Forgotten Passions – The true love story of Troy.

Prologue of wise words: Behind the glimmer of Aphrodite's bewitchment lies the true love story of Troy; Hector and his Andromache. Sometimes a love needs no magic of Gods, just that of their own hearts. All that is gold does not glitter, and the greatest spell of all is the one mortals cast upon themselves.

Phoebus Apollo pulled the golden chariot across the sky, dragging a silver jewelled black, velvet sky to Troy. The last lingering rays of sunlight ran languorously across the smooth wood of the toy horse held within a small hand. A smile crossed the rough lips of Hector, as he stood over the cradle that held his son. Astyanax.

He remembered the day that the Gods had brought him to his family. It had been a joyous day as any to be celebrated within Poseidon's great fortress. Flowers were scattered like rain in the air, and laughs erupted from the lips of many. A child, it was whispered. As great as any. His father's son indeed. This small bundle of joy would surely bring so much happiness to Troy, and even more honour. He would be trained to fight and move like the wind, a great protector of Troy like Prince Hector.

But none of that had mattered to him. He didn't care if his son grew up to be a gardener or what-not, all that mattered was that his wonderful child was here. And his. Andromache, he thought wistfully. She looked so exhausted after so long in childbirth. But still amazing, with that aura of light that accompanied her everywhere. Her dark long tresses lay about her shoulders, limp and damp from the sweat that ran down her forehead. She looked dishevelled, and not at all glamorous. But she had never looked more beautiful than that moment.

Hector had sat by her side, holding her hand in his and letting her scream curses that could shake the very foundations of the Gods themselves. It almost killed him, the pain she seemed to go through, and he, Prince Hector of Troy, unable to stop it. The men were wrong, he thought. Women, they weren't weak. They were warriors in their own right. This pain, so selflessly going through torture all for another being; to give life, and not take it as the men did every time they set foot on the battlefield. And after, the women held no resentment for the child that had caused them to bleed and moan like a dying animal. Far from that. They loved them more than anything. Would die for them, kill for them.

And after hours upon hours of this, she was spent. And Astyanax had been placed in her arms, wrapped in golden silks and looking every bit the miracle Hector knew him to be.

"My son." Andromache had whispered, bestowing a light kiss upon the baby's forehead. "Our little angel." Hector could not reply, the words he fought so hard to say were lost to him. All he could do was to wrap an arm around his stunning wife and smile as his son grabbed his finger.

Those had been simpler times, when war and death did not ravage the very air they breathed. Paris. Amazing how with that one word could bring so many emotions. He hated his brother. Not for being fairer than him, Hector could not care less for looks. Nor did he detest his brother for having Helen in his arms. Although he had many more than her also. But no, that was not it.

Hector did not like Helen, his eyes had barely fell upon her more than a few times. Fair she was, but he hated her as much as his brother. And he had his Andromache, she would always be more beautiful in his eyes. Her raven locks would always win against Helens fair ones, and he preferred her tanned body to the Spartans alabaster one.

The reason this prince hated them both was for what they had done. Brought a war to Troy and for what? Passionate gripes here and there? Sex, then Paris moving onto the next one? He had claimed his love for her, said he would fight for her. How much fighting had Paris done? No, he left that to his brother while he was off screwing that slut of his. All he wanted Helen for was the power, the sheer intoxication that came with owning something so beautiful. He would let Troy burn for his selfishness. And for that Hector hated him.

But at the same time, he loved his brother. He was his blood kin after all, and Hector treasured him, had sang to him (albeit not at all well) while he was slumbering as an infant. Hector was not stupid enough to think that this war was all to blame on the lovers. Agamemnon would have come to Troy, even if this had never happened. He was like a plague, spreading through all of Greece and taking all the lands and riches for his own. Power. That was what Agamemnon wanted. And Troy had it. Hector was not boastful, but any fool with eyes could see that Troy was a rival to Agamemnon's empire.

"Really Agamemnon. The world is too big, even for a gut bag like you." A man had once said to the King of Greece. That man had been slaughtered like a lamb. He had no heart, only a chunk of gold where it should be. This war, Hector thought with heavy heart, would have happened. Paris and Helen had merely set it off.

"But why Ares? Why must you have made this war while my son can be tainted by this evil?" he asked the ceiling, fighting back the tears. If Hector feared for his own life, his worry for his son was immeasurable. Tomorrow he walked to his victory, or his death. By the blow of Achilles' sword, his life, as well as the fate of Troy would be decided. If his life being brutally taken by this fearsome fair-haired warrior would even in the slightest guarantee the safety for Troy, Hector would slide the blade into his own heart and let Achilles defile his body.

"Gods, if you are up there," Hector whispered, bending down to run a gentle hand across his sleeping child's forehead. "Spare them. Take me, but give my love, and this beautiful baby the happiness they deserve."