SERIES: "Paris' Confinement"
FIC: (Part One) "Song of Apollo"
AUTHOR: Mistress Marilyn camelotslash-2 at qwest.net
DATE: August 1, 2004
FANDOM: "Troy" (Warner Bros. 2004)
PAIRING: Paris / ?
DISCLAIMER: I don't own 'em. They belong to Homer, to Warner Brothers, to the respective actors of the movie "Troy" -- and to the ages! This is the work of a fan, done for no remuneration save the satisfaction of the work itself.
WARNINGS: Slash, mpreg
SUMMARY: Paris discovers he's been blessed (or cursed?) by the goddess.
DEDICATION: To E., the manliest man I know, who would be delighted to carry a child himself!
AUTHOR NOTES: This fic was written to be posted at a new Troy MPreg group I moderate, Troy-MPregs-FemPregs

-Song of Apollo-

"Paris, are you awake?"

He felt the soft hand of his lover, Helen, on his shoulder, but he didn't stir. He wanted to continue to lie in bed, to lie quietly and undisturbed. He was in no mood for lovemaking; in fact, he was in no mood for talking.

"My love?" She continued to gently prod him.

"I'm tired," he finally protested. "Please."

She sighed and moved away. It had been days now since he had felt the desire to make love to her -- or even hold her. He realized this was unfair to her, and he wished he could care. But just sharing a bed with her was difficult for him, and he couldn't tell her why.

"I'm going to the shops. I'd like to find some cloth to make you a new robe. You should keep appearances up, Paris."

He knew Helen was delighted by the shops of Troy. Regardless of the huge Greek army hunkered just outside the city, the streets were filled with merchants and commerce. Troy was one of the world's most exciting cosmopolitans, and Helen adored it. Having spent most of her life in Sparta, Paris could understand. Sparta was a dull and lifeless place, especially when compared with Troy. And, worst of all, Sparta was filled with Spartans.

He made a sound of assent and listened as she fastened her sandles and padded across the room. When she had finally left, he unwound himself from the light coverlet and leaned up on his elbow. The room swimmed around him, and he groaned. He felt ill.

The air was warm and dry, but it felt cloying and close to Paris. His hair was damp with perspiration, and the loose tunic he wore had splotches of moisture. He called for a servant and asked for water. When it had been fetched, he glanced at it, suddenly not thirsty.

What was the matter with him? He had been listless and weak for days. The physicians had recently examined the leg wound he received from Helen's husband when they met in single combat; it was declared clean and healing. Was he simply pining from his disgraceful display of cowardice in front of the King of Sparta, Menelaus, as well as the city of Troy and both armies? Had he been completely unmanned?

He groaned as a wave of nausea rose in him. He grabbed the jar of water and vomited into it as best he could. He called the servant back to clean up what the jar hadn't been able to contain and to bring him fresh water both to drink and to wash.

This was not pining. He was definitely ill. He had probably caught some sort of fever, either from his wound or from the proximity of the filthy Greeks.

Remembering a very intimate encounter with one particular Greek, he felt himself blushing. Could this experience have resulted in the lethargy he was feeling now?

Not long after his disastrous display with Menelaus, he had left the city to hunt on Mount Ida. He wanted to breathe fresh air while he reminded himself of the skills he did possess; he was good with a bow, if not with a sword. He knew the mountain as well as anyone in Troy. He had been raised there as a boy. He enjoyed hunting and even knew how to track. Helen had thought him foolish and young when he suggested they escape the city and make their way into the country. But Paris had once been more comfortable in a rural setting than in the bustling city that fascinated Helen so.

It had felt wonderful to be on his own with no prying eyes watching him for signs of weakness or disapproving glances for the weakness he had already betrayed. He hadn't told anyone where he was going -- he certainly had no intention of asking for permission, even from his older brother. Hector had been distant with him since the combat with Menelaus, which was understandable. Hector had killed the Spartan King himself, which was a betrayal of his honor, and the end result had been a bloody battle where many soldiers died, both Trojan and Greek. The smoke from funeral pyres had blackened the entire region for days.

So Paris had wandered Mt. Ida on his own, avoiding too many open spaces for fear of falling into the hands of foraging Greeks, but happy to have left the confinement of the city walls behind.

He drank wine from a gourd, spilling a little in an ablution to the gods and pouring some on the neatly stitched wound on his thigh. Helen was excellent with the needle, as she had certainly had enough practice stiching the wounds of her warrior ex-husband. Menelaus had been a fierce and terrifying fighter; he had seemed like a horrible giant to Paris, reeking of sweat and onions, spitting out blood and teeth like an uncouth dinner guest.

Paris blushed at this. There was no dinner guest so uncouth as one who left the table to bed another man's wife. But the thought of the loathsome Spartan King touching and mounting a beautiful creature like Helen was impossible for him to imagine without disgust. He could not regret the fact his brother had killed the man.

He ate a little dried meat and stretched out on a carpet of new grass; he was so relaxed, he wanted to try napping. In just a few minutes Orpheus had overtaken him and he dreamt of being a boy again, wandering the mountainside in bare feet, happy and unconcerned with future events.
He was awakened suddenly, finding himself staring into the face of a swarthy man with bright eyes the color of the Aegean in summer. The man's long, dark hair was held by a band wrapped around his forehead. He was looking at Paris with curiosity, and when he saw Paris was awake, he started to smile.

Paris reached for his bow, but the smiling man held it up to him, shaking his head. "Lord!" he called out. "Come and see what I've found."

Another man came into view, and Paris drew in his breath at the sight of him. The man was tall and golden, his hair and skin different shades of the same metal. His eyes were also blue, but softer and smaller than his companion's. He had the look of a gentle, thoughtful man. He carried no arms, so he could not be a soldier. When he smiled, Paris saw his teeth were straight and white.

"What have we here?" the man said. "A young hunter, it seems." The man took the bow outstretched in his companion's hand and studied it. "You have a fine weapon, here, boy. And your clothes are too clean for a peasant or a farmer. Who are you?"

Paris swallowed, unsure of whether he was facing mortal danger. These men were not Hittites; they had to be Greeks. But again he was struck by the impression that the golden one was not a warrior. Could they be camp followers? They seemed filled with confidence. And the one who spoke to him had an air of leadership.

"What is your name, boy?" the man asked again, this time in a voice that showed his impatience.

"I . . . I come from Troy. I was hunting."

"Don't you know that Troy is under seige and it isn't safe to be outside the city alone? Doesn't your Prince Hector tell his citizens to be wiser than that?" The man glanced over at his darker companion and grinned. "Wiser than he is, surely," he quipped.

Paris heard the disrespect this man had for his brother, and he felt himself bristling; he wanted to speak up, but he did not dare betray his identity. The danger of the situation closed in on him. Who was this man and why did he not recognize Paris as the Trojan prince who had humiliated himself in front of the world?

The golden man made a motion of his head, and his companion nodded. "Don't go too far," he said. "I won't take long."

"Yes, Lord Achilles. I'll be just over the rise. I'll tell the others to wait."

Achilles! The name that struck fear and hatred in the hearts and minds of every Trojan. The man who had defiled the temple of Apollo and abducted and probably murdered Paris' cousin, Briseis, who served the god. Hector had spoken with awe of this man's prowess, and Paris had seen fear for the first time in his brother's eyes after their encounter in the temple.

This was supposedly the greatest warrior of all the Greeks, and he wandered on the mountainside bare of arms and seemingly of any cares. They said he was not fighting with Agamemnon's army because of some disagreement between them. But clearly Achilles had not returned to Greece, so he must just be waiting for the right time to re-join the fight.

Paris said a quick prayer to the goddess, asking for her intervention. If he were to die, he hoped to do so with some semblence of honor. Faced with inevitable death, he was suddenly strangely without fear. If he admitted who he was, Achilles might think to use him to bargain with Troy.

"I'm Paris," he said. "Prince of Troy."

The man looked at him, eyes narrowing. "The prince who stole a man's wife, then grovelled in the dirt under him?" He laughed. "You are beautiful, like they say, but you should be grovelling now, Prince. I'm a far more dangerous man than Menelaus."

"I know it," Paris said. "I don't expect you'll kill me quickly."

Achilles laughed again. "I won't kill you at all, Prince. You are looking for killing, out here on the mountainside. I didn't come here today for killing. You being a prince will add to my pleasure. You'll submit to me now, or I'll take you by force. If I have to take you, I promise I'll hurt you."

Paris tried not to betray his surprise. The legendary warrior Achilles had captured him, but had chosen not to kill him? This seemed strange, even to a man unaccustomed to war, as Paris was. Why would Achilles not end the life of the one who had started the war? Probably he would take him and confine him with the Greeks, torture him slowly while he bargained with Hector for his life.

"You'll ransome me?" he asked.

Achilles made a sound of impatience. "I told you what I'd do. I'm not interested in fighting or in kidnapping. All I ask is moment's release."

It was the work of the goddess, the champion of Paris, Aphrodite. She had heard his prayer and this was her response. All Paris had to do was submit to Achilles and he would be unharmed. It seemed easy enough, in face of what he had already experienced. And Achilles was not an ugly brute, as Menelaus had been. In fact, the man was beautiful, the image of the god Apollo.

Paris nodded. "Yes, he said. I'll submit."

Now, back in Troy days later, Paris remembered the encounter with flushed cheeks. It had certainly not had any of the trappings of love-making -- no gentle kissing or carressing -- but the man's touch and his possession of Paris had been filled with passion. When Paris had expected pain, he had experienced ecstacy. This, too, must have been the gift of the goddess.

Paris had been oblivious to any sounds; if the leader of the fierce Myrmidons grunted or moaned, Paris did not hear it. If he himself cried out, he was completely unaware. He heard music. It was as though Apollo's choir was singing inside his head every minute of their coupling. And minute by minute, that singing crescendoed, until finally Paris was aware of nothing by pleasure and song. He knew he must be smiling, even with his face pressed into the grass.

"Go back to Troy," the man whispered after he had finished with Paris, "and tell your brother. Tell him Achilles had his young consort and now understands why he guards him so jealously."

But Paris had not told Hector. He couldn't bring himself to. He left the encounter with Achilles with no more marks and bruises than he had worn after fighting Menelaus. He had not been treated roughly in any way that he could remember. How could he tell Hector that now, after grasping his brothers heels in the dust rather than die at the hands of the King of Sparta, he had now submitted to the man who had sacked the temple of Apollo and killed so many of Hector's Apollian Guard.

And how could he relate the bargain he had made with Aphrodite on the mountain? His relationship with the goddess was something Hector already had little patience for. He could hardly try to explain the impression of music he still had in his head; he kept cocking his head to catch the sound of a flute.

Paris groaned, lying back on the bed. His nausea had passed but he was devoid of energy or ambition of any sort. He didn't care to get up, get dressed or go out of this room. He reached inside his tunic and ran his fingers absent-mindedly across his chest; for a moment he enjoyed the sensation of touching his own flesh. He traced the ridges and creases of his muscles, then cupped the swelling of his breasts and gently tweaked his nipples. He gasped. He had never felt such elation from the touch of his own hand. Thinking to pleasure himself, he reached down to pull up his garment, and his palm brushed across his swollen abdomen. He stayed his hand.

What manner of magic was this? What had happened to his slim, taut body? And which god or goddess was responsible for this miracle?

He stood up, threw the tunic aside and studied himself. The Muse Euterpe sounded her flute in his head, but it could not distract him from the realization of his condition.

He, Prince of Troy, was with child.

The End, Part One