SERIES: "Paris' Confinement"
FIC: (Part Nine) "The Fates"
AUTHOR: Mistress Marilyn camelotslash-2 at qwest.net
DATE: Sept. 7, 2006
FANDOM: "Troy" (Warner Bros. 2004)
PAIRING: Paris / Hector
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: Bloody battles and tragic deaths, just like in the original.
BETA: Thank you, Charlie!
DEDICATION: To Roger Federer, whose inevitable victory is in the hands of Fate.
AUTHOR NOTES: The Fates were the goddesses who controlled destiny. When it comes to Alternate Universe or Alternate Reality fanfics, the author must decide how much say The Fates (or in this case, Troy movie canon) will have, just as a filmmaker does when he takes source material like The Iliad and makes a movie like 'Troy.' And so, dear readers, what will happen to Troy movie canon in light of Paris' pregnancy?

-The Fates-

Paris hadn't expected to suffer the separation from his child so much, but instead of pining from the loss of the companionship of Briseis or even Achilles, he found himself unable to eat or sleep at the thought of his poor son confined in the Greek tent, or worse, already on his way to a foreign land in the arms of an unwashed wet nurse.

"You are more like a mother than a father, my love," Helen commented, wiping Paris' flushed face with a cool cloth. "You are making yourself sick over missing your baby."

"And so my brother goes out with his army to try to get him back!" Paris said. "Once again my own weakness puts my family and my home at risk. Why was I not allowed to take up arms against the Greeks?"

Helen shook her head, sending her earrings sparkling in the morning light from the balcony. "Hector does what he was born to do. He is a warrior. You do as the gods will, Paris. Surely you were not made to bear a son for no good purpose."

Paris tried not to think of what Hector would have to do to recover the baby, how he might be forced to murder the child's father, the Greek warrior Achilles. Already the blue sky was being obscured by dark smoke from the beach where the Trojans had launched their sneak attack in the black night. Hector himself might be lying dead!

"I can't stand this waiting," Paris fretted, standing up and beginning to pace. He stepped out on the balcony and saw the line of soldiers returning toward the city at a leisurely speed. "They are coming!" he called to Helen, "but there is no one following."

Hector's force could hardly have overcome the entire, vast Achaean army! It was all Helen could do to keep Paris from running through the palace to meet his brother.

When Hector finally entered the room, his arms held no baby, but his eyes held a strange, hollow expression. "I failed," he said simply, and Paris saw his greaves and arms were dotted with blood.

"What happened, Brother?" Paris asked, going to his side.

Hector sank on a couch, oblivious to the gory stain he might leave on the plush cushion. "A boy. I killed a boy, thinking it was Achilles."

"A boy in Achilles' armor?"

Sighing, Hector wiped his brow, leaving a livid streak there. "The King of Ithaca said it was his cousin."

"Patroclus!"

"Perhaps. His throat was cut, and I had to end his misery."

Paris groaned, his own throat tightening. "Patroclus was Achilles' lover!"

The two brothers and princes stared at one another, no words sufficient to express their dread. There was no predicting what Achilles' reaction to the death of Patroclus would be; it might be murderous retribution, and within his reach -- in his own tent -- was a member of Troy's royal house.

"I need to speak to my wife," Hector said in a tired voice.

"No, Brother. Stay. I'll wash you." With a glance at Helen, Paris reached for the bowl and cloth she had been using to soothe his own worry just moments earlier.

Helen stood to leave. "I'll speak with Andromache," she said. "You two should be alone."

Gently Paris led his tall, tired sibling to the bed. He slowly and carefully undressed him, then used the scented water to wash away the blood. Hector didn't speak, his eyes studying something far away, presumably the battlefield where the nubile Patroclus had met his demise. Paris tried to think kindly of Patroclus, to remember his boyish smile and stubborn pride with some sense of appreciation, but all he could care about was the wound to his own brother's spirit and the further injury he had added to the insult of having refused Achilles' romantic advances in the first place.

It seemed natural enough to pull Hector's head to his chest and stroke his thick, dark hair with the same hand that had so recently tugged at Achilles' manhood. Paris' affection for his brother had grown over time, and now he wanted to give Hector the one thing that might take his mind off the horrible memory of having slain young Patroclus.

Himself.

Within a few minutes Paris found himself raining soft kisses on his brother's face and neck, and after a brave attempt to dismiss the advances, Hector gave in to his own impulses, pulling Paris close. Paris moaned as Hector locked his firm, warm lips against his own willing mouth, allowing his tongue to be sucked forward and met by his brother's. He imagined Hector's lovemaking would be passionate and unsophisticated, and it ended up being much as he thought.

It was no less meaningful and profound, and when the two had groped and squeezed and tore at one another for less than an hour, they were both finished, sated and drained. They lay side by side, shoulders touching, and Hector gave a small sob. And Paris did something he had never imagined doing, lovingly holding his older, stronger brother as the man cried like a broken child.

Later, when they were dressed and full of meat and wine, Hector took a torch from the wall and gestured at Paris to follow him. And the two then made a journey into the bowels of the city, through corridors and hallways Paris had never seen before, to a spot where a large door was set in the dark recesses of a cluttered basement. Hector opened the door and pointed down a long tunnel.

"If I die," Hector said without emotion, "I don't know how long the city will stand. You must save yourself. As long as you live, Troy lives. You must bring my wife and child with you. Save them, save Helen and save yourself. Save as many people as you can, but get here and run. Get out of Troy."

"Brother, why are you telling me this? You aren't going to die!"

Hector's eyes were hard in the light from the torch. "For once do as I say, Paris. Don't argue. Just promise me you'll do this. Follow this tunnel to the river, then escape to Mt. Ida."

Nodding, Paris felt fear clutch at him for the first time in months. Even living among the Greeks hadn't affected him as dramatically as standing in that dark basement with his grim brother. He might have to escape, after all. He might lose his home and his family.

The Fates had taken over. Clotho was busily spinning the thread of life, while Lachesis decided how long that thread might be. Atropos, the inevitable, stood ready to cut the thread.

Paris had already lost his son. Achilles had lost Patroclus. And now anything could happen. It was in the hands of the gods.

Regardless of his fear, how could he have imagined how hard it would be to sit and watch from the walls of Troy as the madman Achilles, driven insane by the death of Patroclus, ended his brother's life? Helen held the suffering Andromache in her arms, but no one lifted a consoling hand to Paris as he witnessed Hector's thread of life being cut. No one had seen the loving kiss Hector gave Paris in the privacy of his room before he went to face Achilles waiting outside the great walls of Troy. No one had noticed that Paris was once again wearing Hector's ring, which had been offered with the kiss, that kiss so different than the one on his forehead witnessed by his father and the court.

"You're a prince of Troy. I know you'll make me proud," Hector had said. "You remember what I told you."

And Paris was now determined that no one would see the pain it caused him to face the loss of his brother, his beloved brother whose body Achilles drug behind his chariot all the way back to his camp at the seashore.

Paris sat in his room alone for hours after Hector's death, the mirrors covered with pieces of cloth so he could not see his own comely reflection. He had much to face in that dark room -- actions that had seemingly led to the fulfillment of the prophecy that he would be the cause of Troy's doom, mistakes made out of ignorance and youth and hot blood, including his vanity and his cowardice, his love of Helen, his disdain for Menelaus and his passion for Achilles.

Hector had made him promise that he would lead as many people as possible out the tunnel under the city to escape across the surrounding mountains. Should he be preparing for that now? He stood slowly and made his way to a trunk near his bed, throwing it open and rifling through the contents until he found what he was searching for. There it was, something that fitted perfectly in his hands, that gave him courage and confidence by its very familiar feel!

His bow. When the first light of day came up over the city, he would start practicing again, honing the skill he had developed as a boy on Mt. Ida. He might not be a warrior, but he was a marksman with a keen eye and strong arm. He would protect what was left of his family.

"Paris?"

He looked up to see several guards holding torches, surrounding the tall form of the King of Troy, a man with shoulders now slumped with age and a face broken by grief. In his arms was a small package, a bundle of cloth that seemed to move as he stretched out his hands toward his favorite son.

"What is it, Father?"

"Your future, Paris. Your son."

Paris reached out to take the baby, noticing his cousin, Briseis, in the shadows next to Priam. "How did you come here? Did you bring the boy?"

"Priam came to camp, and Achilles gave us all up. Me. The baby. And Hector."

Priam lowered himself to a bench and cupped his tired chin in his hands. "The same messenger who brought you home led me to Achilles' camp to reclaim the body of my son. The shepherd."

Paris thought back on the supernatural form that had summoned his brother to rescue him from Achilles and helped spirit the two princes out of the Achaean camp -- Hermes, the lover of Aphrodite. Once again the gods were at play with the lives of the Greeks and Trojans.

"We will have the customary twelve days for the funeral games," Priam said. "You and I will place the coins on your brother's eyes."

Paris sighed. The coins were for the Boatman. When the funeral pyre was lit, Hermes, the same messenger who had led them all in and out of the Greek camp during the past weeks would be the god who would lead Hector's spirit away, and the coins would pay his passage to the afterlife.

Where would it all end?

Looking down at his wriggling son, Paris thought he knew the answer. The Fates were having their way, but Paris knew he was holding the final chapter in his arms. His gift from the goddess. His immortality. His magic son.

Paris glanced at the heavy ring on his finger glinting in the torchlight. "We must all get some sleep and prepare for tomorrow," he said in a strong voice. "Briseis, find Andromache and tell her my son will need to be nursed. And ask Helen to come to me. I need to have my hair dressed."

He had to look his best, once again. After all, he was now the Crown Prince of Troy.

The End, Part Nine