As the last story began with an author's note, I felt that this one should as well, as this story is a rewrite of my Fanfiction 'Marukaite Chikyuu', written in 2011, and removed from Fanfiction a few years ago.

I removed the story because I was unhappy with some of the themes and the writing style, and so I hope that this version will come as a welcome update to many who enjoyed the original and have requested its return.

As in the case of the last story, a translator has been used for the sections where languages other than English are used. Due to this, if someone spots a mistake, please do feel free to let me know so that I can correct it.

Like with the last story, FrUk is the dominant pairing in the story, however, there are several others as listed below, including the age rating associated with them.

FrUk – T
UsCan – T
SpaMano – T
PruHun – T
GerIta – T
PoLiet – T
GreeceTurkey – K+
SuFin – K+

1250 BC – The Fall of Troy

The cry was a noise like no one had heard before. The storm outside whipping up a gale, that threw the desert sand high into the air, mixing with the cold hard bite of the rain. These two juxtaposing forces fighting for dominance against the scream that rented the sky across hundreds of miles between the Aegean Coast and Black Sea.

The sound grew louder, and with each change of pitch the storm seemed to shudder.

Lying on their back at the very centre of this storm was a baby, sprawled out across the hard and dusty ground, flailing his tiny fists in an effort to rub the sand from his bright green eyes.

He screamed, turning red in the face with the effort, but all he got in reply was another mouthful of sand. The endeavour seemed pointless, as while people across the land could hear his cries, the origin of this sound remained a mystery to them.

However, only a few miles from where this baby lay was a city. A city surrounded with walls so high and thick that they could be described as completely impenetrable. The battlements that ran along these walls were patrolled constantly by armed guards, all alert to the open space of the dusty barren land that lay before them.

The people of Troy were not deaf to the sound of crying that persisted through the night, keeping a great many awake.

Deep in the palace, at the very heart of the city, a beautiful woman was sitting awake on her bed, graceful hands clasped over her ears while her gentle hazel eyes searched for the source of the crying. It was so loud and persistent, she couldn't help but convince herself that the child must be somewhere in this room, how else would she be able to hear it? And yet, she had searched for the child to no avail.

The longer she listened to the crying, the more the woman became convinced that it was not just one child she could hear but two. Two separate children, each one crying out to the storm outside, desperate for something, something she didn't know how to provide.

Like the thunder of a tempest, the crying raged on into the night. Then, at midnight, as if it had been timed, the crying stopped, and silence descended once more.

Was the child okay?

"Lady Helen," the door to her room opened, following a swift knock, to reveal one of her guards, "The Prince wishes to know if there is anything you need to help you sleep?"

Helen turned, her dark hair flowing with her movement as she glared at the man. "I will accept nothing from the man who has imprisoned me here" she declared firmly, folding her arms. "King Menelaus will come for me, and when he does, he will burn this city to the ground."

The guard frowned, but said nothing else, closing the door behind him as he returned once more to the hall.

Helen heard the sound of a key in the lock as she was once more detained to her lavish and beautiful cell. She had been debating simply throwing herself from the balcony, the gesture seemed rather poetic, but would be pointless if her husband did indeed manage to breach the walls of the city.

Now that the crying had stopped though, Helen felt a strange state of exhaustion beginning to settle over her. It was quite late after all, and it made sense that her limbs should feel heavy and her eyelids weighed down.

Moving over to the bed, she allowed herself to stretch out along the sheets. She knew that it was a good idea to remain alert and vigilant, in case Paris came to her door himself, but perhaps a few moments of sleep wouldn't hurt.

Across the city of Troy, many other people were thinking the same. It was as if a spell had settled its hold over them, a gentle and caressing touch, lulling the citizens of this city into a deep blissful sleep. That was, all but the league of Spartan Soldiers crouching within the wooden horse at the very centre of the city.

The men looked to their commander, eager for orders. This war had been long and hard on them, but at last they were within the walls. Come morning Troy would be theirs, and Helen would be a on a ship back to Sparta.

The tension within the wooden disguise burned like ice, sharp and diligent, all eyes turned to one man. A man with his arm raised, his own attention captivated by the small hole they had pierced into the horse's eyes, allowing a partial view of the streets below.

Patience. The men continued to wait, hearts beating in unison, perfectly still and silent.

The arm dropped.

First there was order, as the men piled out of the horse, the instructions they'd been given clear in their heads. However, that soon turned to chaos, and the houses were pillaged and raided.

Amongst the fresh screams that roused the city, one burned louder than the rest. A cry so relenting it didn't even appear to stop for breath.

The Spartan soldiers continued their rampage, burning the world behind them until all that lay before them was fire and smoke.

"What's this?" A group of the men stopped. They were passing through a small back alley that seemed to lead in the rough direction of the Palace.

The others stopped to look down in the direction the one who had spoken was pointing. His finger was extended out towards the gutter, where it fell upon a screaming baby. The child was naked, with a dark head of hair and dark brown eyes set against his dark olive skin. A typical looking child as far as any of the men could see.

Usually one might be confused as to what a child as young as this one was doing abandoned in the street of a back alley, but in times of war, you questioned very little, and didn't think particularly hard about anything.

The child's fists were balled up against their face, expression contorted as if they were undergoing some particularly painful brand of torture, being exposed to an unrelenting and unyielding pain.

One of the men raised their sword over the child, and while the others turned to him in surprise, each understood the reasoning. It was better to put the thing out of its misery now; the death would be quick and then they would move on to carry out the rest of their orders.

The blade came down, making contact with the child's chest. It sunk down through the flesh, making swift progress down towards the heart.

But, before it could reach its target the end of the blade stopped, as if some invisible force was preventing it from going any further.

Blood oozed around the steel, and the baby cried on, eyes wide with fear and panic. But however much the soldier tried, the sword would go no further.

"By the gods!" One of the others exclaimed angrily, shoving the man who had tried to slay the child, "It's a baby, just kill it! There's no need for that!" He drew his own sword and came down hard, striking almost the exact same point that the first man had, but, like the one before him, he found that the sword simply stopped beyond a certain point.


"Some sort of magic" the first claimed fearfully, "A spell sent by the gods…"

Pulling his sword back instantly, the whole group exchanged glances, backing away quickly. A message from the gods? None of them were Seers or Priests, they could not interoperate what it meant, but they did know that it would be foolish to touch this child again.

Muttering their devout apologies, the men took another step back, begging for forgiveness. They had wasted too much time here, the child was inconsequential as anything other than a divine message, they needed to get on with the task at hand.

The battle went on, but the Spartans held the advantage, and soon the streets were lined with Trojan bodies, men, women and children alike. The higher the mountains of flesh were piled, the more intensive the cries of the baby became. But no one had the time to worry about one upset child amidst the call of war.

King Menelaus stormed the Palace personally, his sword moving like an extension of his arm as it cut through all those who stood in his way. He was here to slay his wife, the woman who had been no doubt consumed by the lust of Paris. She was no longer his, but tainted property, in order to put an end to this war, put an end to the years of fighting that beautiful face had wrought he had to destroy it.

Reaching the door of the most heavily guarded cell, Menelaus threw it open.

Helen jumped as her husband entered, turned away from him. She could read his intentions, she didn't have to make eye contact to know that Menelaus was intending to kill her. It was a simple fantasy to imagine that he'd come here to save her, she was dead to him the moment Paris had laid a hand on her.

Behind Menelaus, the door opened again, and this time the room was flooded by Paris and a dozen of his men.

With a grace intended by the gods, the King spun his sword towards the Trojan Prince, cutting him down in an instant. The battle had been won, his own men were already here, bringing down Paris' own guard.

Now, with the deed done, all eyes turned to Helen who still remained with her back turned towards them, her mind working at a rapid pace as she felt the footfall of her husband closing in behind her.

Lip clenched between her teeth she turned, and, as men had always done before her, Menelaus froze.

"My love" she gasped, reached up to wrap her arms tightly around his neck. If she was to keep her life, this was the man she had to persuade to allow her to breath on. Allowing her hands to drop over his shoulders, she pressed the swell of her bosom against his chest, curving her thighs towards him. It was demeaning, and the mere act disgusted her, as she had to perform it before all these leering soldiers. But her life was more important than her dignity.

The sword in her husband's hand shook, and then dropped to the floor, as he took her in his arms. She was still alive, Menelaus had missed his chance.

The soldiers of Sparta left the ruins of Troy, their king and queen in toe.

"The crying has stopped" Helen commented, her eyes turned discretely towards the piles of bodies stacked high against the burning remains of the city. "The baby that was crying out, you must have heard it?"

"That was no child," one of the soldiers bowed low before her as he readied her horse. "It was a message from the gods, perhaps one that told us Troy was destined to fall." A group of other men around him nodded, all looking rather pale.

However, the child was not dead, his sobs had merely quietened to a whimper. Troy may have fallen, but there was still a sea of land around him that was steady and prosperous. The pain of losing the city was strong, but not impossible to overcome.

The storm had settled, now only a light wind washed the sands around the feet of the marching Spartans, returning home from the long war.

"What's that buried in the sand?" Helen brought her horse to a halt, pointing towards a small rise below the hooves of her steed.

For a few moments she thought her husband was going to ignore her and ride on. But, thankfully he seemed to take note, stopping his own horse and dismounting so he could peer closer at what had captured his wife's attention.

"I fear it is a dead baby my dear" Menelaus sighed, giving the small creature a poke with the tip of his boot. However, as he made contact the baby stirred, whimpering against the force, before shivering against the sweeping motion of the wind.

Without a moment of hesitation, Helen dismounted her own horse, sweeping the baby into her arms and soothing his brown hair against the back of his head. "Don't you see" she told her husband, "he is a gift from the gods. See how he has survived here all night in the storm waiting to be found." She was not sure if this was true, but she knew it was a believable story that Menelaus would listen to.

But what she could feel, what they could all feel, was that something special was emanating from this child, a force that none of them had ever felt before. A few of the men on their feet bowed awkwardly to the child, while others stared on in captivated awe.

Her husband was hardly going to make her leave the child after that, and so the child returned with them, kept warm and safe in Helen's arms over the long journey that lay between the Cities of Troy and Sparta.

When they finally returned home to the palace, Helen had the slaves wash and clean the child, ensuring that he was both well fed and healthy by the time she took him back into her arms.

The child behaved perfectly throughout all this, then sat peacefully in Helen's arms while she showed him off to the other women who had come to meet their husbands after the long war.

The baby behaved himself perfectly, he didn't drool or cry. The only fault he had if any was that, despite Helen's endless grooming, two hairs on his head always stood up, curling out to either side.

He reminded Helen a little of a woman she'd heard tales about, who supposedly lived in the northern reaches of the Greek kingdoms. It was said that she could survive anything – just like this child they'd found in the storm. And while stories of this woman had existed for centuries, it was always said that her beauty and youth remained intact.

Menelaus suggested that they bring the child north, but Helen would not hear of it. She had found this child, and he had chosen her. She would raise him here herself within the walls of the palace.

"Herakles" she declared, brushing her finger along his smooth cheek, "That is what I have decided to call him."

The years passed by, and as luck would have it, a traveller stumbled across a baby buried deep beneath the rubble of Troy. The child lay there unmoving, as he had done since the siege of the city, hazel eyes open, blinking out against the heat of the sun.

The traveller bent down, waving over his wife who had been loading their caravan with the salvageable goods they'd managed to gather. This was her expertise after all, not his.

"By the gods," the woman crouched down, helping to sweep the dust and crumbling stone from the child's still body. When the wreckage had been cleared, they gazed down at the small body, they eyes were open, but they did not blink.

Placing a gentle hand on his wife's shoulder, the traveller shook his head, "I believe he may be lost." Someone must have abandoned him here, another group of travellers perhaps, or thieves who had made off with the baby in the night.

Then, as if the simple words of the traveller and his wife had the ability to breath life afresh, the baby moved, giving a short and stubborn huff, as he banged his small fists against the ground.

"No look." His wife reached forward, lifting the baby into her arms, "He's still alive."

The tiny child blinked up at them. Despite the dirt that covered his face, he seemed to all the word to be perfectly healthy, a full face and bright inquisitive eyes.

"What have you found?" Their three daughters had returned from their own scavenging, and now rushed over to their parents to see what it was that had consumed so much of their attention.

"A baby!" The youngest declared. Adrianna, being only three-years-old herself, reached out a hand towards the baby to pat his dark-haired head. "Where did he come from?"

That was a question neither the traveller or his wife were able to answer, and they were not alone.

There were rumours spreading across the world of these strange children found on the road, or beneath to ruins of old temples and structures.

Several things distinguished these children from the ordinary ones, the first being that they did not appear to age alongside their caretakers. Once they'd progressed past defenceless infanthood, the whole aging process appeared to stop, leaving them frozen as young children between the ages of three or seven. The second feature was the strengths these children seemed to possess, being impenetrable to most injuries and immune from death. To all intents and purposes, they were smarter, faster and more physically able than most adults would be.

It was a topic discussed amongst governments, they were rumours many scoffed at as merely myths or hearsay, but there were many who swore that they'd come in contact with these children and seen them with their own eyes.

Were they demi-gods or some form of new deity? The priests prayed to the gods for answers, left offerings they hoped would incise them to reply, but the skies remained still, and the origin and truth of these children remained a mystery.