"Paris' Confinement" banner

SERIES: "Paris' Confinement"
FIC: (Part Seven) "Son of the Goddess"
AUTHOR: Mistress Marilyn camelotslash-2 at qwest.net
DATE: August 13-20, 2005
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, a hint of incest.
SUMMARY: Paris is now confined to Achilles' tent, awaiting the birth of his son.
BETA: Thank you, Charlie!
DEDICATION: To Steph, whose private feedback is something I look forward to every chapter.
AUTHOR NOTES: Hermaphroditus, the son of Hermes and Aphrodite, had the sexual characteristics of both male and female, as we find with our pregnant Paris.

-Son of the Goddess-

Even the winter wind blowing from the north across the Hellespont could not cool the close quarters of Achilles' tent in the Achaean camp. For weeks Paris had been cut off from the sun and sea, hidden away with the assorted treasures Achilles' had gathered during the siege of Troy and related raids. More precious than even the golden booty stolen from the temple of Apollo, the presence of the pregnant prince among the Greeks was a secret as carefully guarded as Paris himself. Only two besides the Myrmidons knew of Paris' confinement in Achilles' tent -- Odysseus, the King of Ithaca, and Briseis, Paris' cousin.

When he had first set eyes on the beloved cousin he believed long dead, Paris had embraced her with emotion and gratitude. If she, too, were a prisoner in the Greek camp, he knew he would have someone with whom he could converse and share his thoughts. He feared to learn of her mistreatment at the hands of the brutish Greeks, but ended up far more appalled when he found she had submitted to Achilles of her own will and stayed with him as a consort, not a captive.

Paris was honest enough with himself to admit his jealousy of Briseis. Achilles made no secret of his relationship with her within the Myrmidon encampment, sharing his tent with both Trojan cousins, sometimes amusing himself with Briseis as Paris lay close by in the small cot assigned him. There were times Achilles would cajole or even command Paris to join them, content to lace his long fingers in Paris' hair or rest a large hand on Paris's swollen belly, never attempting much more than the merest physical contact.

His vital parts more alive than ever despite his ungainly condition and perhaps because of it, Paris longed for more from the golden warrior. If Achilles' apparent apathy were not enough to ruffle the feathers of the vain prince, the occasional presence of Patroclus, Achilles' own cousin, certainly was. The young Patroclus, an intimate companion of the Greek champion, made blessedly infrequent visits to the tent. But when he did, Paris fumed and fretted for hours, making his disapproval so obvious that Achilles seemed to prefer to spend time with Patroclus elsewhere, rather than risk the unspoken recriminations plain on Paris' face.

Studying himself in the mirror he brought from Troy, Paris found it hard to recognize his usual comeliness in the dim light of the tent. He had become swollen from lack of exercise as well as his advanced condition, and the pallor of his cheeks looked unhealthy instead of luminous. Only his long, curling hair remained beautiful; he had more than enough time to brush and oil it, and Briseis enjoyed helping him style and adorn it with the charms and shells fashioned for that purpose.

"You have certainly improved the smell of this tent," Odysseus commented one evening as he shared a plate of fresh goat meat and a goblet of wine with Achilles' small 'family.'

Blushing, Paris looked away and didn't answer, always wary of the hawk-like but haunted eyes of the King of Ithaca as they tracked his every move around the cramped boundaries of his world. Although Odysseus had never referred to their previous meeting and his declaration of love, Paris had not forgotten it, sensing rather than really seeing the craving plainly showing beneath the man's studied control.

Achilles stretched out his long, muscled legs and glanced over at Paris. "He has perfumes from the east, and he sprinkles them on the furs. Sometimes I think I'm sleeping in a Trojan whorehouse."

"A Trojan prince and an acolyte of Apollo would hardly be found in a brothel!" said Briseis, bristling. Her spirit had not been dampened by the months spent in the Greek camp. If anything, she was even more capable of defending herself, having had to do just that in the physical sense. Paris watched her with admiration, thinking for a moment what a good match she made for the arrogant Achilles.

"When the whores have swollen bellies, they put them away until they can earn their keep again," Achilles said with a laugh. "Then they sell the babes or leave them on a mountainside for the shepherds to find."

Paris stood shakily, his pallor stark in the orange glow of lamps and braziers. "You insult me so easily, one would think there's some gain in it!" he said, wondering how Achilles had learned the disgraceful story of his childhood. "Does it make you feel brave to demean a wretched creature, or are you coarse enough to think that humiliating the son of Priam in some way elevates you?"

He walked to the door with as much dignity as he could muster, pulling a cloak around his face. Sometimes in the evenings he would wander about among the Myrmidons, concealing himself as well as he could with his clothing and the natural camouflage of a moonless night. Escaping his confinement in the tent for even a few moments was a welcome respite.

"Calm yourself!" Odysseus said in a smooth voice. "Achilles meant no harm. He has the manners of a soldier, not a royal."

"His mother would be ashamed!" spat out Briseis. "He spends so much time pretending to be a brute, it begins to come naturally." She looked over at Paris. "Wait for me, cousin! I'll go along."

Paris heard Achilles give a great sigh as he and Briseis left the tent. Briseis reached for his hand and squeezed it. She had done everything she could to comfort her cousin as his condition advanced, hiding whatever shock or resentment she felt that he carried the child of the man for whom she had broken her vow to Apollo. No doubt Achilles often felt the two unified against him in even the smallest of things within his tent, and it was no wonder that he often slept elsewhere, leaving the two to rule their mean realm without interference.

As they walked near the sea, they spoke of Troy, avoiding the subject of the war and their shared connection to a Greek invader. Just as Briseis started to remind Paris of a prize he had won a few years earlier in an archery contest, he suddenly interrupted her.

"I thought I loved him," he said in a small voice, confessing something to  Briseis he had not yet admitted to himself. "I thought if I were here in his tent, I could make him love me -- and love the child."

She touched his hand. "He doesn't mean to be so harsh. The war has not been what he expected. Sitting it out doesn't suit him, and he quarreled bitterly with Agamemnon because of me. I don't know what drives him, to be honest."

Paris pulled Briseis away from the surf, avoiding the light of a nearby campfire. "Do you love him?" he asked.

"I don't know. Honestly. I think I do, at least a little. I thought I was making a difference in him, but I had no idea what he had done to you."

Paris' tone turned bitter. "I never should have come here," he said. "I should have listened to my brother and to Helen. I should have left Achilles to you." He turned away. "I want to be alone, if you don't mind."

When he returned to Achilles' tent, he could hear argumentative voices inside. One was the recognizable, mellifluous voice of the Greek fox, Odysseus.

"Calm yourself," Odysseus said. "The gods are playing with us."

"I won't be the pawn of the gods!" came the angry voice of Achilles. "Aphrodite won't have her way with me, and I won't bow down to Apollo! It was the brother I wanted, with his stiff neck and grave pride. And if I keep his consort with me, he'll have to come for him eventually."

Paris fought back tears as he stood in the shadows and waited for the King of Ithaca to take his leave. Shortly Odysseus emerged and walked unsteadily past Paris, weaving his way in the direction of the large ship converted into the palace of the Greek leader, Agamemnon; and Paris finally re-entered the darkened confines of the tent. Achilles was snoring from his bed, the smell of wine strong in the close air. Sighing, Paris sat down on his cot, his hands cupping his swollen belly.

Music.

He could clearly hear the sound of singing, as though Apollo's choir were ringing the outside of the temporary walls. A sudden volcanic stirring deep in his gut forced Paris to lean back, his breath coming hard. He gasped and closed his eyes.

He was back on Mount Ida, lying in the fresh grass. He could feel the light breeze and the late afternoon sun, and from far off came the sound of birdsong. A breathtaking woman approached him slowly, her hair the color of Helen's, her eyes a shining silver. Around her slim waist she wore a golden girdle. Her fingers were entwined with those of a beautiful youth, a creature with translucent skin and flowing hair. Both were smiling.

"This is my son, Hermaphroditus," said the woman. "He has the best qualities of both man and woman. And for now he will share his gift with you."

"You are the goddess," Paris whispered.

"I will make sure that despite the machinations of Hera and Athena, the Trojan people will not be destroyed. You, the one prophesied to bring their doom, now shall bear the fruit of their survival."

She reached out and touched Paris' forehead, and the slender youth took his hand. Paris closed his eyes, a sense of elation overcoming the confused questions in his mind. He was slowly infused with great sensual pleasure, his flesh both warm and cool at once, his breath light and easy. Within seconds, he was swooning.

When he opened his eyes, it was not the face of the goddess he saw hovering nearby. It was the worried expression of his cousin, Briseis, who, when she saw he was awake, shouted loudly for Achilles and his comrade-in-arms, the Myrmidon, Eudorus.

"He's alive!" she called. "Paris lives!"

Achilles ran to the cot to see for himself. Paris watched in amazement as the Greek warrior grasped his hand and pressed it to his mouth.

"Praise the gods," Achilles said. "We were sure you were dead!"

Paris smiled. "Why would you think so?" he asked, noticing for the first time that Briseis clutched something in her arms, a bundle of cloth that seemed to move against her.

"You were hardly breathing," she said. "You lay as still as death, the babe clinging to your breast."

"The babe!"

"Your son." She held out the bundle of cloth, and in the center of the wrappings he saw the bright blue eyes and rosy cheeks of his new son.

Paris took a deep breath, remembering a growing pleasure and a quaking, ecstatic release. "I remember the child slipping from inside me, but I don't know how or when," he said. "The goddess was nearby and her son held my hand."

"There was no pain?" asked Eudorus, standing behind Achilles near the doorway as though he were ready to run from the tent if necessary.

Paris shook his head.

"And no blood," Achilles observed. "It was the most royal of births."

Paris silently thanked the goddess as he stared up at the towering form of Greek's greatest warrior, godlike himself despite the crease of worry still marring his burnished brow.

"Of course it was," Briseis insisted, cradling the cooing infant close to her chest. "It was a birth befitting a Prince of Troy!"

The End, Part Seven

Part Eight


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