SERIES: "Paris' Confinement"
FIC: (Part Two) "Narcissus' Reflection"
AUTHOR: Mistress Marilyn camelotslash-2 at qwest.net
DATE:  December 6, 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' condition is revealed to his brother.
BETA: Thank you, Charlie!
DEDICATION: To all my readers who have begged for another chapter. Thank you for your patience, and I promise the next one will come much sooner!
AUTHOR NOTES: This fic was written to be posted at the Troy MPreg group I moderate:
Troy-MPregs-FemPregs

-Narcissus' Reflection-

"How can this be? Don't sit there and tell me this 'miracle' is a gift of the goddess!"

Hector, Troy's crown prince, paced up and down in Paris' chamber. He paused for a moment to look out at the vast panorama beyond the window -- the great city, the immense plain and finally, the blue-green Aegean.

The physician stammered and pulled at his carefully curled beard, clearly unsure whether or not he was the one being addressed.

Paris tossed his head with impatience. "What else could it be, brother? No one has ever heard of something like this! And is not Aphrodite the goddess of fertility?"

"Among other things," Hector commented. "But this particular gift is usually not given to one such as yourself. Even the goddess could see the futility in it!"

Paris stared at the physician who sat, perplexed, at his feet. "You may go," he ordered. "And be sure you don't say anything to anyone."

Hector sighed. "Do as he says. I'll speak with you later," he told the nervous man.

Paris stood, lifting his arms and stretching. The physician had been as amazed and nonplused by his examination of Paris as had Hector by its announced results. Troy's young prince was, indeed, with child.

"He thinks you'll have him killed to quiet him," Paris said. "He knows what a terrible disgrace this could be."

Hector stared at his brother. "Is it? Is this a disgrace of some sort, Paris?"

"What are your suspicions?" Paris asked, feeling light-headed, wishing a cool breeze would somehow reach his room high in the citadel. "Do you believe I had this happen on purpose in order to gain your sympathy? I know how you despise me since the combat with Menelaus."

Hector stopped pacing, standing to face his younger brother. "I never despised you, Paris. I asked you not to fight Menelaus. I knew it would be pointless. Just as I asked you to stay away from Helen's room when we were in Sparta, and later to take her back to her husband. You've never listened once to anything I asked since you set eyes on her!" He sighed. "Now I want to know what she has to do with this."

Paris turned away, discomfited by Hector's intense stare. "She has nothing to do with it. She knows nothing. She'll be repulsed when she finds out."

Breathing deeply, Hector stepped toward Paris. "How did this happen? Whose seed do you carry?"

Paris' eyes widened with fear of his brother's wrath. He hesitated, wondering if he could quickly think of a good lie and avoid the inevitable confrontation. He couldn't. "It was the Greek warrior. Achilles. He found me on Mount Ida and took me. But I prayed to the goddess to intervene, and she did this." He finished with a flourish toward his belly, swollen beneath his damp garment.

Hector's dark brows drew together. "Achilles! Tell me this isn't so, Paris!"

Paris nodded. "It was him. A golden warrior, more like a god than a man. He carried no weapon and wore no armor, but he radiated with strength. He sent me back to you with a message. He wanted you to know that he'd taken me." Paris' words faltered. "But he knows nothing about this . . . this thing." Turning the idea around in his head, Paris tried to make sense of it as he spoke. "This was more about you than about me, I think," he said finally.

"Me?"

"Yes, Brother. He wanted to insult you. He called me your consort." At this, Paris felt himself blushing.

Hector's hands were balled into fists. He slowly uncurled one of them, then raised it and slapped Paris across the cheek. Crying out, Paris fell away, crumpling to the floor. He dropped his head to hide his sudden tears.

"You let him take you? You didn't fight!"

Paris kept his head bowed, not bothering to nod. He hadn't fought Achilles -- it was true. He had come away without injury, glad of his life and lucky not to have suffered any pain. In fact, he had experienced great passion and even elation in the strong arms of the Greek killer, and instead of his own pleas for mercy sounding in his ears, he had heard the music of Apollo's choir.

How could he dispute these things with his brother, the most honorable man in Troy? He, Paris, should feel nothing but shame!

So why was he beginning to feel something akin to pride in the knowledge that he now carried the magical seed of the great and fearsome Achilles?

"You will not leave this room," Hector ordered. "Your confinement will be spent here, with just the one physician and your Spartan wife to tend you! You will not speak to anyone of this, especially our father. I will tell everyone you have been taken by a fever and are under a surgeon's care."

Now Paris looked up, ready to make his entreaties. "Brother, be reasonable! I can't possibly spend the next several months in this room! I'll need light and air and exercise for my own health and that of my child. Even with the goddess' intervention, this strange state is bound to be dangerous."

Hector's face held nothing but grim determination. Paris saw no glint of pity or spark of love in the dark, intense eyes.

"I should beat you within an inch of your life," Hector said in a rasping whisper. "I should have done so weeks ago! You have been spoiled and indulged for too long now, and you care about nothing but your dalliances and your own beauty!"

Paris smiled sadly. "Which will now be spoilt by this condition, Brother. Even Helen will find it difficult to look on me when my belly and ankles and face are swollen by pregnancy." He stopped, lowering his eyelids and looking up through his lashes at Hector. "Even you, Brother, will not find me beautiful anymore."

Hector turned away, a low sound in his throat. "Damn you!" he spat out, pausing by the door for an instant. Paris looked at his brother's stiff back, expecting Hector to say something else. But he walked out of the bedroom without another word, leaving Paris crouched on the marble floor.

Sadness welled in the young prince, threatening to overtake him with weeping and lamentation. His brother's anger and disgust were to be expected, but it reminded Paris how once, when he first came to live in the great city as a small boy, he had desired Hector's love and approval. At one time he had wished for nothing more than to be like his older brother, to be a wise prince, a devoted father and a good soldier.

But he was none of these things. He was a wastrel and a coward. His actions had endangered everything and everyone he loved, including Helen and his beloved brother.

Once Paris had believed that it was a great gift to be loving and beautiful. His abilities in the bedroom were matched only by his expertise with bow and arrow, and both had been admired greatly since he had come into manhood. Even Hector had looked on him with great affection and pride more than once for these special skills.

Now these things seemed to count for nothing. The artistry of love, especially, was suddenly to be doubted and even frowned on. Had Achilles noticed anything special about Paris when he took him in the grass on the mountainside? Likely he had felt little of the pleasure that Paris himself had experienced. But he had, Paris remembered, called the young prince 'beautiful.'

Paris recalled the morning Hector had entered his chamber and first told him about his encounter with Achilles in the temple. Paris had been sitting in front of the mirror, dressing his thick, curling hair. His brother, battered and bloodied by the hand of death, had stood staring at him in disgust, while he, like Narcissus, had admired his own reflection.

It was no wonder Hector now reviled him. If Hector knew of the ecstasy Paris had experienced at Achilles' touch, he would have, indeed, beaten him. And Paris could not have blamed him for it.

Cradling his belly with one hand, Paris wondered how long before his condition became pronounced. It had been little time since his meeting with Achilles on the mountaintop, but who could guess what a magical gestation might be like?

Paris stood up slowly, stepping down gingerly on an ankle that had been twisted under him when he fell. He walked to his dressing table and stood in front of the mirror, studying himself. Despite his unfortunate condition and earlier illness, his complexion was lustrous; the marks of his battle with Menelaus had  finally begun to fade. His dark eyes were clear and glistening, and his mouth and cheeks had a healthy, florid glow.

As always, he was beautiful. Despite his shame, despite his fear and his near-despair, he was gifted with the comeliness of a young god.

He sighed and walked to the large, wooden closet. Inside hung many garments of different hues and textures. He decided on a long tunic in a deep blue, and then he went to his chest of jewelry and picked out a necklace and bracelet to compliment his choice.

If he were no better than the doomed Narcissus, who died of loneliness while staring at his own reflection, then he would honor Apollo by imitating the god's handsome young lover. He would care for his appearance as best he could, brushing his hair until it shone, exercising his limbs by lifting heavy objects as long as his condition would allow. Even if he were not permitted outside his room and no one ever came to visit him, he would keep himself strong and beautiful, as had always been expected.

He was, after all, a Prince of Troy.

The End, Part Two