SERIES: "Paris' Confinement"
FIC: (Part Ten) "Aeneas"
AUTHOR: Mistress Marilyn camelotslash-2 at qwest.net
DATE: Sept. 7, 2006
FANDOM: "Troy" (Warner Bros. 2004)
PAIRING: Paris / Achilles
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, incest.
SUMMARY: The final chapter in the tale of Paris' baby.
BETA: Thank you, Charlie!
DEDICATION: To L., who came into my life just when I needed him most.
AUTHOR NOTES: "The burden of cowardice may be heavier than the toil of courage, and it also takes a man to bear it to the end of time. For courage has its reward, but for him who has been appointed by nature or the gods to play the part of the coward there is no rest, now or later. And as these things are matter of opinion, Paris was also accused, near the end of his life, of being too brave."--Carlos Parada, Greek Mythology Link

-Aeneas-

For twelve days the city of Troy celebrated Hector's funeral games, as was the custom. Paris and his father climbed the stairs of the towering funeral pyre and set the body of the noble prince aflame, while Andromache watched from below, flanked by Helen holding Hector's son Scamandrius and Briseis holding the child of Achilles and Paris. Each day of the games, Paris spent several hours practicing his archery, bending his bow until his shoulders and arms ached, sending arrows whizzing toward his targets, readying himself for whatever violent events lay ahead.

He would not grovel in the dirt again clutching at his brother's ankles, as he had during his fight with Helen's husband, Menelaus. Hector was not alive to save him, and he had promised to make his brother proud. The fight with Menelaus had been his disgrace, had led him to Mt. Ida to escape the disapproval of the citizens of Troy, had landed him in the arms of Achilles, his rapist and lover. And thus had come his magical pregnancy and his baby son.

"What is the child's name?" Helen asked, watching the infant pulling at Andromache's heavy breast. Beside her, Paris' cousin Briseis sat gazing out the window, looking toward the sea and the Greek camp.

"He has no name," Paris answered. "The goddess hasn't revealed it as yet."

"You must pray to Apollo for a sign," said Briseis, the former acolyte of the god. Briseis didn't mention Achilles, but Paris knew she thought of him.

Just as he did.

"When the time is right, I'll know his name," Paris said.

"It had best be soon," Helen commented. "The games will soon be over, and the Greeks may begin their attacks again."

"I will ask Aphrodite to intervene with Apollo," Paris said thoughtfully. "Perhaps now with Hector gone, the god will show me favor."

And that night, he did. As Paris lay alone in his bed covered only by a thin sheet, he looked up to see Achilles standing over him, as beautiful as ever, his hair and skin both different shades of the same precious metal, his eyes the color of the Mediterranean. Instead of alarm, Paris felt a pleasant surprise, as though Achilles were a local lover who was paying a special visit. Without thinking he reached up his arms to welcome Achilles into his bed. But Achilles shook his head, smiling, holding something out to Paris instead.

It was a beautiful bow, perfectly fashioned and balanced. Paris bent it easily and pulled back the string to test it. The thrumming sound echoed in the room like the music of a harp. Now Achilles handed him a quiver full of arrows, and Paris took it with a puzzled look on his comely face.

"Don't you want to make love to me?" Paris asked, patting a spot beside him in the soft bed.

Again Achilles shook his head, a finger lifted to his lips, pointing to the child asleep in a bassinet near the bed.

"It's all right. He won't wake. He's used to the two of us lying together."

"Aeneas," said Achilles in a deep, soft voice.

"What?"

"Aeneas," he repeated.

And when Paris glanced toward the baby, then back toward Achilles, he was gone.

Not Achilles, Paris realized instantly. It was the god Apollo himself, in the form of the Greek warrior, paying him a visit and giving him a gift -- the bow and arrows -- and giving his son a name.

"Aeneas," Paris said softly. Then he fell asleep.

That night, in Paris' dreams, he was back in his dark room after the death of Hector, remembering and regretting the many mistakes he had made in his life, the affair with Helen and subsequent flight, the disastrous fight with her husband Menelaus, the hopeless tryst with Achilles and conception of his son. One other mishap occurred to him now in his dream, something he had forgotten that night: his seduction and subsequent rejection of King Odysseus of Ithaca, the wily friend of Achilles. When he woke from the dream, he remembered it, but he couldn't fathom why.

Priam entered his bedchamber without announcement. "You must come to the beach!" he commanded. "The Greeks have left our shores. The ones who remained are dead of plague. And there is something amazing left behind, I'm told. Come with me to see it."

When Paris saw the giant wooden horse he begged his father to burn it. Instead Priam listened to his priest, considering the massive creature a gift from the gods as the priest claimed. The beast was dragged into Troy and left in the center of the courtyard, where hundreds of Trojans gathered around it in triumph, drunk with wine and elation, dancing and performing acrobatics. Paris was disgusted by the spectacle.

"Look at them," he said to Helen. "You'd think their prince had never died."

"You are their prince now," she reminded him.

He hadn't forgotten it.

That night Paris dressed as a warrior in his armor and greaves, the bow and quiver gifted him by the god nearby. He urged Helen to pack a small bag for herself and for his son, but he didn't tell her why.

The fall of Troy was imminent, Paris knew. But as was usual in times of crisis, he was powerless to do anything about it. All he could do was help as many people escape as he could, as he had promised Hector he would.

"Come quickly," he ordered Andromache and Helen, "and pass the word to as many as you can. It's a long way, and there isn't much time now. We have to save as many as possible."

Even as he spoke, Greek invaders crawled from the belly of the beast, swords in hand. They overcame the guard and opened the great gates of Troy for the Achaean king, Agamemnon, to enter with his army. Panic and chaos ensued as Agamemnon ordered Troy burned.

"I can't find Briseis," Helen told Paris as they made their way through the corridors under the city.

"I'll find her."

"How? You're coming with us."

Paris shook his head. "My father will never abandon the city. I can't leave him. You must take the child and go. I'll try to follow."

Ordering the bolted door opened, Paris gave instructions to the small group of survivors gathered around him. "Follow the river to Mt. Ida," he said, "and keep going."

"Paris, you must come with us!"

"Helen, how could you love me if I ran now? How could Hector love me or Achilles, for that matter? I will not be a coward again."

Paris kissed his son Aeneas, then Helen and Andromache. "Be safe," he told them. Then he turned, his bow and quiver strapped to his back.

Odysseus was the first Greek Paris recognized, as the renowned warrior plunged his sword into one of Hector's trusted generals. Paris scowled at the man as their eyes met; Odysseus nodded at him, his eyes still filled with longing, and Paris reached for an arrow, cursing himself that he hadn't been ready. Odysseus grinned and ducked away, putting both Trojan and Greek soldiers between himself and Troy's prince.

Promising himself he wouldn't be unprepared again, Paris ran into the temple, searching for Briseis. When he finally saw her from across the courtyard, she was in the arms of Achilles, and King Agamemnon lay bleeding to death nearby, under the statue of Apollo.

Knowing he couldn't kill the father of his child, Paris aimed carefully, even while Briseis screamed at him to stop. Planning only to hamstring the Greek warrior, he sent an arrow into Achilles' heel. With a look of surprise, the man went down, blood flowing freely from his sandal.

"Paris, no!" screamed Briseis, cradling the crippled soldier.

Paris approached slowly, not believing Achilles was incapacitated by the wound to his heel. Then he saw the river of blood and realized the arrow was designed to strike a mortal blow, designed by the god.

"I never meant for this," Paris said, going down on one knee.

Achilles tried to smile, the pallor of his face for once belying his golden aspect. This was a man, after all, not a god. He was human, despite his hubris, and he was dying.

"You gave me peace in a lifetime of war," Achilles said, and he may have been saying it to Briseis or Paris, or both.

"Try not to talk. I know a way out."

"I can't," Achilles said. "I'm finished." He reached out and touched the face of the weeping Briseis before turning his wet eyes to Paris. "You gave me a son," he said. "Where is he?"

"He's left the city," Paris answered. "Our son will escape and start a new Troy somewhere far from here. He carries the blood of heroes -- Hector's and yours."

"And yours."

Paris shook his head. "Not mine. I am no hero."

Groaning, Achilles tried to sit up. "You are this day. You have re-written your history."

"I've done nothing heroic. I've killed a man I loved despite every effort to hate him, and I killed him without meaning to."

"I needed killing," said Achilles, his eyes starting to cloud over. "And you've saved your people tonight. Now save Briseis. Troy is falling. Take her and go."

Paris reached for his cousin's hand, but first he leaned over and impulsively kissed the moist lips of the great Achilles. "Find peace," he said to the dying warrior, pulling Briseis to her feet. "I will make sure your son remembers you, and his sons, and their sons. Your name will live on."

Somehow he had found the right words, and he saw the look of gratitude in Achilles' eyes before he turned to flee the City of Troy. His own eyes were blurred with tears as he made his way through the burning halls, Briseis in tow, trying to remember the way to safety. All around him were the screams of the dying and the war cries of the soldiers. Paris tossed aside the magic bow and arrows in disgust, finished with them, the final trick of Apollo to force Paris to be the murderer of the god's great enemy.

"Come with me," said a familiar voice, and Paris turned to see the bloody and sweating face of Odysseus. "I'll keep you safe, I promise," the man said ardently.

"No, King Odysseus. I can't go with you. I'm sorry."

Odysseus dropped his gaze and stepped back to let Paris and Briseis pass. "He's dead," Paris said, almost as an afterthought. "I didn't mean to kill him."

"Didn't you?" Odysseus asked. "I think you may be a man even more dangerous than your brother."

Paris shook his head. "I only wanted to be loved," he said.

Odysseus smiled. "And you were. We all loved you, boy! Helen, Hector, Achilles and I."

"I never meant for it to be a curse," Paris said, his florid face reflecting the burning walls of Troy.

"It was a gift of the gods, no curse," Odysseus said. "I'll never forget it."

Briseis pulled at him now, and Paris laughed. "I've had enough of the gods and their gifts, King Odysseus. And your gift horse, as well."

Grinning, Odysseus ran into the night. Tightening his grip on his cousin, Paris resumed his flight from Troy.
 
Paris had lived his life confined by prophecy, by heritage and by his own irresistible charms. Now he was about to escape, but whether he made it to Mt. Ida or not, Troy would live on -- in his son.

It didn't matter anymore if he were a Prince of Troy. Paris' confinement was finished.

The End