Alexis of Troy (Book I)

ιδ′ - Dekatessera

Fourteen

The biggest obstacle turned out to be Paris's father. Chiron had agreed that we would meet him and Melanippe on the road.

Paris and I stood in Agelaus' cramped hut as he paced back and forth, a frown etched on his lips. Agelaus was a weathered man, used to toiling in the sun all day. Even though his hair was greying and the sun had traced lines across his forehead and the corners of his eyes, he was solidly built. His deliberate thoughtfulness was the reason Paris was standing here today, but at the same time, I was anxious to get out of there. The sooner we made it to Troy, the better. The way the farmer paced, we could be here until next week.

Paris stood rigidly beside me, hands clenched in white-knuckled fists. I hadn't told him everything. It was too much of a risk. What I did tell him evidently had been enough to short circuit him. He refused to meet my gaze for long, his anger bristling. And here I'd half hoped we'd gotten over the distrust. I thought the goddesses would have said something during the judgement, but I suppose my abrupt arrival threw a wrench in the plans. Now I was left picking up the pieces of their recklessness. Again.

Thankfully, none of the pesky deities reared their beautiful heads, but my body still thrummed with an ominous vibe. I had to survive and get to Greece. I almost died once, surely it wouldn't happen a second time... right?

"I can't let you go," Paris's father said at last. "It's too risky."

"I need to go," Paris argued, "I can't just walk away from this."

"No, son..."

"Enough!" Paris yelled, slamming his hands on the table.

I winced at the force, while Agelaus raised an eyebrow. He crossed his arms. You had to hand it to the guy. He maintained an enviable coolness in the face of Paris' anger.

Obviously, I'd been in Troy for like thirty seconds, so I didn't have much say much, but in that time, Paris struck me as calm and gentle. Even when he wouldn't speak to me, his temper had remained tepid. The outburst was rattling. What was worse was that his anger was because of me. In those seconds, he looked more like a prince than a shepherd with his steely, unwavering gaze, jaw lifted slightly as he stared down his father.

"You knew who I was the entire time, and you kept me here, hidden away. You should have told me," Paris continued. "Instead, I had to hear the truth from her."

Without even looking in my direction, he waved his hand dismissively at me and, boy, that hurt. Even if he was angry at me, I didn't deserve that drive by. He chose me as his prize even, that had to count for something. Okay, yes, I was aware of how that sounded, thank you. I'm still no one's prize, but that was beside the point. The important thing was I genuinely thought telling him wouldn't make him angry. He told me he never felt like he belonged and I sat there pretending like I didn't know the reason.

My gaze danced between father and son. It was like watching a showdown. Who was going to draw first? I'd rather not be there for the gunfire, though. This was a personal battle, and I felt more like a nuisance standing there.

"I think I'll just give you a moment alone," I muttered.

Neither of them looked my way as I ducked out of the house, hiding the burning embarrassment scrawled across my cheeks. Their deep, troubled voices followed me outside into the afternoon air. I clutched the acorn until my fingers were sore.

Inside was stuffy, but outside, the sun sat high in the sky and relentlessly shone down on me. Everything felt damp, the smell of the farm more pungent. The humidity frizzed my hair, and sweat pearled on my forehead, upper lip, armpits and, well, everywhere. I was used to such a dry climate; I wasn't built for humidity. I was built for harsh winters and dry summers. I've never been particularly fond of my home, but now that I was pulled out of it so abruptly, I missed it.