FIC: "The Vessel" (3/WIP)
AUTHOR: Mistress Marilyn camelotslash-2 at qwest.net
DATE: Sept. 9, 2006
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: Back in Ancient Times, there was no morning-after pill!
DEDICATION: To Sassy, who asked so nicely about this fic at the Troy mpreg list!
AUTHOR NOTES: Sometimes it's hard to revisit a fandom after two years, but for some reason I decided I *had* to finish my two Troy mpregs . . . I can't resist torturing the noble Hector, so here goes!

Part Three

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.

Hector ignored the stares of several Myrmidon warriors surrounding a campfire and bent to put on his sandals; then, using the moon as a lamp, he made his way back to the Temple of Apollo. Halfway there, he was overcome by strong cramps in his stomach and bowel, but he resisted the urge to stop and squat, afraid of expelling any of Achilles' precious seed, the seed now dried and streaked on his naked skin.

When he reached the temple, he found both Paris and Lysander still waiting. Paris ran toward him when he reached the great stone steps.

"Brother, what happened? Are you hurt?"

Shaking his head, Hector paused and pulled on his tunic, suddenly aware of his nakedness. "We must return to Troy before the sun comes up," he said dismissively, trying to shake off the heady memory of lying locked in the arms of his enemy, of the terrible moment when Achilles broke the spell of their coupling and broke free of the vise-like grip of his legs. Hector slowly climbed the stairs of the temple, then looked around him at the shadowy recesses of the place he had first set eyes on the Greek warrior, where Achilles' Myrmidons had cut his Apollonian guard to ribbons, murdered the priests and sacked the holy relics. It still smelled of blood.

How he had wanted to clash swords with Achilles on that day! "Fight me!" he had demanded, and Achilles had arrogantly refused. How he had longed to test the strength of his arm against that of the Greek, to have the chance to avenge the horrible loss in the temple and show the invaders that Troy's prince and general was not afraid to die in defense of his city and his people. Not once had he felt fear at the prospect of facing such impossible odds, one man against Achilles and his Myrmidons. Achilles' unwillingness had filled him with frustration and anger. The fact that Achilles had handed him his life that day had felt more like an insult than a gift.

Thinking of the golden warrior weeping over the body of his dead lover in the privacy of his tent, it was hard to reconcile that man with the one whose sword had defiled the statue of Apollo. Now Hector felt his first pang of what might be fear.

What if he now held the child of this man in his own body, but Achilles no longer wanted it . . . or wanted him?

Surprised at his own thoughts and alarmed at their implication, Hector gestured to Lysander impatiently. "Get the lamp," he said. "We must hurry."

The three made their way down the hidden stairway into the bowels of the temple and through the ancient tunnel toward Troy; and twice Hector was forced to stop and clutch at his belly, taking in air in great gulps.

"He's hurt you!" Paris worried, but again Hector shook him off.

"I'm all right. I need my own bed and a cup of wine."

When the three finally found themselves climbing the stairs to the citadel, Hector noticed most of the strength had left his legs. He had to fight the impulse to cup his hand over his midsection like a protective shield. He wanted nothing more than to lie down or even curl up in the safety of his own bed and give himself time to contemplate what had happened and what might happen.

"Thank you," he said to Lysander as they parted. "Come to my room later, and we'll discuss what's to be done next. Let me know if there are any signs from the Greek camp."

This was no time for the Trojans to drop their guard; their attack on the Greek camp would probably lead to some retaliation, regardless of what Achilles decided regarding his own involvement in the war. Hector couldn't allow his conflicting emotions to color his judgment. He was one of the world's great military strategists, and all his acumen would be called upon in order to save Troy.

But now he could think of nothing but sleep.

The sun was rising behind the city, and light was seeping into Hector's private bed-chamber. Paris went to the terrace and tied down the awning, and Hector stood awkwardly watching.

"Here, Brother," Paris said, handing him a cup of cool, sweet wine. Hector drank deeply, tasting pomegranate. The wine quenched his great thirst and soothed his parched throat. He glanced thankfully at his younger brother.

Paris led him to his bed and crouched down to unfasten his sandals. "You must be bathed, Hector. I'll do it myself. Just finish the wine and lie back."

Hector did as he was told, too tired to protest. He was barely aware of being washed with a cool cloth of scented oil, oblivious to the scrubbing Paris had to give his thighs and buttocks to remove the remnants of Achilles' passion. He lay on his back on the large bed, staring unseeing at the gauzy canopy over his head, wondering what Achilles was doing, what he was thinking, what he was feeling.

He sighed.

"Hector?"

"Yes?"

"Do you carry his child . . . Achilles?"

Hector closed his eyes. "I don't know. I'm too tired to think of it."

He felt a cool hand on his face. "Go to sleep, Brother. Try not to worry. Later we'll call a physician and have you examined."

"No," Hector said, wanting to protest the idea of any sort of examination, finding the idea abhorrent even in his drowsy state. But before he could respond, he slipped into Hypnos' embrace. He slept a blessed, dreamless sleep until early afternoon, oblivious to the normal daily activities of the great city.

When he woke, his brother was sitting beside his bed.

"I was tired," Hector said, as though there was a need to explain his being abed in the middle of the day. He stretched out his limbs under the light sheet, surprised at the soreness of his legs and arms. He felt a flush crawl up his belly when he suddenly remembered how tightly he had clung to Achilles just hours earlier, how he had wrestled against him and clutched at him, how he had throbbed and trembled, how he had lunged and then lay in wait.

The memory began to affect him, and he bent his knees to disguise his arousal, taking deep breaths to temper himself.

Paris stood up. "I'll have food brought to you. You must be hungry."

"I'm thirsty. Is there more of that sweet wine?"

After instructing a servant to bring food, Paris lifted a large pitcher and filled a cup with deep red liquid. "I'm afraid it's become rather warm," he said. "I'll have them bring more chilled wine."

Hector sat up and took the cup, drinking thirstily, then choking a little on the rich taste. "I should have asked for water," he said. "Will you get me some?"

"Of course."

Rising slowly, Hector tested the strength of his legs and his balance. He was definitely not feeling entirely normal, but he didn't want to make any assumptions. He drank the water Paris offered, thinking how strange it was to be tended by his spoiled younger brother. Paris had always been vain and somewhat effete. His amorous liaisons had always been the cause of consternation for Hector, but his folly with the wife of the Spartan king had been disastrous. Now, after having lost his honor in front of the entire city and the assembled armies of both Troy and Greece by running from his fight with Menelaus, Paris had become more introspective and withdrawn. Until this moment Hector had barely had time to wonder what was inside his pretty brother's head.

Now he found himself curious. Hadn't Helen said something about his constant practice with his bow?

"Paris, are you still in love with Helen?" Hector asked.

A look of surprise on his face, Paris turned his attention away from his tasks of arranging the plate of food the servant had brought and laying out his brother's robes. "What? Of course. Why would you ask?"

Hector sat down near the food and reached for a bit of sweetmeat. "I just thought of how fickle you had always been in the past. Once you made a conquest, you tired of it."

"I must have always been such a burden for you, Brother. The unwanted sibling, wooing maidens and other men's wives, doing nothing to lessen the load you carry both civil and familial." Paris sat down across from Hector and poured both of them a cup from a fresh jug of wine. "It took me so long to realize this war had little to do with me or with Helen. I've never cared for politics or warfare. I thought Menelaus was a pig, and I imagined his brother to be no different. It didn't matter to me."

"Agamemnon has an ego even greater than his appetite," Hector said. "He wanted for us to grovel, and when we wouldn't, he began to dream of destruction. If he takes this city, he'll destroy it."

Paris' dark eyes were puzzled. "Why? Why would he destroy the most beautiful . . . the richest city in the world? Why not set himself up as king here?"

Hector shrugged. "It would fulfill his lust more to crush us than to simply conquer us. It's the same reason men rape women and boys during war, to prove their superior aggression. To break down the walls of Troy would be to accomplish something so monumental, no man alive could stand against him."

Finding he couldn't eat much, Hector stood and stretched. He suddenly felt an urgent need to relieve himself and asked his brother to fetch the chamber pot. As he made water, he said thoughtfully, "I wonder how I'll know . . . I wonder if I'll change."

Studying his own flat stomach and muscular chest, it was hard to imagine how a man could carry a child, how a masculine body could ever give birth or give suck to a babe. If the goddess had found a way to sow the seed, she must have some plan to harvest the fruit.

"Brother?"

"What is it, Paris?"

Paris stood, his face serious, his jaw set. "I want to be of help to you. I promise if this thing has happened, I will serve you in whatever way I can."

Surprised to find himself touched by this declaration, Hector cleared his throat. "I don't want anyone else to know until they have to," he said. "Just you, Lysander and myself."

"I'll tell no one," Paris promised, "not even Helen."

Hector rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "There is something you can do for me," he said.

"Anything."

"Find an amphora, one particularly well made. It should be decorated with brede and it should depict a scene of war or of the sea . . . or perhaps of horses. It must be befitting a prince -- something elegant -- and it must be large enough to hold something substantial."

Paris stood up and laid a hand on his brother's arm. "I'll find the perfect urn, Hector. I know the place to trade. You can rely on me."

"I need it before nightfall. I need it delivered to the Greek camp."

"The Greek camp?" Paris raised his eyebrows in question. When Hector didn't respond, he cleared his throat. "What is it for, Brother?"

Hector walked to the balcony and untied the awning; from his room he could see both north toward the Hellespont and west to the sea. It looked to be a fine day. He took a deep breath and touched his stomach again, imagining a flutter beneath his fingers. Or had it been merely imagination?

"It's a gift for Achilles," he said without turning around. "He'll need a vessel to hold the ashes of his lover, Patroclus."

The End, Part Three