A thousand apologies for the long wait and many thanks to all of my readers for your patience - especially those who have taken the time to leave reviews. Those of you who have been through any kind of trauma will recognize Ismena's mental predicaments in the next few chapters as she struggles to cope, with not only the loss of her city but also the complications that arise. For those of you who were disappointed that Ares appears to be out of the picture, all I will say is that he's not exactly...obedient ;-). With that said, here is the next chapter!

Of all the times I had awakened believing I was dead, this one was the most convincing by far. There was the sound of running water nearby, the scent and crackle of fire, the faint murmuring of voices, and someone weeping. Likely another spirit. A gruff voice sounded to my left but the words were, as of yet, unintelligible to my traumatized mind and my stomach clenched Charon the Boatman coming to collect his tolls.

I was unconcerned about the price of the ferry, for I had been carrying more than enough gold on my person when I died and, oddly enough, I could still feel the heavy press of the jewellery and coins against my skin. My only concern was explaining to Hektor why I was in the underworld and not protecting Andromache and Astyanax on earth. But I could not delay my journey, as the shores of the Styx were fraught with peril and this was no place for an unarmed soul.

Might as well get it over with I thought, at the same time wondering how I could still think and why my head still ached when it no longer physically existed. Opening my eyes, I blinked several times then frowned up at the starry night sky in confusion before turning my head slightly to the right. Then my senses all came back to me at once and, when I saw Andromache and Paris sitting nearby, I knew I was definitely alive.

Still.

A profound sense of bewilderment seized me and I turned my face back to the stars before anyone noticed I was conscious. Where was I? And, more importantly, what?

I had lit my friend's pyre, killed at least a dozen men, jumped from the wall of a burning city, been caught by the god of war, threw up everything in my stomach, successfully hid from my hunters, jumped through the window of a privy, killed a traitor, travelled leagues through a forest, and run headlong into an armoured prince before dropping in a dead faint. All while wearing dress laden with precious stones and gold. Any food or drink I had consumed was now in a chamber pot in the temple of Artemis instead of in my stomach and I had not slept for more than an hour before the sack of Troy began. Yet energy hummed in my body, fire flowed through my veins, and my body felt impossibly well when I should have been too weak to move. The only signs of my recent ordeal were a slight headache and the dryness in my mouth and throat, which felt like I had eaten a beach...possibly including the dead fish.

It was impossible.

Hektor, I just won your funerary games

The thought caught me off-guard and, in the history of the most inappropriate reactions to trauma and loss, mine would be recorded for posterity three times over. Because I should have been either weeping inconsolably, screaming, or mute with shock but my incredulous disbelief gave rise to a strange sensation that bubbled up in my chest so I opened my mouth and turned my head to the side, thinking I was going to vomit.

Instead...I giggled.

More or less immediately, I felt three pairs of eyes turn on me and, distantly, I heard Astyanax gurgle - which didn't help.

"Was that her?"

Paris.

"Ismena?"

Andromache.

In my defence, I tried to stop or, at least, stifle myself by putting my hand over my mouth but something inside me seemed to have broken because the idiotic giggling gave way to laughter. Of course, as soon as he heard me laughing, the baby started giggling but his innocence gave him an excuse whereas I had none whatsoever...save insanity.

"I think she is finally losing her mind" my cousin's tear-streaked face appeared over me then she touched my arm, her eyes full of concern.

Dear cousin, that was lost long ago. In the space of a single year, my life had become an irreparable mess. I had lost my virginity, my biological family, my dearest friend, my temple family, and the only home I had ever known. It only stood to reason that my sanity would be the next thing to jump ship. Despite being physically hale, I felt as though I'd been emotionally gutted and all that was left was a shell.

"People are staring. We have to get her to stop" Briseis' voice sounded to my left, urgency in her tone "is there anything in that bag that could help?"

They should be running. I am inhuman and beyond help. There is no other explanation for this. I thought.

"Ismena, if you do not stop laughing, I will have to kiss you" Paris said seriously and, the moment his words registered, the resulting shock knocked some much needed sense into me. Had he really just threatened to kiss me in front of my cousin?

Obviously so. "Paris..." Andromache's expression had changed, the concern softening into something akin to pity, and it slowly dawned on me that she knew something about him I didn't.

"Oh gods...I am alive" I managed to gasp, pressing my hand to my chest, then haphazardly pulled the fragments of my psyche back together.

"I knew that would stop her" he said and his emotionless tone sent a chill down my spine.

"Why? She kissed you before" Briseis pointed out, doubtlessly referring to what I had told her about sending him off to battle. Swallowing to try and wet my throat, I slowly turned my face to look over at Paris. He sat a respectful distance away, across from Andromache, one knee drawn up to his chest as if to shield himself, and was still wearing his armour. I wondered if he had taken it off since leaving the city because his arms and legs still appeared to be streaked with soot.

"Only because she believed I would be killed" he said bitterly but he was only half right.

"No" I said, my voice coarse "I did so because you were taking responsibility. Because that woman claimed to love you but was too weak to see you off herself. I had to post an armed guard behind her to make her watch you fight" my hands curled into fists at my sides in remembered anger.

"Paris, I supported you. You know what I would have done to save my family...and yours" I reminded him, my face tight with grief because even that willingness to make the ultimate sacrifice had not been enough "you know". He finally looked at me, his eyes as hard and dark as polished onyx, and pressed his lips together in a thin line then nodded curtly, acknowledging his knowledge of the divine visits.

Mentioning the immortals, even in such a vague way, brought back the flash of Ares' face I had seen before passing out and, now that I had a few moments to think properly, it finally sank in that he had saved me. There was no way his actions could be defined as anything other than interference because I should have hit the ground and died but he had prevented that from happening. Though both he and Zeus had told me that the gods didn't feel emotions in the same way as mortals, his leaving me at the temple of Artemis was a symbolic gesture of defeat and that had to have stung him a little.

Even though the gods weren't supposed to interfere in the lives of mortals, I suspected that Ares had been outnumbered by some of his kin and it was entirely plausible that they had taken a perverse pleasure in depriving him of both his victory and his bride. I should have been glad but, instead, the thought made me sick inside. I could easily see how he ended up the way he had, given how his family treated him, and it was a grave warning of what happened when a person was deprived of basic affection and support. A warning I silently swore to heed.

Paris and I were considered a man and a woman respectively because we were able to reproduce but, in terms of development, we were not yet adults. Paris had lost his entire family, save his cousin Briseis, and Helen was nowhere in sight, the latter of which I found suspicious since I had seen her heading down to the cellar with my cousin. There was no one to give him affection or be concerned for his well-being and, while it could be argued that an unrelated woman such as myself shouldn't feel expected to take care of him, I had to consider that I might very well be the only person he would accept it from.

After Hektor's death, Paris had dedicated himself to filling the shoes of a true prince of Troy then told his father to burn the wooden horse and agreed with me later that all was not as it seemed. Therefore, being privy to his sound judgment on that occasion, I could not, in good conscience, let him fall when I knew what he was capable of. With visceral clarity, I also knew that how he was treated in the near future would determine whether he became a respectable and noble man...or a monster.

One of the main barriers I foresaw I would encounter was that men tended to judge each other by their ability to fight other men, usually with swords or spears. A swordsman Paris was not but he could be an excellent archer and, in every good military, there was a place for both. Why was it that I was the only one who had realized that and helped him practice?

"You would make an excellent archer. I do not understand why everyone kept handing you swords" I blurted, unintentionally changing the subject, and the look he gave me was eerily reminiscent of a certain god "it is rather late for that now, Ismena".

I frowned "is it? You are still alive".

"She is right. After all, you shot Achilles" Briseis said, a tremor in her voice, and my thoughts scattered, making way for dread and suspicion. I pushed myself up on my elbows then, with a little help from Andromache, was able to get myself sitting upright.

"You killed Achilles" I near-whispered then a memory arose, of the arrows in the warrior's breastbone and the one through the the back of his ankle. Each archer normally had a different colour of feather to distinguish between shooters, whether it was on the range or on the hunt, and the arrows lodged in Achilles ' chest had white feathers on the ends. The same type of feather I had seen on Paris' arrows when I had first come across him practising in the garden.

Paris nodded then glanced sharply at Briseis and, with venom in his voice, said "he killed my brother, among hundreds of others". He was right and, as impressive as his feat was, it also provided me with just cause to believe that the score had been evened in my absence. I looked over, past Paris, at the other survivors. Many were staring aimlessly at various points in front of them, wrapped in cocoons of shock that had yet to be pierced by survival instinct, while others appeared too exhausted to be bothered with building shelter and were falling asleep on the bare ground. We would undoubtedly lose a few in the coming days, either of infected wounds or heartbreak. Some had collected firewood and started fires and a few partial shelters had been constructed against various trees. While the latter gave me hope for our survival, I was looking for one person in particular whose hair should have stuck out like a sore thumb among the dark haired Trojans.

"Where is Helen?" deep down, I already knew but my mental faculties were slowly coming back so the question was more of a test to see who would tell me.

"I killed her" I turned my head abruptly and stared at my cousin, who met my gaze, but her swiftly spoken answer betrayed her because we knew each other too well. My cousin's voice was too calm, her words weighed carefully as if practised, and her eyes were practically pleading with me to believe her. But for me to do so would have been a monumental mistake. My cousin was no killer.

Unfortunately, the same could not be said of the young woman sitting to the left of me whose recent history provided her with a few motives for murdering the Spartan woman.

I looked to Briseis, who would not meet my gaze, then at Paris' stony expression before reaching over and taking my cousin's hand "I love you, cousin" I began quietly then paused, considering what I might be walking into if I spoke further, but I couldn't let them think I was blind "but, with all due respect, you are a poor liar". I caught Paris' eye for the briefest of moments and gave him a small sad smile then composed my features and turned to his cousin.

"Briseis, please tell me the truth".