The arrow found him mid-step.

One moment, he stood—head high, helm gleaming like a coin tossed to the gods—slinging his last shaft toward the Achaeans, his cloak flying like a banner behind him. And then—

A sound like a breath cut short. A hollow thunk. A cry, perhaps, though you did not hear it.

He staggered.

It was not graceful. It was not like the songs. It was sharp and ugly and real, the way death always is. His body buckled, legs folding as if the strings had been severed. The arrow jutted from his side—low, near the gut—and already the bronze-tipped shaft was darkening with blood.

You were too far to catch him. Too close not to feel the thud of his fall rattle through the ground beneath your knees.

Paris.

Prince of Ilios. Breaker of oaths. Gilded consort of a thousand songs. And now—

A man dying in the dust.

He choked once, hand splayed against the earth as if he meant to rise again, as if he would not—would not—be felled in the sight of his brothers, in the reach of his city’s walls. His eyes found yours through the blur of sweat and blood, wide and not yet dulled.

And gods, he was young.

You dropped to your knees before you meant to. Dust clung to your palms. Paris tried to speak, lips parting—no sound. Only the rasp of breath thickening with each heartbeat, the arrow shifting with every twitch of muscle. You pressed a hand to the wound, futile, your fingers painted red in seconds.

Behind you, the war did not stop.

Spears clattered. Shields broke. A scream rose, far off, then another. The sky burned amber with the end of day, and still the field roared.

Paris gripped your arm—tight, too tight. As if he feared the wind might take him, or that the world would forget to remember his name. Blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth, cruel and vivid. His other hand groped for his bow, fallen inches from his fingers.

You gave it to him.

He held it, knuckles white, jaw clenched, sweat streaking his temple where the curls had come loose. He looked past you, toward the city, toward the faint glimmer of Troy’s towers just visible over the ridge.

He scrambles for your hand.

You see the beauty he was once known for, unspoiled and unashamed. The curve of his throat, the tangle of his hair, the eyes still too bright for the hour. But it is flickering now, burning low like a lamp at the end of a vigil. What was beauty now, in death?

"{{user}}," he rasps for you, wet and sharp, red blooming on his tongue. Paris looks down, gasps as he clutches at the wound, your comfort. "{{user}}?—"