FIC: "The Vessel" (2/WIP)
AUTHOR: Mistress Marilyn camelotslash-2 at qwest.net
DATE: August 14, 2004
FANDOM: "Troy" (Warner Bros. 2004)
PAIRING: Hector / Achilles (As portrayed by Eric Bana and Brad Pitt)
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: Hector does more than his duty with his enemy, Achilles.
DEDICATION: To Eric Bana -- thanks for making the hero Hector such a beautiful, memorable man.
AUTHOR NOTES: Too many plot bunnies, too little time! This fic was written to be posted at the Troy MPreg group I moderate, Troy MPregs FemPregs

Part Two

Achilles dropped his smile and looked at Hector with hard eyes. "There is only one vessel acceptable to me and to Patroclus to bear the seed he can no longer carry.

"And that, Prince of Troy, is you."

Hector tried with difficulty to control his expression, but he knew his disbelief and reluctance must be plain on his face. Achilles stood staring, no challenge in his eyes, but Hector imagined what the man must be feeling, and his imagination turned the moment into a pivotal one in his life.

Achilles had him. How could he refuse? He was the one who had taken the life of Patroclus, and thus, of Achilles' son. He was the one who had arranged for his own brother to carry the seed, thinking Paris the perfect choice because of his youth, his beauty and his relationship with the goddess.

But hadn't he also picked Paris as a sort of retribution against his brother and his role in starting the war? Didn't he believe offering Paris to Achilles was a sort of punishment?

Hadn't he also picked Paris because he saw little other use for him, and this particular task would suit him well because of his vanity and other womanly qualities?

Hadn't he picked Paris because he would never have thought to offer himself, the unapproachable Hector?

He breathed in through his nostrils, steeling himself. He had no choice. If he refused now, his life was forfeit -- and Troy was probably doomed. He had to swallow his Trojan pride and submit to this man and to the goddess, Aphrodite. Both were equally untenable to him.

He nodded, trying to break Achilles' stare by glancing again at the dead body on the bed.

"Take off your clothes, Prince," Achilles said. "And make yourself ready."

"I need to signal my man. If I don't return, he'll think you've killed me."

Achilles smiled at him, but his eyes were hard. "Do it, then. Hurry up."

Hector stepped outside the tent, the air cooling his cheeks. When his eyes adjusted, he looked up toward the temple and waved. It took a moment to make out the answering wave from Lysander. He had to go to his captain and stop him from bringing Paris to Achilles. He walked past the tent and saw the blue-eyed man who attended Achilles skirting him. Hector stopped and turned.

"I need to tell my man I won't be coming back within the hour and my brother won't be needed," he said.

The black-clad man, clearly one of Achilles' Myrmidons, nodded. "I'll do it, my lord. You should go back inside."

Hector stood for a moment, wondering if he'd rather just walk back up the hill as though the offer had never been made. He sighed. He couldn't. As always, Prince Hector of Troy was duty-bound. He nodded and returned to the tent.

Achilles was sitting on the bed, caressing the body of the young Patroclus. Hector cleared his throat, as though he had interrupted one of his own soldiers in love-play with a camp follower or a compatriot. Achilles looked up at him, his face blank.

"He pleased me well these years. He gave me love with no conditions, no barter. Until the end, he followed my will in everything." A tear glistened in one eye. "No one will ever do the same for me again."

They both were silent for a moment, then Achilles rose, rubbing away the tear. "It's time, Prince. Now or not at all."

Hector suddenly felt awkward. He was unused to submitting to anyone, much less in a sexual sense. He had always been in control of himself, of his actions on the battlefield, of his actions in the bedroom. He was suddenly unsure of where to step and how to move.

Annoyed with his own reaction, he tugged at his tunic and pulled it away. He then found himself naked, forced to bend over and unlace his sandals. When Achilles walked slowly around him, silently surveying him, he had to fight to maintain balance and control of his hands. He stood up slowly, finding Achilles' eyes and holding them with his own.

"Nice jewelry," Achilles said without inflection, putting a finger on the necklace Hector wore. "Very princely. Remove it, please."

Hector ripped the decoration from his neck, sorry he had worn it. He dropped it on the floor of the tent.

"You're a well-made man," Achilles said. "Not beautiful as Patroclus was, but strong and dignified . . . You'll do."

Hector's brows formed a dark line across his forehead. He forced himself to breathe normally.

"Now go to the bed and lie down," Achilles ordered.

Hector looked over where Patroclus still lay across the furs. He hesitated.

"Go, Prince. Or I'll finish you now. And I promise I'll take your balls before I take your life!"

Achilles' sudden rage surprised Hector for a moment. But he knew that rape was a sort of violent act that required more than sexual passion. If Achilles were going to take him, he'd have to call on that rage.

Hector was more than ready to accept the pain. The only thing he feared was the submission.

He walked slowly toward the pile of soft furs. Then he lowered himself next to the dead body, noting the dried blood caked on the lower face and throat. Around his neck, Patroclus wore a string of seashells.

"Patroclus will be our witness. He still holds the seed, which he will give to you."

Hector looked up at the approaching Achilles, not trying to conceal his confusion. Surely this madman didn't expect him to lie next to a corpse, to further injure this boy by some defilement of his body!

Achilles sat down, the body of Patroclus between them. He bent and kissed the dead lips.

Hector watched, suppressing a shudder.

"Now you," Achilles said.

Hector swallowed, fighting for control. He could not possibly force himself to kiss the bloody mouth of Patroclus. He chose a compromise and touched his lips to the smooth forehead of the dead boy.

"Kiss him," Achilles said. "Kiss him as I did, Prince."

Hector squeezed his eyes shut and did as he was ordered. He was surprised to feel grief welling inside him instead of nausea. Patroclus' lips felt soft and fresh, and no odor of decay escaped from his mouth. For a moment, Hector found himself close to madness, willing Patroclus to breathe again, to open his eyes, as if Hector's kiss could awaken him from the dead. He was unable to suppress a dry sob as he turned his face away from Achilles.

"You will now take my seed, Prince Hector. You will drink it, you will breathe it in, you will wear it in every opening of your body. Later tonight your body will cramp and convulse with the urge to shit it out, but you will fight that need and hold it in."

Achilles stopped and sighed. Then he said, "If the goddess is willing, my seed will take hold somewhere in you."

Before he could clearly understand Achilles' words, much less respond to them, Hector found himself grabbed around the neck and shoved backward. At first he wanted to fight, feeling his air cut off by Achilles' strong hand. But then he felt a warm mouth on his, and the constriction of his throat relaxed.

Achilles smelled of wine and musk, but despite his clearly unwashed physical condition, his breath was not sour and his sweat didn't stink. In fact, he radiated a heady perfume. Within seconds, Hector allowed his mouth to open to Achilles, and his arms went up around the naked, muscled back of the Greek, fingers digging in.

"You want me," Achilles whispered. "You want this."

Hector groaned, well aware of his own rising heat. He put one hand in the silky ropes of Achilles' hair and pulled the man's head even closer to his, kissing him again. He could smell the burning oil in the lamps, and his head swam from the fumes. Heat flared in him like a sudden backdraft. He allowed himself to be carried away on a roiling raft of passion, not caring that he was a Trojan prince, not caring that Achilles was his enemy, not caring that the dead body of Patroclus lay with them, that sometimes they rolled across it and moved with it in their efforts to get at one another.

Achilles called out to him again and again, especially when he released his seed into and over Hector's tall body, like an un-ending libation to their passion. Hector answered him hoarsely, unsure of whether he spoke Achilles' name, called out to the goddess or just verbally assented to submit whatever part of him Achilles sought to favor with his ablutions.

For more than an hour they coupled, the intensity never wavering. If they felt the presence of the goddess in the room, they were unaware of it. But when they finally lay gasping into one another's faces, the strength seeping from their arms, legs still entwined, skin sticky with sweat and seed, they were alone. The body of Patroclus lay on the floor at the bottom of the bed.

For several minutes they simply lay together, heartbeats racing, legs unwilling to release the lock they held on one another. Then Achilles breathed in and pulled away. Hector nearly cried out in protest.

When Hector raised his head to find out where Achilles had gone, he saw the golden warrior again bent over the body of his dead lover. Regret and grief returned, this time heightened by the connection he now felt to Achilles. He watched as Achilles raised Patroclus in his arms and kissed him, carrying him toward the entrance to the tent.

"Eudorus, come!" he shouted hoarsely.

The blue-eyed Greek poked his head inside, his face wary.

"Take Patroclus. Take him and prepare him for a funeral. We'll burn him before dawn."

Hector lowered his head and stared up at the ceiling of the tent. He could hear Achilles taking a drink and splashing liquid. Then the tent was completely silent for a time, until Hector clearly heard the sound of weeping.

He rose and walked to where Achilles was once more huddled in the corner, his face in one hand. Hector softly fingered the top of Achilles' head.

Achilles looked up. "When I lay with you, I loved you. And he was there with us, and he knew it. I betrayed him."

"He's dead," Hector said. "You're alive."

"I was not fit to be his companion. And I'm not fit to be yours."

Hector sighed. "It's too late for that. It's done."

Achilles' cloudy eyes narrowed, and he reached up and closed his fingers on Hector's arm with a vise-like grip.

"Is it? Do you know it?"

"Time will tell."

Achilles got up, setting his wide shoulders. Watching him, Hector found himself holding his breath, noting every ripple of muscle, every dimple of scar tissue.

"I will say my good-byes to Patroclus. You will return to Troy," Achilles said. "When you are certain of the will of the goddess, send me word and I'll come."

Hector hesitated. It was time to do more than submit to this man, he knew, and hadn't their coupling been much more than a mere submission? Achilles said he had loved him for a time. Hector should admit his own feelings, should echo that love now while the chance was his.

But the moment passed too quickly. "I need to clean myself and dress. You should go," Achilles said.

Steeling himself again, the Trojan prince bent down and retrieved his sandals and tunic. He noticed his necklace, glowing in the lamplight at Achilles' feet. Achilles started to pick it up.

"Give it to him," Hector said hoarsely. "Give it to Patroclus." Then he turned, his clothing in his hands, and walked naked from the tent.

The End, Part Two