotten you this far." Achilles argued.

"You came in with the others with only the aspiration of destroying us."

"I had one mission, yes." Achilles' eyes fell on Briseis. "And I have succeeded in the task."

A silence clung to them for a moment. The chaos rested against their eardrums. Briseis stood, testing her weakening legs, and steadied herself. Her fingers glided across the stone, dipping in the small ridges between bricks, feeling her way to her warrior in the darkness. She stood in front of Achilles and held out her hand to him in offering. He slipped his hand in hers and climbed to his feet, snatching up his sword from the ground beside him. They paused for a moment; a silent recognition passed between them.

Would you leave all this behind? Would you leave Troy?

Both of them had been taught that different things were the most important things in life. Achilles was born to be a warrior, the mightiest of them all that had a title of ending lives. For that men either revered him or feared him. It always depended on how he judged you. Briseis had been risen with the notion that your country, the gods, and your family were to be honored without interruption. Two completely different viewpoints and two hearts that said the same thing. Briseis fantasized about leaving Troy and traveling elsewhere, about leading a life where she and Achilles wouldn't be criticized for their feelings, about the happiness that waited outside the gate.

Then again, Achilles had not promised that good things would come. He knew the mind of Agamemnon and many of the other kings. If he were sighted with royalties then it would be assumed that he had been captured or that he was assisting their escape. It would not be pleasant. They would be hunted, as fugitives, as criminals, and killed for treachery. It didn't care what became of Paris or the other Trojans that had gotten away early enough to be unharmed; he had come for Briseis and had succeeded. He only cared that she lived. If she was captured, the easiest form of punishment would be death, but her fortune would likely betray her. She would be taken to Agamemnon's tent and laid to work as a slave, scrubbing his floors in the day and bedding with him in the night. He would rather die than see her treated as so.

Achilles leaned in and deposited a kiss on her forehead in reassurance that they would survive this night. Briseis wasn't sure what to believe any longer because all she thought she had known had been proven false. Yet she chose to believe Achilles; he was the only thing guiding her life now. She knew he would fight for her and protect her from danger, but did she really need him to? She brushed the questioning aside and laced her fingers in his, feeling the prickles of dirt that covered his hands.

They took a step from each other and continued on their journey. Paris, still in the darkness, watched in amazement as Briseis left with this man. The man who killed his brother, the man that was prophesied to end lives, the man that was a cold-hearted killer. Could that be compared as the same man that kissed his cousin with such loving tenderness? The man that shown love in his eyes when he watched the young brunette? Paris shook his head, dislodging the assumptions and suspicions. He clamored after the pair and easily fell in step behind them.

Their meticulous pace sidestepped the path of throngs of soldiers, intently listening to the range and proximity of voices and the vibrations of footsteps. Paris remained behind the lovers the whole time, his hand prepared at the handle of his sword, glaring at Achilles. The Greek possessively held Briseis' hand, always keeping to her right, showing a considerate side to him. Paris examined the man and his actions with his cousin. He had assumed that Achilles would force them to keep to his speed, but, instead, he would only push Briseis when she had the strength. If she faltered, he would slow their running and allow her time to catch her breath. Multiple times they came upon corpses, their flesh burnt to the point where the bones were unrecognizable. Achilles shifted to Briseis' left and shielded her from the sight, holding her shoulders as he directed her away from the body. The man was protective and that astounded Paris.

They jogged down a long corridor, succumbed to the darkness, no sound finding them except for the pattering of their feet on the ground as they ran. A small block of grayish light bounced in the distance, enhancing wider and wider as they neared it. Paris focused on the partial outline of the two in front of him and kept his body in control. If he allowed himself to think about his strength then his body would shut down in realization that he had little agility left.

Achilles suddenly slowed as they reached the exit of the corridor. He pulled Briseis to him, disabling her from bursting out of the darkness and giving off their location. If there were Greeks in that courtyard then they would be forced to wait for them to depart before they could continue. He turned to Briseis, unable to see anything of her except for the glow of her pools. "How much further?"

She squirmed in his arms. "Just across the courtyard. Down a stairwell. We're close." she explained, her voice low.

Achilles ground his teeth, the impatience wearing into him. He just wanted to abscond to the hills. He wanted to get Briseis out. They'd only be safe for a certain amount of time, but those several hours would give them time to get to Greeks ships or at least somewhere where they would be undisturbed. His hand braced on Briseis' arm, he peaked around the corner into the courtyard. The space, a square with an open ceiling and pottery surrounding the perimeter, was an execution podium. Two soldiers talked to one another, their swords limply swinging at their sides, oblivious to the eyes surveying them. Odysseus was with them, leaned against a pillar in the corner.

Briseis pushed past Achilles. Her head bobbed in thin air, her brown curls draped over the side, tattered hands balanced on the floor. Achilles crouched down to her level, towering over her form from behind her. His sword scraped the brick floor. Paris backed into the opposite wall, maneuvering his body so it remained hidden in the shadows. None of the Greeks had noticed. The trio waited patiently, studying the group's movements, quivering in their positions. What were the men waiting for?

The pondering came to an abrupt end as a shrill cry reverberated against the pillars. A nefarious laugh trailed, announcing the devil and his soul with a cut chord. A man appeared from a stairwell, a spear cradled in one hand and a squirming woman in another. The woman was older, her robes clung to her slender figure from the sweat drenching her skin, her long blonde hair flailing wildly as she struggled to free herself from the enemies hold. A small boy at the tender age of seven ran after them, tears spilling down his cheeks, his arms outstretched in front of him. He shrieked for his mother. The woman's son hadn't abandoned her and gotten out of Troy in time; unfortunately, it was too late for them. The soldier was shoved forward; she stumbled over her dress and fell in a heap at Odysseus' feet, her hands reaching out to brass her tumble. The young boy was captured before he could dart for his mother.

"Look what I found. A servant of the royal family." the soldier sneered.

Briseis' hand flew up; cupping her lips as tears sprang in her eyes. Her breathing gradually regulated into short gasps for air. Her eyes quivered. She uttered the woman's name under her breath. She knew the woman. An assistant in the palace, she had become somewhat of a surrogate mother to Briseis. She couldn't watch her die, not for something she or anyone else in her family did. She had to save her. She jumped out of her spot, lurching her body forward to enter the courtyard.

Achilles yanked her back before she could unveil herself. He clutched her to his chest, propping his chin on her shoulder. "What are you doing?" he questioned curtly.

"Let me go. Let me go!" Briseis commanded, her voice breaking as she tried to wrench of Achilles' hold, but was prevented from it. "I can't let her die."

Achilles cupped her face with one hand. "They'll kill you."

Briseis stared at him. Did he not understand? This was someone she loved, a woman she respected, and she wasn't going to watch her die. Especially not in front of her son, the little boy that brought the light into her eyes and the smile to her face. She wanted to spit back at Achilles that she would willingly die to protect her people, but something held her back. She stopped squirming and stared at him. His face silently pleaded for her not to go, to not risk her life when they were just beginning, and she listened.

The weight of a thousand lives dropped on her shoulders, dragging her down into the place she believed she deserved to be now. Where did her loyalties lie? Had being with Achilles changed them? Before she met she only cared for the people of Troy, those she was meant to help, but now she gave in with one look from the halloed demon. Did her loyalties now rest solely on him? She couldn't have done that, wouldn't have…yet she seemed to have. She'd switched her loyalties, had switched her heart.

Paris stared at the couple, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Why had she stopped? He bowed his head and looked back to the scene. If it were not prevented then that woman would perish. Cassandra would die. She was pulled to a kneeling position, her head forced up, the figures of the men swarming around her. Odysseus loomed in the distance, a hand on the boy's shoulder, monitoring the situation. One of them men, steadied beside Cassandra, hovered the tip of his sword over Cassandra's neck, the slick edge touching her skin briefly. Paris growled. If Achilles was going to do nothing to halt the execution, then he would.

He rose suddenly and bolted into the courtyard, poising his bow in the perfect targeting angle. Briseis and Achilles gawked at him, her eyes bulged as her cousin's foolishness. She scrambled to join him, but Achilles blocked her. A part of him wanted to see what the young prince could do. Every head turned to the trespassing man, his name screeched from Odysseus. The executioner, hissing profanity under his breath, advanced towards Paris. Paris drew out an arrow from the container behind his back and fired the arrow. It embedded in the man's chest, striking directly into his heart. The man fell on his stomach, grimacing in his final moment.

Paris' face fell instantly. The two others, stepping over their fallen comrade, stalked to him, swinging their blades mercilessly. He gulped. One thrust his sword in the air; it connected with Paris' arm. The prince cried out in pain. Odysseus watched the unfair fight with a grin. Cassandra, released from Death's hands, beckoned her son forth. Odysseus let the boy go, uninterested in the trials of death. The boy flew into his mother's arms. Briseis whirled around to Achilles; the man's focus was concentrated on the fight.

"You have to help him. Please, he's my cousin. Please." Briseis pleaded, tears leaking down her cheeks. "They'll kill him!"

Achilles groaned, rolling his eyes, and drew his sword. He ran out of the hiding and entered the battlefield. "Achilles!" Odysseus yelped upon seeing his friend's arrival. Perhaps he would assist his fellow Greeks in the murder of the royal family. Odysseus' grin broadened; this would be utterly more entertaining that he imagined.

As an arrow collided the soldier closest to Paris, causing him to pause long enough to yank it out, Achilles swung his sword at the other man. The blade cut across the man's throat, ripping the skin right open, the blood splattering over his armor. The man fell backwards. Achilles whipped around and drove his sword into the other soldier's back. Odysseus' grin faded as he saw this killing. Achilles had slain his own men, his fellow comrades. They were a pile of blood on the ground, dead from their one of their own hands.

Achilles was a betrayer.

Achilles' sensed Odysseus' movement and pushed his sword against his friend's chest, stopping him immediately. The scruffy king pulled his hand away from his hand and stared at him. Achilles sneered, his teeth pressed together in an animalistic growl.

"Achilles." Odysseus muttered.

As the words spilled from his lips, Briseis crept out and maneuvered around the men, wincing at the sight of the corpses. She squatted down beside Cassandra and her son and gently placed her hand on the small of the boy's back. Cassandra stroked her matted hair, saying her name tenderly. The words were inaudible to Achilles, who strained to watch her and Odysseus at the same time. The clacking of sandals slapping brick echoed a moment later; they were all left alone. Briseis slowly stood, eyeing the man she had once trusted. Could he be trusted now? He had killed her people. That was unforgivable.

Odysseus' eyes found her. He understood. Women have a way of complicating things.

He flickered to Achilles. "One Trojan girl." he hissed.

"Don't." Achilles replied.

Abruptly, he dropped his sword. Odysseus was saved. Achilles grabbed Briseis' arm and drug her out of the courtyard, hastening her into a light jog into the nearest passage. Paris, holding his wounded limb, followed, eyeing Odysseus with caution. The older man stared after them. It was true, all the rumors and the gossip that swirled around the camp. They had neither been confirmed nor denied by Achilles. The man, the most ruthless warlord, fell in love with a Trojan. He betrayed Greece and everyone in it. He would burn for treason.

Briseis led the way further down the passage, unaware of Paris' mortal wound until he hissed and slumped against the wall. Briseis stopped, whirling around, and darted to Paris. Achilles stood over them as Briseis tucked her legs underneath her to tend to Paris. Her cousin grimaced, a sharp groan rolling out of his throat, and pressed his hand to the wound.

"Paris, remove your hand." Briseis instructed gently.

Reluctantly, Paris obeyed. Briseis tilted her head and drew closer. Blood dribbled down his arm from the jagged slice in his arm, veins spreading in various places on the flesh surrounding the injury. It freely bled. Briseis took a handful of her dress and ripped a piece of cloth off. She sighed, keeping a retort on her tongue, and laced the cloth under his arm.

"You shouldn't have just run out like that. You could have been killed." she said.

"They were going to kill her. Then her son." Paris responded.

Briseis didn't reply instantly. She hesitated, drawing the ends of the cloth up to level them. "Not all of them are bad." She muttered. She scrunched her face; the musty smell of the corridor was overwhelming.

"Excuse me?" Paris questioned.

"They're not all bad. I've spent time with these men. Some of them can be good people. Some of them are respectable men who want nothing to do with this war."

"Briseis, they kill people!"

Briseis stopped, the words thrusting onto her violently. How could he use that as an excuse? "And how many have you? You kill. Hector killed hundreds of men. Your father killed. How many wives are now waiting for husbands they'll never see again?" She crossed the ends and yanked forcefully then tied it together, tightly concealing the wound to cease the bleeding. "Do not judge fifty-thousand men by one king."

The words clung to the air for a moment. Briseis shot up and brushed past Achilles. He let her pass, watching her descend into the darkness. Paris stared at his hands. "Did you put her up to that? Have you tainted her thoughts with these thoughts?"

"Those words she speaks are not mine. She feels them strongly and I will not be the one to tell her she is wrong. Because she is not." Achilles stated.

Achilles left Paris. He chased after Briseis, calling her name softly as he ran blindly. He heard footsteps behind him; Paris was following. After a good distance, he began to worry. Where was she? If she had heard him, she would have responded. Why wasn't she now? Oh, if she had been taken. Anger rose in him at the thought of her being kidnapped. Then, a figure. The silhouette swayed in the distance, reaching out to balance itself. Achilles quickened his pace, then slowed. He snuck up behind the figure, quiet as not to startle the person. A scent filtered his senses. It was Briseis. He looped his arm around her waist, locking his arms, and grasped her to him.

"What is it?" he whispered, noting her stiff composure.

Without a word said to the night, her arm extended and her finger expanded. She pointed to the light. "It's guarded."

Paris' footsteps ceased. His body heat radiated. Achilles heard his pants, but his surprise was pinpointed on something else. Across from the passage was their escape. Two guards stood at the entrance. They weren't getting out.

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A/N: Wow, this is long. It feels a little different than the other chapters, so tell me what you think. Thanks.