SERIES: "Paris' Confinement"
FIC: (Part Eight) "Winged Feet"
AUTHOR: Mistress Marilyn camelotslash-2 at qwest.net
DATE: August 21, 2005-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, a hint of incest.
SUMMARY: Paris sends for his brother.
BETA: Thank you, Charlie!
DEDICATION: To Andre Agassi, who managed to keep playing tennis even when his body failed him. The least I can do is finish this story!
AUTHOR NOTES: Hermes, the messenger of the gods and the lover of Aphrodite, was said to have wings on his sandals.

-Winged Feet-

The child spent some days nestled in Paris' arms, suckling at his swollen breasts. Paris, confined in Achilles' tent, marveled at the strength and determination of the infant, who, when he wasn't eating or sleeping, seemed to be willing to wail without end. Unable to sleep, Achilles found a bed elsewhere, and Paris and Briseis were left to fend for themselves with the new baby. Briseis was far better at this task than her pampered cousin, lacking only the means to feed Paris' new son.

Within a fortnight, Paris lost the ability to do even that; his milk dried and his form returned to normal, with no sign left of his strange condition. A wet nurse was found for the baby among the camp followers of the Myrmidons, and this woman joined the two Trojans in Achilles' tent.

The Achaeans had ceased hostilities for the duration of the winter, planning a spring campaign that would take them hopefully closer to the great walls of Troy. Ignoring the councils held in Agamemnon's camp, Achilles began making plans to return home with his Trojan 'guests' and his new son. As the Hellespont swelled with the spring run-off and the Greek soldiers began drilling in preparation for their first sorties, Achilles announced to Paris and Briseis his plans to sail for Phtia before summer.

The thought of spending weeks at sea with a fussing infant was nearly as onerous to Paris as the prospect of a future life in a strange land, the less favored of two Trojan consorts belonging to a warrior who had many more lands -- and probably lovers -- to conquer. As beautiful and godlike as he still found the golden Achilles, Paris knew that even the calculating Odysseus would make for a more ardent companion.

He had no intention of going home with Achilles.

One evening when he found himself alone in the tent, Paris tugged Hector's ornate ring from the hand it had adorned all winter and held it in his palm, feeling its weight both real and symbolic. This was one of the signs of his brother's birthright and his commitment to Apollo's favorite city, and Hector had given it to him to signal an overriding responsibility -- the need to come and rescue his helpless and hapless younger brother.

But how would he find a messenger he could trust to deliver the precious token without inadvertently alerting one of the Myrmidons of his intentions or revealing himself to one of the Greeks? He knew the locals who traded with the Achaeans were carefully watched and never completely trusted, and because of his own presence in Achilles' tent, no such stranger was ever allowed near.

Outside the tent Paris heard men calling to one another and laughing, ready to build their fires and exhort the camp followers to prepare their evening meals. From somewhere close he made out a soft, lyrical sound from the strings of a lyre. He smiled.

He needed the help of his divine patroness, and he was so secure in the knowledge of her devotion that he now walked to the tent's entrance with confidence and poked his well-coifed head through the flaps, noting the waning light and a rather brisk breeze wafting from the direction of the Hellespont before he saw the shape of a disheveled shepherd outlined against a sea reddened by the setting sun. Why would a shepherd be standing so close outside the tent of Achilles? And why would a shepherd be holding a shining lyre?

The figure approached, lowering the instrument and reaching out his hand, eyes glinting mischievously despite the absence of light. Without a second thought, Paris dropped the heavy ring into the messenger's palm, glancing down and squinting to try to catch a glimpse of winged sandals under the heavy robes. Without a word the shepherd disappeared into the night, and Paris took a deep, stuttering breath, knowing that soon he would see his noble brother again.

But it was Achilles who entered the tent later that night, and for once he and Paris were alone, sharing food and wine and then the same bed, snuggled beneath a heavy fur and idly talking in a way they never had. Paris didn't bother to ask where his cousin had gone, glad for once to have Achilles to himself and to act out his fantasy of a convivial family life with the Greek warrior. Achilles stroked his cheek and fingered his curls while the wet nurse came in and fed the baby. Then when she had finished, Achilles got up to make water and stoke the brazier, and Paris used his own finger and a little pomade to make himself ready for Achilles' return.

"Do you love me?" Achilles' asked unexpectedly when he stretched out beside the Trojan prince.

Paris struggled over an answer for a moment, before choosing honesty. "Yes," he said, "despite your brutal and thoughtless ways, I do love you."

"Then make love to me of your own choice," Achilles said, lying back. And he left it for Paris to reach out and find his body and make use of it, which Paris was happy to do, using his own lean, strong limbs to climb atop the muscular warrior and affect Achilles' possession through his own erotic effort.

The smell and warmth of the man's skin reminded Paris of the day he had first seen him on the grassy slopes of Mt. Ida, but this time he did not swoon or hear magical strains of music. Paris kept his eyes open in the dimly lit tent, spurred on by Achilles' earthy moans, watching the fire's reflection play over the man's face as he looked down at it, the sculpted face of a man, not the statue of a god, a face that suddenly contorted in passion as Paris utilized his athletic ability and his lovemaking skills to achieve the greatest possible pleasure. The two lost themselves for a time in this pleasure, drunk with it, Achilles' eyes glazing over and his broad chest heaving. Paris' pleasure came primarily in pleasing his lover.

Later, as Achilles finally snored softly beside him, Paris allowed himself to despair over his lost fantasies, realizing Achilles had never professed his own love, remembering suddenly that this would be their final night together.

When the tent flaps opened and Hector entered, Paris felt a momentary pang of regret quickly replaced by relief. Hector had come to take him home to Troy!

"Get out of that bed, Brother," Hector said, "and get the babe. Move quickly, so I don't have to kill an unarmed man."

"You wouldn't!" Paris whispered. It hadn't occurred to him that his brother might kill the father of his son.

"If I have to, I will. Hurry."

Paris slid from under the fur robe, embarrassed by his nakedness and what it implied. Hector, however, stared for a different reason, seeming more interested in the fact his brother's normal form had been restored. "You are yourself again," he said. "It's a miracle."

"Indeed," Paris agreed, scooping up some of his things and shoving them into a nearby trunk.

"Leave that," Hector ordered, returning his attention to the bed that held the  sleeping body of his enemy. "It isn't important."

Paris paused, glancing around the tent that had been his home for some months, the site of his confinement and magical delivery. His brother was right, of course, but he couldn't shake off the nagging feeling that he might accidentally leave something important behind.

"Why don't you let him pack and come join me here in this bed?" said a deep voice.

Both brothers reacted, one by raising his hands to his face, the other by lifting his heavy sword.

"Do you need such a large blade to make your mark? Have you no other weapon that might pierce me?" Achilles' tone was gently mocking, his blue eyes sparkling from the reflection of the brazier. He had pushed back the covers and revealed burnished sinews accented by a few whitened scars. Even in this tense moment Paris couldn't help finding him beautiful.

"I should take you as you took my brother, which I assure you would leave a mark," Hector said. "A mark on your spirit, at least."

"Would it? Would I cry out in pain or in pleasure, Prince of Troy?"

Hector's stoic face could not contain his anger, and his expression was a magnificent glower impressive even to the younger brother who had witnessed it before. "With a creature like you," Hector said gruffly, "there is probably little difference."

"Perhaps. But I mean what I say. Lie with me and forget for one moment that you are the hero of a doomed city."

Hector nearly smiled. "Do you hope for another Trojan son? Maybe you believe I, too, will carry your child."

"Maybe I'll carry yours," Achilles countered. "Who knows? The gods are fickle, and their favor can be dangerous." He raised himself up and started to move toward Hector, not bothering to shield his nakedness.

Hector followed his progress with the sword. "Come any closer and I'll split you open," he warned.

"With one shout I could bring about your capture and your death," Achilles said, stretching out his hands to either side, palms upward. "And yet I do nothing. If you want to split me open, use your cock, Prince of Troy!"

Paris watched in fascination, reminded of the time he had seen the two men facing off in the audience hall of Troy, arguing over the claim to Paris' son, the son now forgotten as they clashed once more. He remembered thinking at the time how well matched they were, and now he saw it again, two soldiers in a war of wills, a seemingly endless duel of hate . . . or perhaps love. Was there really much difference between the two?

"I'm taking my brother and going," Hector announced. "I wouldn't sully my cock on you."

Surprised at his brother's coarse reply, Paris felt gooseflesh break out on his bare flesh.  

Achilles' eyes narrowed. "Your goddess is a bitch and your god a whore!" he spat out defiantly. "Don't you see the tragic comedy they make of us? He wants me," he said, pointing to Paris. "He can't deny it."

Paris dropped his eyes.

Achilles smiled. "And I want you," he said to Hector, pausing.

"And you, it seems," he finally continued, "want him."

Paris swallowed, awed that the brutish Greek had the most insightful reasoning of them all. He had actually summed up the situation quite well. Paris reached for the clothing he had discarded earlier by the bed.

"Take your brother and go," Achilles said in a voice suddenly calm. "But the child stays with me."

"No!" Paris protested.

"Go outside," Hector told him. "We don't have much time before morning and he has the advantage. If I cut him down, his men will come and kill us both. We have no choice."

As if on cue, the child started to cry, like a tiny actor in their cosmic farce. Paris stepped toward the bronze basin that acted as a cradle and reached out to stroke his son's cheek. "Be still, my brave boy," he said. "I will find a way to reclaim you in time." He looked past his brother to the still, statue-like form of Achilles and held the man's steady gaze for an instant with his own.

"After all, we are both," he said pointedly, "Princes of Troy."

The End, Part Eight