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A new life for Paris	By : Sparrowbirdie Category: S through Z > Troy Views: 6457 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Troy, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 9
- 10
Broethevs pushed on. Too soon, the sleigh had lost speed. The giant had been out on a wintry night before. Experience told him that the fine powdered snow would not carry them far. Eventually, it would bury the sleigh. Broethevs was already knee-deep. Each step he took stirred a smoke of icy flakes which seemed razor-sharp against his strong, naked thighs. Darkness was shrouding the alpine landscape fast, and the cold set in with deadly force. Above, the first shimmering stars lighted up the midnight sky like pristine pinholes on black velvet. Broethevs' heart hammered wildly. The blood boiled fiercely and his pulse resounded violently in his ears. The scent of pine and spruce, of animals passing silently miles away. All of it invaded Broethevs' nostrils. The bear came to a stop. He was breathing hard, his lungs working to sustain the need for oxygen.
During his long years in Sparta, serving king Agamemnon, Broethevs had been on the run. The life as a soldier had provided plenty of distraction, but the emptiness in his heart prevailed. The gods continued to punish him for his insubordination. Broethevs rested his forehead on the handle of the sleigh. It hurt when he drew air down into his lungs. His entire ribcage felt as if it was about to explode.
Paris lay unconscious in the sleigh. In the depths of his mind, he was back in one of the elaborate bedrooms of the palace of Troy. He was naked. He was tied up. The kings were laughing, grinning, smirking evilly, like two boys up to no good. Desire glowed from their eyes and their erect manhoods dribbled with pre-cum. The sick smell of sex and sweat hung in the air, polluting his childhood home. Paris had played in these rooms, as a child. Childish games. Now, sheer terror flared up inside him as he watched Agamemnon, the conqueror of Troy, put his greedy, calloused hands on Paris' soft knees, stroking upwards, crawling closer like a pair of venomous scorpions. Paris' soft thighs, warmed and tanned by the sun each day, glistened with pearls of sweat, shaking with anxiety. Wriggling, Paris attempted to escape the sickening touch. Agamemnon's fingers were raspy, weathered from long days wielding weapons and fighting. They inched their way upwards, finding their way inwards, probing into Paris' entrance. The prince wailed, tensing up and shutting his eyes tight. He struggled against the intrusion, against the leather and the ropes restraining him. The fingers in his entrance kept digging deeper, probing, stretching him wider. Suddenly, Menelaus was kneeling over his head, gripping Paris with strong hands, steadying his head. The king undid the gag, plucked out the leather ball, all the while stroking his leaking manhood. Straddling Paris' chest, he locked the youth's jaws with one hand, forcing the boy to open. Menelaus bent forward, forced his cock downwards and into Paris' waiting mouth.
“For you, my dear” Menelaus mumbled, “a sweet introduction to what awaits you at the beach!”
The weight of the king squeezed the air out of his lungs. Paris struggled for air, tensing and coughing. Menelaus began to thrust in and out. It was sickening. Paris wanted to vomit. But he couldn't move. Wishing it would become to much, that he would pass out, all he could do was to endure. But it soon became worse, as Agamemnon removed his digits, replacing them with a much larger member. Pain seared through his entrance, as Paris felt the other king settling between his legs, forcing his way into his entrance. Both kings fucked him now, violating both body and mind of the young prince. His body was wet with sweat and saliva, his cock throbbing painfully, unable to reach its climax. In the midst of it all, he felt a burning sensation of pleasure, pooling from his abdomen.

Paris came to his senses abruptly. He was still tied to the sleigh, covered in stiff and worn furs which gave little warmth. It ached in every limb and he couldn't move. The momentarily relief of escaping the dream of the kings, was replaced with a sickening knot of anxiety as he heard the unmistakable sound of paws in the snow right beside him. Muzzles sniffed and grunted, and above his head there was something even bigger which was grunting and moaning. Whatever creature, it was huge, and the sleigh shuddered every time the creature set a foot on the ground.
Where was Broethevs? Where was his saviour, his master? Paris shut his eyes tight and swallowed, not understanding the situation. He had awoken from an absurd state of unconsciousness, where Agamemnon still haunted him, to this. A living hell, filled with so much terror that Paris wondered if he wouldn't have been better off staying in the dream with the kings. Maybe the wolves hadn't spotted him. Maybe they didn't smell him, Paris thought. The moon mirrored down upon pristine fields of snow, on the uneven range of snowcovered treetops, illuminating much of the landscape. To Paris' horror, he suddenly saw a huge bear come up on the side of the sleigh. It was an enormous big brown bear, the kind which hunted sheep and humans alike. It turned its head and stared directly into Paris' eyes. It had human eyes. Broethevs' eyes.
Broethevs had the most handsome brown eyes Paris ever had laid eyes on, in a man. They had an otherworldliness to them, a depth which was mesmerizing. Paris had studied them in secrecy. In the midst of all the torture and terror which surrounded him, Paris found that he could endure it if he only found some beauty to take his mind of things from time to time. And Broethevs' eyes held such beauty. At the beach, he had watched the sunsets. In the palace, facing the terrors of Agamemnon, he had lost himself in the beautiful paintings on the walls.

Now, in his apprehension, Paris was completely numbed. He could not understand what he was looking at. A bear? A demon? Broethevs? Or was he dreaming? Was this some surreal hallucination, the beginning of a serious madness?
The forest about them grew thicker. The shape of the bear and the wolves melted together with the massive shapes of trees, until all Paris could see were the shimmering stars on the midnight sky. He heard the bear cough an unmistakably human cough. Paris dared not gaze up at the creature which was pushing the sleigh. Glimpses now and then left him with the impression that it was a giant wolf.
He couldn't hold it for much longer, and again, Paris fell into unconsciousness, swirling downwards into pitch black. He dreamt – or was he really seeing it? – of a big wall of ice which shot up from the frosty ground. Covered in a thick layer of ice, the portal was magnificent to behold in the moonlight. He dreamt he was untied and picked up by the big bear. It slung him across one furry shoulder as if he was nothing more than a rag. Paris opened his eyes warily, his head spinning wildly. In a haze – or was it reality? – he thought he saw Agamemnon coming up, reaching for Paris, his expression of face distorted with rage. The king was dressed only in a billowy robe, wearing nothing underneath. There was no hiding the erect manhood the king sported, glistening and deep red in colour. Mad desire clouded the king's eyes, glaring daggers at Paris for eloping from him grasp.

Awaking – or was it another hallucination? – Paris was immediately fear stricken as he realised he had been submersed into water. It was salty and extremely warm against his frozen limbs. All shadows of Agamemnon was washed away, and the prince felt strangely alive. The big bear entered the water also, keeping Paris close and from drowning. Coming up for air, Paris gasped, looking up at the enormous creature, staring straight into the bear's eyes again. Every instinct in him told him to run from this great animal, but those eyes, those eyes …!
The bear brought them both to solid ground. It was a slope of naked, polished rock which abruptly ended steeply into the water. Paris realized they were in a cave, and that they were in a underground hot pool. It tingled in every limb, and in the dim light Paris saw several wolves on the rocks. Paris jumped as he felt the muzzle of the great bear behind him, under water. The great muzzle was touching his buttocks, and instinctively, Paris parted his thighs. As the bear straightened, shrugging off excess water from his head, Paris felt the cock brushing against his cleft. The bear wanted to mount him. Numbed with fear, Paris saw no other option but to comply, hoping the bear's member wouldn't do too much damage. Glancing over his shoulder, he found the bear's eyes. Broethevs' eyes.
It had to be Broethevs somehow. It just had to be.
The bear was gentle, rubbing back and forth on the surface, massaging Paris' puckered entrance. The air was heavy with animal smells, the salt of the water and of sex. The cave, which was quite big, house several couples which were mating and petting. Paris could easily see where the bear got his inspiration from. Judging from the chrome of the bear's cock, the rest of it would be huge. More than he would be able to handle. He wanted to leave. He wanted to stay. He could feel arousal growing in his belly. The tip massaging his entrance was delightful, but he knew it was only the sweetness before the real pain would set in. On impulse, he began to crawl out of the pool, away from the oncoming pain. Soon, Paris froze, as the bear roared menacingly behind him. An obviously dissatisfied growl ensued, and Paris felt one big paw close around his left ankle. Paris remained tense, his breathing shallow. Laying on his stomach, he felt the bear part his legs. The smooth, rocky surface was warm to the touch, slightly rough and hard against his flesh, but now, Paris didn't dare to move an inch. He had angered Broethevs.
The bear bent downwards towards the dog' buttocks. Using his paws, he parted the cheeks and revealed the entrance. He heard the dog whimper, tensing up, clenching his buttocks together in an effort to protect himself. The bear opened his jaws and gave the dog's hole one long lick. He heard the dog's breath hitch. He licked the dog in his ass once more, and the dog responded by arching his back and lifting his hips ever so slightly, silently indicating he enjoyed it. The dog moved slightly, and the bear responded by moving his left hind paw to rest upon the dog's head, effectively restricting his mobility.
Paris shut his eyes. He held his breath. There it came again, that fleshy and lengthy tongue which was slightly rough to the touch but smooth enough to make it interesting and enticing. This was something new, and it was completely and utterly arousing. He had never known such pleasure! He had to wriggle, to allow his aching cock some room. The treatment had given him a hard-on in a matter of seconds. The heavy paw on his head was a strong reminder of just who was the master in this affair, and Paris had no objections. He let slip a soft moan. The bear continued to lick him until Paris' entrance was glistening with saliva. Lifting the paw away from his head, the bear gently grabbed his arm and pulled his slave around. Diving down between the boy's legs, he immediately saw the erection. The bear began to lick it, stroking his raspy tongue from base to tip. The dog bucked his hips, moaning and whimpering silently. His hands began to wander on their own, seeking the soft fur. Paris was positively trembling, well on his way to becoming incoherent. Feeling more confident now, he didn't mind when the bear positioned himself between Paris' legs. The way the bear moved and carried himself, gave away his identity for sure. Paris saw in him Broethevs, his manner of shifting positions, the way he breathed deeply when aroused. The bear made a low growling noise, and Paris recognized it as purring. As the mighty bear leaned over him, it positioned the chrome of the erection against Paris' hole, meeting little resistance. The pain wasn't completely gone, but it had lessened considerably in strength. Paris' eyes widened as Broethevs the bear penetrated him, inching his way inside with great patience. The bear locked gazes with Paris as he entered, deeper and deeper. Paris swallowed, fighting to remain calm. The bear was so kind, so giving and warm. So huge. The fleshy member filled him up, gently moving in and out, rubbing against his insides. The bear continued to gaze into Paris' chocolate orbs. He did not go all the way, sensing that his erection was longer than Paris' insides could take. A look of tenderness came across the bear's face. It groaned softly in a concerned manner, cocking its head to one side as if to ask: 'Are you all right?'
Instinctively, Paris nodded weakly. Like this, communication was perfect. There was no need for words. The bear began to thrust gently, watching Paris all the time. He stopped at the slightest flinch on the dog's face, patiently waiting until Paris was ready once more. The tenderness and caring made Paris blush. He felt virginal and filled up to the brink by this bear, its mighty shape looming over his frail frame. The sense of being at the mercy of this big brown bear, knowing it was Brothevs, was enthralling and bewitching, sparking new depths of desire within Paris' belly. He reached down and touched himself. Once his fingertips touched the chrome of his erection, he knew that this was something he could become accustomed to. If only the bear would be this gentle with him every time ..!
Surrounded by a mass of moving fur and fleshy muscles, Paris stroked himself until he felt that he was drawing near. The clue now was to wait. He eased up on the stroking, relaxing, losing himself in the rhythm of the bear's gentle pounding and the way the huge member slid in and out of him, massaging the walls of his entrance. He had to keep his legs wide apart in order to accommodate the bear, though the tip of his toes could barely reach to the backside of the bear. The soft fur tickled the prince's toes, and Paris could not help himself but to let his toes play in the wonderfully soft fur. He was near, oh so near an orgasm, completely incoherent and delirious with pleasure. This was – it was beyond any sexual experience he'd ever had in the past, a much needed balm to the hundreds of open wounds he carried on his soul following the sexual abuse on the beach. This was safety – this was pure pleasure – far away from Agamemnon and his crazed brother, far away from war and death. As long as he could find shelter in Broethevs' arms, he would know bliss! If only there was a way for him to repay his savior!
A deep growl emanated from the bear. Obviously aroused, reaching the brink of orgasm, the bear began to groan and moan, thrusting harder. Paris feared he would lose himself and bury himself to the hilt. He felt a pang of anxiety, but found consolation in knowing that if that be the case, then he would die knowing that he had satisfied – and hopefully repaid this exceptional creature. Grasping his cock, Paris increased his stroking, it took only seconds, and the big shape of the bear trembled violently, groaning and roaring as he came inside Paris. Grateful that he hadn't been impaled by the big bear, Paris felt his own orgasm wash over him. It lasted only a few seconds. Paris jumped as a wet, hot muzzled connected with his fingers which were still wrapped around his cock. Letting go, withdrawing his hand in fear of the bear biting it, he stared in awe as the bear bent down to lick the fluid which had just been ejaculated. The bear's coarse tongue on his rapidly deflating erection was more intense now, on the point of painful. The bear was still inside him, absent-mindedly still massaging in and out of Paris' entrance. The motion was concentrated down to small movements, like some aftermath play as the adrenaline and the endorphins began to wear off. It came across to Paris as a sort of cuddling. Still sexual play but less of the sex and more cuddling. Having cleaned the prince's cock entirely, the bear then withdrew. Paris winced, hissing at the sharp pain. Again, the bear moved over him, looming like a great solid shadow. Then it began to descend, to lay down, and Paris rolled aside in the nick of time, avoiding becoming a mattress. He was quickly apprehended by one giant paw which closed around his chest. It dragged Paris close, nestling him into the soft fur of the broad chest. Broethevs the bear groaned contentedly, resting one paw on Paris' narrow hip.
Finding sleep like that, safe and warm, was easy. Paris slipped into a blissful slumber. Much later, he awoke, his stomach rumbling violently. The cave was empty, but there was a strange light at the other end of it. He thought he saw the outlines of a face. The bear moved as well, rising to a sitting position. The face filled a third of the cave wall, and it had a dim inner glow.
“At last, Broethevs Lord of Bears, you have found true love. The circle has come to a close. Here you are, in the truest of shapes, displaying your pride to a mortal. I give to your love, the gift of child. The cub which you for so long have yearned for”.
The face disappeared, fading with its inner glow. In the watery depths of the pool came a ball of light, and it shot upwards and rocketed out of the water. The cave seemed to go electric, charging the water, whipping it up until it began to hiss and boil. The ball of blue light was energetic, bouncing off the cave walls like crazy. Paris took cover in the fur of his master, shielding his head, not knowing what to expect. But soon, the ball hit them both, sending an intense electrical charge into them. Then it all blacked out. Paris lay immobilized on the smooth rocky surface. His body tingled and his abdomen ached. He had been struck by a god.
Some time later, they were approached by the large wolf on two legs which Paris had seen pushing the sleigh. It too, had human eyes, and it made Paris wonder what the giant grey wolf would look like as a human being. It had light grey, almost silvery fur, and surrounding the demi-god was an aura of something ancient. Paris bowed his head in reverence, suddenly anxious the wolf would come between them.
«I am Lykaios» the wolf spoke with deep resounding voice, «The Lord of Wolves. It is an honour to house the Lord of Bears. A human for a servant? How interesting that it should be one of king Priam's cubs.»
“You know of the late king of Troy?”

“The king was once a prince. And as a prince, he saved one of my females, who was with cub.”
“An honourable human.”
“In deed. And now he is dead. Agamemnon and his army is not welcome in my lands. As is any human. But for Priam's cub, I shall make an exception. You should fatten him up, my liege, or he will not make it through the winter. Meat is scarce. This winter we have been forced to brave the villagers to find food. If I had any I would share with you, great bear. As it is, you are on your own.”
“You have already more than exceeded in your hospitality, good lord. Thank you.”

In the darkness was only Helen. She filled his entire vision, and he saw her clearly. Clad in billowy white, she wore a gold tiara on her head. The was sun sparkling in her hair, and she stretched out her arms towards him in welcome. She smiled warmly, as if she had been expecting him. Almost reaching her fingertips, something went wrong. There was a shift in the air, and Paris felt himself being pulled away from her, away from the light. Strong hands had grabbed his waist, and Paris heard the evil laughter which he knew only all too well.
“Mine! All mine!” the king's voice chimed over and over, freezing Paris' blood in his veins. Paris' upper body was suddenly forced into the confines of a pillory, exposing his buttocks. Fighting to get free, Paris tugged and kicked but to no avail. He felt the rough hands of a grown man on his cheeks, greedily parting them to find what they looked for. Paris felt a pressing on his chest, something constricting his breathing. He sobbed for mercy, sobbed for air, knowing what was coming. He heard the murmur of male voices, heard their shuffling feet! The king would have him first and then the army! No sooner had panic flown through him, before Paris felt greedy fingers dig into his entrance. The sharp nails scratched the tender skin. Paris hissed at the sharp pain, and tensed up at the unwelcome intrusion. The raw wood of the pillory was rough against the soft skin of his finely arched neck, and Paris winced everytime those sharp edges rasped against the nape of his neck. He could not see the king's face, for which something Paris was grateful for. Those nosy digits kept digging into him, scissoring and plunging deeply in and out, stretching and violating his deepest and darkest landscape. Another hand reached around the pillory, and found his half-erection. Embarrassed, Paris moaned, wishing himself far away. He had no desire to be satisfied or abused either way. The bejewelled hand seized his cock, grasping it with fat, ringed fingers. The hand began to pump away, matching the pace of the fingers digging deep inside his orifice. Paris felt his knees go weak, trembling from the effort of keep erect in such a difficult position. The ministrations made Paris shiver with restrained lust. He could not stop himself from obeying his own body's reaction, finding pleasure in the intrusion from behind. But his head spoke differently. The voice in his head told him to fight this, to resent it. His pride and upbringing objected to this particular use. Paris of Troy was anything but a common slave! But as much as he wanted to, there was no escape. The fingers inside him went away. Instead, he was filled by a cock, and it began to pump away eagerly. A soldier came sneaking to the front of the pillory. Paris could not see his face, it was shrouded by darkness. But the man's mouth soon engulfed his erection. It was the sweetest experience.
Paris awoke to the sensation of being filled. He was laying on his back on the rocky surface, with his legs submersed into the warm, comfortable and salty water of the wolf lord's cave. Broethevs the bear hovered over him, filling his hole with his mighty erection. He was bending down, his large tongue eagerly lapping at Paris' erection. The bear omitted low grunts and growls, obviously enjoying himself. It felt as if he had put the enormous cock half way up Paris' stomach, for he felt really bloated and full. Glad to be back with the creature he trusted the most, Paris dug his hands deeply yet respectfully into the coarse fur. He drew a deep breath, and lifted his hips, giving way for Broethevs to enter deeply. The bear rose to his full height, grasped one ankle in each paw and steadied his footing on the rocky ledge in the water. He thrust carefully as not to hurt Paris too much.
“Gods” the bear growled lowly, “give me the strength to see this through. The dog may not be much, but he is of good stock. Let the cub live. Let it be strong.”
Broethevs came deep into the dog. Afterwards, he grasped the dog's waist and dragged him into the water.
“I must go out and hunt. Without food, you and the little one will surely die.”
Back on land, Paris watched the bear leave. He was left, sitting on the ground with his legs crossed, his hands resting idly in his lap. The bear – this entity which once had been a warrior from Sparta – now dared the killing snow out there for him, a slave! Paris could no longer feel starvation in his belly. It was just hard and bloated all the time. But Broethevs – the Lord of Bears – had left him with a tender ache in his chest, and it forced Paris to acknowledge that he was setting his hopes on this demi-god to provide for him. Paris gave no thought to the bear's words. He cared not for the prospect of life growing inside him. Shutting his eyes, all he saw was the giant Spartan with the strongly set jaw and the soft, considerate eyes. Oh how wrong it was of him, Paris thought with regret. How wrong to harbour such hope! To think that this man, this lord, would see Paris as nothing as a flea-infested slave with a hole. He had said so himself, hadn't he? That Paris would do until Broethevs could find himself a proper wife! Broethevs fancied voluptuous, fertile women, not a half dead, slightly mummified and half-crazed slave.

Time passed. Paris remained on the same spot just staring at the floor. Wolves entered and left, bathing, mating and grooming one another. They lived their lives in the now, not concerning themselves about tomorrow. That was the job of the wolf lord, Lykaios. Paris looked up as the giant beast entered, and he tensed up as the beast approached, sniffing him gently. Some of the females in the cave stirred, whining and suddenly whimpering, moving up to the lord of wolves. He growled gently at them before turning his attention back to Paris. Those big, human eyes were captivating. Pale blue, as they were. Paris had never seen eyes like that before, staring back at him with wonder and untold wisdom. The females approached again. But the lord of wolves would not budge. Then, Paris glanced downwards to see the manhood which was partly concealed in fur. Its chrome was glistening with pre-cum, its shaft thick and hard. The females were in heat.
The sight of the manhood was unsettling. Paris began to move away unconsciously, until his right shoulder touched the smooth wall not too far from where he had been seated. Something about the way the wolf lord carried himself – perhaps the undisguised virility and the honour – made Paris feel ashamed over being so imperfect. Here was the perfect leader. The predator. The lover with his harem, with energy to please them all at once. The king of wolves, strong and wise, safe in knowing he was herding his people into the future.
The Lord of Wolves – now completely surrounded by a pack of females which bickered amongst themselves about who to go first – huffed and groaned once. It was a signal, and the cubs left their mothers' sides and swarmed around Paris, licking his toes and face, eager to be shown attention. They were lovely, fluffy and trusty little things, and they competed in jumping up to find a seat on Paris' lap. Stroking them carefully at first, he relaxed more when he saw them begin to play-fight with each other. Petting them, they rolled over so he could stroke their bellies. They nipped at his toes and licked his ears, barking eagerly for him to see them. Spurred by their energy, Paris found some pebbles which he managed to stack on top of one another. Not having seen anything like it, the cubs closed in on it carefully with their obvious predator-nearing-a-prey-manner. Silent, nose first, head down and tail strung high and ready. Timidly, they nudged at the small tower with their paws. Shaking slightly at their touches, the tower wobbled and the cubs leapt high in the air by the unexpected movement. Their hunting instincts were on the alert, and Paris could see their bodies filling up with adrenaline, ready to set in the kill. A fairly small cub was the boldest. But he made a mistake and nudged the tower with its muzzle. As the pebbles came crashing down and flying everywhere across the smooth cave floor, wolf cubs danced and jumped, twisting in mid-air and chasing stones wildly.
The noise made the mothers look up from their task momentarily. For a brief second they forgot about the wolf lord and their inexplicable need to mate with their leader. A dozen pair of wolf eyes glared over to where Paris was sitting, and the cave went silent save for the gleeful noises of cubs chasing stones. Paris swallowed hard, feeling his heart race inside his chest. He looked over to where the wolf lord was, half buried beneath eager female bodies. Something akin to a grin flared over his muzzle before he focused back at his task at hand: The vagina of a small brown-furred female which already was the mother to a set of twins. She was so wet it dripped, and the scent of sex hung deep into the air. Paris observed how the females turned their rears at him, arching their backs and lifting their tails, displaying their wet big holes. The wolf lord had them each in turn, growling and grooming. Paris felt a deep tingle in his abdomen, and it felt wrong. He shouldn't be feeling like this without Broethevs. Leaving the great cave, Paris sought to quench the desire which churned in his bloated belly. A pack of cubs followed him, curious of what the two-legged one would do next. Perhaps it was another game?
The familiar sight of Broethevs ahead made him stop. He backed up. Broethevs had his jaw full of deer and rabbits, and he made his way resolutely to the large cave. He was panting, breathing heavily, dragging on two more deer behind him. Inside the cave, he immediately presented them to the Wolf Lord. Pleased with the offering, the meat was distributed amongst the wolves. Broethevs kept the rabbits for himself and for Paris.
“Come” he told his slave, “you must find wood and cook your meat”.
Broethevs watched while Paris struggled to prepare the fire. He had to admit, the dog had surviving skills. All though it took some time, Paris found the items he needed in order to kindle a fire. Soon, a tiny flame shot up, and Paris fed it tiny, tiny twigs. The bear lost himself staring at the flame. It was a weak little thing, fragile and uncertain. But it was there, burning also in his chest. It burned for the dog. At first, at the beach of Troy it had been nothing more than a hunch. A ghost of distant pasts whispering to him that this, this was a slim hope but better than nothing at all. If the gods would not endure an offspring with a mortal woman, than they might just endure a mortal man. And approval had been given. Yes, a flame burned in his chest, lightening up his soul. This could be the beginning of something very good.
- 9
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A new life for Paris