Here we go, my first fictionpress piece. I'm not totally inexperienced, as I have published many times on fanfiction, but It'd be nice to have a review or two from a different crowd to tell me how I'm doing. Anyway, I was reading the Aeneid for school (the Robert Fitzgerald one, in the span of a couple of days- not fun, I'll tell you), and the story left a lot of room for interpretation, unlike, say, Homer's works. So I decided to put this out on a lark (read: boredom). The characters therein are mostly mine (OC's, you could call them), but I'll try to stick to canon storyline as closely as possible, and reference multiple characters and events in both Virgil and Homer's epics rather often. So, without further ado, (hopefully you will) enjoy!

Trojans and Romans

Book I: Burning Cities and a Sailing Ship

The city was burning. I do not know how, I do not know why, but our beloved city of Pergamum was burning, flaming, sparks and plumes of smoke rising and spiraling up into the night sky.

Chaos reigned supreme. Screaming, yelling, blood everywhere. Danaans and Trojans alike were slouched against the winding walls, either dead or injured beyond reparation. Women and children too: dragged into the struggle screaming and slaughtered mercilessly by those Greek dastards.

I ran amongst the rubble, yelling for Aria, dodging the rose-red flames, the falling debris, the desperately flung javelins. One came close to skewering me, tearing off a large piece of fabric and pinning it to the blood-red wall behind me, the shaft bouncing up and down wildly. The perpetrator was a young man, possibly even younger than I, his left arm drenched in a mix of sweat and blood, dangling uselessly at his side, cradled in his right. And his eyes, bright, misty blue, defiant and full of a wild strength. “You, Trojan!” he cried, wincing in pain. “Come here, so that I may kill you mercifully and spare you a painful death!”

The irony of it struck me as a lightning bolt hits the hapless farmer in the fields, tending to his cattle. Grim and defeated, I unsheathed the dagger hanging at my side, its silver blade glinting in the relentless moonlight, new and unfettered: a recent gift from Aria for my coming of age. Useless it was now, amongst the bloodthirsty spears of the Greek invaders. Regardless, I ducked to avoid a futile, desperate swing by the soldier, his arm almost whistling in the cleaved air. Rising up like a beggar goes for a dusty drachma lying on the street, so I plunged the knife into the man’s neck. He gurgled, but I held on steadfast, gripping the hilt even harder. As he sank to the dust, he gasped out his last words, his speech garbled with the undoubtedly closing in darkness. “Princess… Helen…” Indeed, t’was a terrible, terrible sight: somehow, I managed to steel myself and speed off, leaving the collapsed body lying on the road, dying, gasping.

“Father, Mother, Aria!” I tore through the darkness, ignoring the cries of help from the lost and the damned, merely seconds away from a voyage throughout the Styx. As I rounded a corner, I stopped in awe: a multitude of Greek myrmidons being mercilessly swept aside like flies, desperately diving in for a crumb of bread, by a single, armor-clad man. Aeneas, son of Anchises, servant of Hektor the great, in all his legendary glory. Recognizing me in the glow of Artemis, he called out to me. “Hail, Aetos, son of Andreus! Run, get out of the city while you can! I have readied a company of my most trusted men to sail for the lands of Italy, join up with them. We leave the shores of Pergamum in an hour’s time! Come, take your beloved and go!”

From behind his shadow, a tattered, gray cloak emerged, flinging itself throughout the multitude of arms and made for me. Aria’s eyes met me through the smoke, sea-green eyes that seemed to see through every fiber of my body, and her hair, brown as a chestnut, was instantly recognizable. She embraced me, letting my arms wrap around her waist as she clung to my chest. “Aetos, I thought I’d never find you,” she said softly. “But, what has happened to our beloved city?”

“The Danaans have burned it down, I fear,” I said grimly. “As best as I can understand it, they snuck in the middle of the night. How they managed to do get through our iron defenses, I have no idea. But we must make haste, or we shall be destroyed along with the city.” We yelled thanks and strength to Aeneas over the din, then began to run through the streets together. We ran and ran, for five minutes, five hours. All we could do was hope that we would live to see the morn.

We approached the square, drenched in the pale, cold moonlight. It was undoubtedly the part of the city in the worst condition. Soldiers swarmed about, yelling orders to one another and crashing into them, attempting madly to escape from the horrors of this unfamiliar, chaotic city. We snuck about, holding onto each other, staying in places so dark even Hades himself would not condone of them. Invisible as we were, an Achaean spotted us and called to his comrades. One of them, a taller, older one, stepped forward, his blade gleaming white death. His steps were slow but sure, and his face bore that of a veteran who had seen many and killed more. Ulysses himself was here.

Aria crouched behind me, her face scared, but at the same time, determined. I held out my arms and put on a straight face, attempting to shield her. “Take me if you want, drag me down screaming to Tartarus, but don’t you dare touch the girl!” I yelled shakily.

The man’s lips twitched, as if nearly smiling in remembrance of something lost to him, yet dear and loved. He opened his mouth, perhaps to speak back, but it closed again, like no mere words would even begin to describe the situation. He simply nodded, an agreement to my terms. He raised his sword to strike, and the two of us bolted, faster than even Zephyr the West Wind. Perhaps one faced with death has a much greater thirst for life. At last, we reached the shores of the Aegean, waves pounding the shoreline as if they were crying out. Boats were already being readied for the departure of Aeneas’ company, cargo being passed back and forth between every able hand.

We merged with the crowd, helping out where we could. A box of rations here, some oil there, anything we could do to leave the massacre as soon as possible. Shouts rang out from the direction of the city: a legion of Achaean soldiers, all brandishing lances and shaking their shields and torches madly, running down to the beach at full speed.

Most merely tensed up at the sight, no one was brave enough to scream. Some drew their swords, others ran and hid in the boats. They came upon us in droves, like the ocean itself, ramming and battering tirelessly, falling back and pushing forward with each failed attempt. Somehow, we, a paltry band of ragtag, ordinary citizens mixed in with a couple of warriors, managed to hold off their first attack. We even began to push forward ourselves. It was as if the spirit of Hektor himself was mixed among our ranks, hungry for revenge, willing us forward until we collapsed and joined the ranks of the dead. Push them forward we did, until the enemy had sufficient reason to be scared and were much more cautious, and we bolted. Truly running for our lives now, we leapt onto the boats with a newfound strength rivaling that of Herakles, cutting the ropes and casting off. Lord Aeneas appeared through the Greek phalanx, smashing a few heads together for good measure, and scrambled up the side of the ship. A few Danaans pursued us, but they were quickly cut down, having no way to defend themselves as they climbed slowly up, no chance of surviving the stabs of our spears.

“Row, row!” Aeneas cried, even as he kicked a myrmidon into the watery depths below, screaming until he was lost to the waves. “Should you ever want to meet lord Hades, or if you are too tired to do anything else, then, by all means, stop rowing and jump overboard, you’re simply dead weight. All else who want to live above all else, to see dry land once again, to build a new home, row! Row until there’s nothing else! Row!”

And row we did, until our arms were sore and our hands blistered, until we were almost given in to the snares of holy Hypnos, the moon staring down relentlessly, uncaring, a source of illumination to the burning shores of Troy behind us. Many wept, others, determined not to give in to sadness, sucked it in, staring forward, occupied themselves with rowing.

Aria and myself, tired and hungry, sat in the back, waiting for a chance at the oars, to ease the suffering. Father and Mother were undoubtedly still in the city, facing the horrible choice of death by Greek spears or Greek flames. Aria was probably thinking the same thing, her eyes devoid of life, grey and staring ahead blankly, clutching her roll of bread lifelessly, it being prone to dropping at any second. And she was at least one month pregnant: such stormy, chaotic conditions could not be good for a baby in any case, never mind whatever lay ahead, be it cyclopes or witches or the gods themselves, jealously interfering in our search for a simple place to call home.

Someone at the bow called my name through the fog. “Aetos, Aetos, where are you?” I tried to get up, to follow the voice, but my knees gave out, failing me, worn out from all the night’s activity. Instead, I called back, and the voice came to me. A soldier, standing tall under the moonlight, emerged. His face appeared unfamiliar to me, yet he extended his hand down and attempted a small smile. “Hail, Aetos. I am Bastian, first lieutenant of lord Hektor. Lord Aeneas has requested your appearance as soon as possible at the wheel.”

I nodded in acknowledgement, pressing down on my knees to force them to get up. Aria and I smiled at each other, a small, soft, sad smile. We didn’t have to say anything, we both knew what was on the other’s mind. I turned, following Bastian down ladders, up steps, through ropes, weaving through crowds, past the benches of rowers, who gave us that same melancholy look as we passed them.

At last, we reached the deck. Bastian left us to attend to “other matters”, leaving Aeneas and I standing in silence. He stared ahead, gazing at the stars, not acknowledging my existence. I looked down at my feet in awkward silence, shuffling them back and forth, a small cloud of fine dust rising in their wake. At last, Aeneas spoke, though he kept his unwavering eyes focused ahead. “The stars are certainly bright tonight… Though, of course, not nearly as bright as the burning city behind us.”

“Yes… Yes, sir, they are,” I replied sadly, turning to gaze at the burning citadel behind us. The flames were receding, and a charred husk was all that was left of the once-great power of Troy, our home. “It’s rather sad, to see the place we grew up in, the place that holds so many of our memories, going up in smoke. Our palace, our home…”

Aeneas cracked a small smile. “Indeed, it is. But you misunderstand. That city,” he pointed, stretching his hand to the disappearing shoreline, “Is not our home. That is nothing more than what it appears to be: a charred remnant of a former world power. In reality, home is where you are, what you value the most. Home is not a simple place or location, home is who and what you love,” he said, sweeping his hand to show the whole ship, all of the people on it. Some by now had stopped crying, others had began talking, still others had started laughing, making the ship as bright as the moon above.

I blinked, and smiled. “You’re right, my lord. Thank you.” I waved him goodnight, and ran as fast as I could back to the stern, to where Aria, my home, was waiting.