Favorite Son
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Category:
S through Z › Troy
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
15
Views:
10,629
Reviews:
16
Recommended:
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.
Sunlight and Seafoam
This chapter was a twinkle in my eye back when I wrote the final paragraph of Chapter 5 (Silence). Little did I know it would take me so long to get to this point. Since it has been so long, I begin this chapter by repeating the final words of Silence.
A multitude of thanks, hugs and kisses to for beta. It is not merely that she betas the chapters, but that her commentary throughout this series is so insightful, her analysis so spot-on, that her thoughts have often guided my writing. [Edit: Many others also have made comments that have informed the writing. I appreciate you all very much!]
From Silence (chapter 5): For a long while I remain awake. Neither does Hector sleep, and I wait in vain for the snoring to commence. Instead, an owl hoots somewhere. The distant voices of the sentries carry on the wind.
And Hector holds me until I am lost in my dreams.
And in those dreams, she comes to me, all sunlight and seafoam and long waving hair of gold. She beckons and I follow her to the green slopes of Mount Ida, where I see my beautiful brother, sitting in the shade of a tree, eating an apple and gazing out over the far-off sea. She takes my hand and whispers in my ear, “All the gods of Olympus love him, but he knows nothing of us. He waits for you, Alexandros.”
SUNLIGHT AND SEAFOAM
I have determined that we shall leave this place on the morrow.
I have no wish to leave. Mount Ida is beautiful, and moreover it is peaceful. We have now stayed in this village for seven days, and as the people here have come to know me better they have relaxed, even to the point that the men and I all attended a wedding – the happy union of a fresh-faced maiden and a stout young farmer. I envied them even as I smiled upon their happiness with heartfelt benevolence. Such people are the backbone of my country. It lives and grows because of them, and their boundless belief in the gods as well as the worth of their own labor.
Archeptolemus and Dresus are packing our belongings. While we are leaving many things behind – cloth and jewelry that found admirers among the women, tooled leather belts and other goods praised by the men – the people of Mount Ida have laden us with gifts to take in the opposite direction – hand-made toys for my nieces and nephews, prepared foods for the kitchens, and crafts for the king and queen.
I am torn by my feelings. For the past week I have permitted Paris to sleep with me each night, and I have taken him several times, with greater reluctance each time, yet for the past two nights I have but held him while he slept. Last night before climbing the ladder to the hayloft, I stopped to give good night to Archeptolemus, whereupon he took my shoulder and leaned close. “Should you need to talk, my prince…” he began with a hesitation unusual in him.
“No,” I demurred quietly, “though I will remember the offer, should the need arise in future.”
Last night I felt that there could be nothing of which to speak to anyone. It is my burden to bear. Even so, the words of my friend were precious to me last night.
Recalling them now, perhaps I was wrong, and perhaps the time has come to seek help from another, though it is most difficult to admit as much. And yet I am in desperate need of speaking with another mortal, for all my decisions seem wrong, and I feel that I can go neither forward nor back, as though caught in a whirlwind or a maelstrom. I am lost as I have never been in my life, save for the time when I came back to Troy to find the city newly enchanted by a brother I never knew I had.
I approach the two men; with no words spoken I begin to assist them in their task. They accept my presence with companionable silence, and we work together for some time. Surreptitiously I observe Dresus. Like myself and his lover, he is tall and strong. He is taciturn, yet sure of himself and easy in my presence. I am glad for my friend that he has found this man.
At last I turn to Archeptolemus and bid him come aside. We sit in a quiet corner of the stable and polish the tack – for it has grown quite dusty during our Ida sojourn – while I seek words to open a dialogue. Surely this is as discomfiting to my friend as well as to me. Yet even now he makes all right for me, for he begins.
“My lord – “
“I would have you call me Hector,” I interrupt, concentrating on the leather in my hands.
Beside me, I hear him take a breath. “If it pleases you, my lord.”
“It does.”
“My lord Hector.”
I suppress a sigh. It will have to suffice. It is not his fault that he was born to his position, nor I to mine. “Tolemus,” I begin, “I am not much like my father.”
“Are you not?” He had not expected this.
“No,” I continue. “I have not his happy demeanor. For all the noble and fearsome deeds he has done, his accomplishments sit lightly upon his shoulders. Have you not noticed?”
“I am not often in the presence of the king.”
“Ah.” This is quite true. For many years now, the army has been my charge, and rarely has my father intervened. “Paris is very like the king in the matter of temperament.”
“Prince Paris seems goddess-blessed indeed,” he agrees quietly. “To have survived what he has, to have returned to his birthright beyond all expectation. His great beauty and his charm alike are undeniable. He has the love of all the people.”
How odd that I find I want desperately to hear him talk of Paris. It is something I can never have: a simple, ordinary conversation about matters that concern my heart. It is a weakness to expect this of my friend, but who else might do this for me, I know not. Thus I wait, not looking up.
“Prince Paris,” he says thoughtfully, “handled himself very well in the night attack on the – “
“You have told me.”
“He has improved enormously since his arrival in Troy.”
I nod curtly.
“My lord, you have been hard on him. More than he deserves, I believe.”
I find myself gripping the leather tightly and twisting it round my hands. Yet I wanted him to speak freely and it would seem churlish to complain now.
Archeptolemus continues as though he has not noticed my agitation. “Your expectations are high, as they should be, and yet I feel that he would blossom more fully were he not subject to continual worry about your good opinion. Place him entirely under my care. Allow me to develop his skills and his courage further. He will worry less about disappointing me than he would you.”
As usual, my friend has thought more clearly than I. In my blindness I did not see how my very actions were inhibiting Paris’ improvement. “Make it so. And, Tolemus, long before now I should have given you a regiment to command. My desire to keep you in my own regiment has clouded my eyes.”
“I thank you, yet I prefer to stay with your regiment. It is better to be the prince’s second-in-command, than to command my own regiment.”
This moves me greatly and I fear to answer, lest my voice betray emotion. In the stillness of the stable, it is clear that neither of us is paying attention to the task at hand any longer. The polishing of the tack will have to be completed later by the other men.
Archeptolemus lays aside the leather pieces. “Prince Paris craves your good opinion above everything.”
“I think very well of his progress.”
“Some things must be said aloud, my lord,” he tells me, “or others may not believe them to be true.”
“Such dim faith,” I murmur.
“He is but mortal, as are we all. If you ask my advice, I say this: give him what he desires. He has earned it.”
The reins in my hands slip forgotten to the stable ground. “It is more than that, Tolemus.”
I feel his eyes upon me. “I know,” he says gently.
“No!” I cry, rising and pacing to the other side of the stable. “You do not know. You have no notion of what my life is!” From this distance I can bear to turn and gaze upon him. His face conveys a look of astonishment.
“My lord – “
“Can you not even do as I tell you and call me Hector?” I shout. “I am tired of being a prince! I want to be a man.”
Astonished he may be, yet he remains bold as ever. “You are a man.”
Frowning, I continue darkly, “No, a man like you. A man like Dresus. For you, Tolemus – you have more freedom than I, the heir to all of Troy. I envy you greatly.”
“It may seem like freedom,” he says quietly, as though I am a skittish colt that he wishes to calm. “And yet my lot is not worth your envy.”
“You are free to love Dresus.” It sounds petulant and I despise myself for that.
“With one command you could separate me from my love,” he counters.
I am horrified. What does he think of me? “I would do no such thing,” I say hotly.
“That is true, my lord, and I place my faith in your kind heart and your goodness.”
This mollifies me somewhat.
“And yet it remains true that my continued happiness is not in my hands. I am not in charge of decisions that affect my own life.”
“I just said – “
“If the king, or Prince Deiphobus, were to give a command in your absence, I could say nothing.”
I stop pacing. He is quite right. I feel a fool for pitying myself before him. “My apologies, Tolemus. We are both in chains, of different sorts, but chains all the same.”
“Then it matters most,” he says evenly, “how you deal with the chains.”
“I love him,” I blurt out, turning away as heat suffuses my face. “But I think it is wrong.” He says nothing, and I grow fearful. “Is it wrong? Tell me freely. You must, for no one else will.”
He speaks slowly as though choosing words with care. He is a man of action, not words, and fears to misstep. “I do not believe so. There are many sorts of bonds one may form – with brothers, with fellow warriors, with sisters and mothers, wives and lovers. So long as we care for those we love, I see no wrong.”
“You say this because you think it is what I wish to hear.”
“I say this because I love you, my prince, and I wish to see you happy.” His voice tells me his meaning: he loves me as a brother. I hear him rise behind me, and then his comforting hand clasps my shoulder, and it feels as though it warms me through. “You of all men – “
But I must stop him and I speak quickly. “Will you find Paris and let him know that I have gone to his favorite place?”
His hand falls from my shoulder. “Yes, I shall do so.”
Without looking back, I stride from the stable, yet before I pass the threshold and into the sunshine, his voice stops me.
“Hector, my friend.”
I turn and look back.
“Give him what he desires most,” he says simply.
I nod. “Thank you,” I say, and go outside into the blinding sunshine.
*** *** ***
For one last time I walk to a spot on the mountainside much favored by Paris, a grassy and gentle slope overlooking the distant sea. The place is but a league from the village, so I wear nothing but the long skirt and sandals. The temperate sun is soothing on the flesh of my shoulders, and the ground undulates gently beneath my feet.
When I come to the place, it is empty, and the whole of the world is mine alone. I pluck a handful of red mulberries from a large and tangled shrub, and then seat myself upon the ground beneath the spreading branches of a tree that will not bear apples until the season of the harvest, but is in full leaf and flower now. Stretching my legs before me, I lean back against the sturdy trunk and bite into the sweet fruit. A great sense of contentment steals over me as I gaze toward the remote water that glints in the midday sun. The tree’s branches reach over my head as though they would protect me; indeed, I feel at times that I am the only member of Troy who can look to no one else for protection. Like all Trojans, I pray to the gods, yet so often it has been my observation that the gods bless you one day and curse you the next. How I would like to feel warm and protected for once.
I draw up my legs and sit cross-legged so that I may lean upon my knees and contemplate the vista. As I take another bite I hear a voice call my name; cocking my head to the side, I see Paris coming along the ridge.
Almost he seems a vision, for there is some soft floating glow around him, or near him, something that seems to be made of bright mist taking the form of a beautiful woman, then fading again into some other shape. I close my eyes and open them again and the vision has disappeared. Perhaps it was only an apparition created by the sun. I chuckle at myself, for the simple brightness of his smile could blind me.
And then there is only Paris, dressed as I am – for he loves to emulate me in every way – with his goddess-blessed visage, his lithe young limbs, and a soft look for me. He sits upon the grass beside me, leaning against me until I find that my arm drapes itself around his shoulders of its own volition.
We sit in great ease for long moments, watching the wheeling birds, listening for the near-imperceptible sound of the sea, feeling the soft zephyrs that tangle our hair.
“You mean for us to leave,” he says at last.
“We must. We cannot stay forever.”
“I know.” He turns his face up to me. “Yet have you not been happy here?”
“I have been most happy,” I say, keeping my eyes forward, for there is something I must tell him, and I am not keen to do it, yet ever have I done my duty. I shall not slack now.
I am relieved when he returns his gaze to the sea. “I saw a hydra once,” he says, and then I do look at him to see if he is teasing. He turns again and smiles at me. “Truly, Hector – a hydra playing in the waves.”
“It is too far,” I object. “You could see no such thing at this distance.”
“My eyes are the eyes of an eagle,” he says proudly.
I tousle his hair lightly. He giggles and leans over to kiss my cheek.
“I like your beard,” he says. “It feels so soft. And you are so strong and so big.” His finely made hands move to stroke over my shoulders and arms and chest. “It has been two days, Hector,” he whispers shyly.
Gently I take Paris’ hands and remove them from my body. I kiss the backs of his fingers on each hand and then lay them upon his thighs. “Paris, we need to think of our return.”
He squints and a furrow appears between his dark brows. “What have I done wrong?”
“Nothing.” I look back toward the sea. “Father needs us.”
“For what?”
“He needs us to behave like the princes we are. This is our future and our duty.”
“You always uphold duty and honor, Hector. No one finds fault with you.” I sense his hesitation and the deepening of the furrow. “Except yourself.”
“This disturbs you, little brother.”
“I dislike greatly seeing you in this mood,” he says in a low tone.
“Someone must be responsible.” That was perhaps more cruel than necessary. I have no wish to hurt him. He is still very young and moreover had not my advantages from the beginning. “Do you recall when first you came to Troy?”
“Yes,” he says quietly.
“I was very angry.” My pride makes it hard to admit to this truth.
“You were right to be angry.”
“I was vain.”
“It is not vanity in you. For you are Hector.”
“You bested me.”
“I did?”
“At archery.”
“Oh. But you are better at everything else.”
“I wanted to rule you.”
“You do rule me, Hector. You know that.”
“I wanted to possess you.”
“I am yours, Hector.”
I sigh deeply. “But it was not always so. And that troubles me, more than I care to tell.”
“I have only ever been yours, Hector,” Paris whispers, pressing his face against my chest.
Only mine? What can he mean? For he told me – I recall it very clearly – that I was not his first. I have spent the past several days staring at one after another of the men in the village, imagining the very worst of each, and yet unable to say a word or to accuse anyone of anything, even though I was suffused by a cowardly desire to run my spear through the body of any who had defiled my brother by thrusting a spear of flesh into his young body. For I knew not which man it was, nor even how many, nor…
“Paris!” I bellow. “You lied to me!”
He starts violently as I stand and tower over him.
“I – ? Hector?”
“You told me that you had done it before.” I will not allow his look of adoring confusion to sway me. He lied to me and I cannot allow that to pass. I wait for him to remember, while the very thunderclouds of Zeus settle upon my brow.
He casts his eyes downward. “Ah,” he says, and begins to chew on a fingernail.
“Explain yourself.”
“You would have stopped,” he says at last.
“That is no matter.”
“But you would have.”
“It gives you no leave to lie to me.”
“I wanted you to continue.”
“Princes do not lie.”
“I was not much of a prince then, was I?” he says, bitterness entering his voice. He rises with formidable grace and turns to walk away from me.
What have I done now? I wonder, smiting my forehead. Archeptolemus would be ashamed of me. I have spoiled Paris’ favorite place, and made things worse, not better. Clutching my head and squeezing my eyes closed, I try to think what it was my friend told me.
Give him what he most desires.
Opening my eyes, I command: “Halt!”
So well-trained is Paris to my voice that he stops instantly. Yet he does not turn to face me.
Give him what he most desires.
In a few strides I am before him, looming once again. This is not right. I go to my knees before him. I cannot look at him. I look at the ground.
“Hector?” comes his small, wondering voice.
“I love you,” I say in deep misery.
The silence that ensues feels like the silence of Hades. I cannot look up. And it seems I need not, for Paris suddenly drops to his knees and clutches me about the neck and rains kisses on my face and shoulders. “Hector, oh Hector,” he babbles like some demented creature.
Much as I long to reciprocate, I know what I must do: I take his arms and pull them away and return them to his sides and hold him from me. “We can do this no longer, Paris,” I whisper.
The furrow is back upon his brow, and his eyes are imbued with a look of terror and disbelief. “What do you mean?”
“We are sons of the king, we are brothers, we are guardians of Troy. We cannot be lovers as well.”
“But you said – “ His voice breaks.
“Because it is true, Paris. I have never loved anyone as I love you. I have no wish to love anyone this way again. You will always be my love.”
His lower lip is trembling. He is trying not to weep, but his beautiful dark eyes are brimming with unshed tears. “Then why cannot – “
“It is enough that we love one another,” I say, knowing that I try to convince myself as well as him. “Pure, true love does not require satiation of lust.”
A tear rolls down his cheek. “Will you never touch me again?” he asks.
He has broken my heart many times. This is merely one time more. “You are my brother, Paris, I will behave as I do with my other siblings. When we return to Troy, it is time that we establish a household for you. Our parents have been thinking about this in our absence.”
“I want no such thing,” he says bitterly.
“Nevertheless,” I push on, “it will come to pass.”
“I would rather stay here on Mount Ida and be a shepherd again.”
“The choice is no longer yours to make.”
“Why not? I shall be Alexandros. If I am merely Alexandros, you can love me.”
“I already love Paris,” I remind him gently.
“But Prince Hector can take the shepherd boy to his bed and no one will care.”
“You are not a shepherd boy.” I take his head in my hands. It seems so small and fragile. His cheeks are damp with tears; with my thumbs I brush away more moisture from his long lashes. “You are a prince of Troy, and I am very proud of you.”
He sobs once. “You cannot do this to me, Hector. You have to give me something.”
“I will give you a last kiss,” I say, leaning forward. His arms reach for me and I release his head to grab his hands and place them upon his thighs. “You must not,” I murmur, leaving his hands there and removing my hands to my own thighs.
“Hector,” he whimpers.
I cover his lips with my fingers. “Let me kiss you,” I say, and replace those fingers with my own lips.
Thus we kneel together in the light of Apollo’s chariot, only our mouths touching as I kiss him in sweet earnest, tasting the salt on his skin, tilting my head to kiss him more deeply, stroking my tongue beneath and around his. At last he responds and kisses me as though he would never stop.
And I consider, for the first time in all the years of my life, whether I might relinquish my duty to Troy, and call myself prince no longer. Deiphobus is strong just as I am; he is dedicated to the city, he is a noble and wise warrior. Were I to leave, Troy would remain in good hands. And what if I were to die on any of a dozen sorties outside the city? I am not immortal, and if such happened, Deiphobus would be required to take my place. What difference could there be if, instead of dying, I simply left? Paris could be Alexandros again, and I could learn some simple trade, perhaps as a blacksmith. We could join a caravan and travel far away where none would know who we are. I pray to whatever god or goddess might listen... yet they do not listen, and the world has not changed when I remember once again where I am, and who I am.
Gently, I break our kiss and bow my head. When I lift it again, tears are streaming down my own face. Paris sees and cries out and reaches for me. I know he wants to comfort me, but I will not permit it. I push his hands away again.
“No more,” I insist harshly. “Do as I say.”
He falls on the ground and buries his face in his hands, while his bitter sobs stab through me like burning spears.
*** *** ***
How my fallen enemies would be surprised to see the mighty prince of Troy weeping like a maiden. In spite of the bright sunlight, their Stygian shades seem to taunt me now.
“Alexandros,” I whisper to the boy whose head rests in my lap, “I need you. I know not what to do. But I will keep you safe. I will keep you safe.”
He says no word in answer. He is angry with me now. Yet he will come to learn that it is for the best. He will come back to Troy with me on the morrow, for he must.
Looking over Poseidon’s great, wide sea, through eyes still brimming, I think of things that I will give up, and things that I will not.
A multitude of thanks, hugs and kisses to
From Silence (chapter 5): For a long while I remain awake. Neither does Hector sleep, and I wait in vain for the snoring to commence. Instead, an owl hoots somewhere. The distant voices of the sentries carry on the wind.
And Hector holds me until I am lost in my dreams.
And in those dreams, she comes to me, all sunlight and seafoam and long waving hair of gold. She beckons and I follow her to the green slopes of Mount Ida, where I see my beautiful brother, sitting in the shade of a tree, eating an apple and gazing out over the far-off sea. She takes my hand and whispers in my ear, “All the gods of Olympus love him, but he knows nothing of us. He waits for you, Alexandros.”
SUNLIGHT AND SEAFOAM
I have determined that we shall leave this place on the morrow.
I have no wish to leave. Mount Ida is beautiful, and moreover it is peaceful. We have now stayed in this village for seven days, and as the people here have come to know me better they have relaxed, even to the point that the men and I all attended a wedding – the happy union of a fresh-faced maiden and a stout young farmer. I envied them even as I smiled upon their happiness with heartfelt benevolence. Such people are the backbone of my country. It lives and grows because of them, and their boundless belief in the gods as well as the worth of their own labor.
Archeptolemus and Dresus are packing our belongings. While we are leaving many things behind – cloth and jewelry that found admirers among the women, tooled leather belts and other goods praised by the men – the people of Mount Ida have laden us with gifts to take in the opposite direction – hand-made toys for my nieces and nephews, prepared foods for the kitchens, and crafts for the king and queen.
I am torn by my feelings. For the past week I have permitted Paris to sleep with me each night, and I have taken him several times, with greater reluctance each time, yet for the past two nights I have but held him while he slept. Last night before climbing the ladder to the hayloft, I stopped to give good night to Archeptolemus, whereupon he took my shoulder and leaned close. “Should you need to talk, my prince…” he began with a hesitation unusual in him.
“No,” I demurred quietly, “though I will remember the offer, should the need arise in future.”
Last night I felt that there could be nothing of which to speak to anyone. It is my burden to bear. Even so, the words of my friend were precious to me last night.
Recalling them now, perhaps I was wrong, and perhaps the time has come to seek help from another, though it is most difficult to admit as much. And yet I am in desperate need of speaking with another mortal, for all my decisions seem wrong, and I feel that I can go neither forward nor back, as though caught in a whirlwind or a maelstrom. I am lost as I have never been in my life, save for the time when I came back to Troy to find the city newly enchanted by a brother I never knew I had.
I approach the two men; with no words spoken I begin to assist them in their task. They accept my presence with companionable silence, and we work together for some time. Surreptitiously I observe Dresus. Like myself and his lover, he is tall and strong. He is taciturn, yet sure of himself and easy in my presence. I am glad for my friend that he has found this man.
At last I turn to Archeptolemus and bid him come aside. We sit in a quiet corner of the stable and polish the tack – for it has grown quite dusty during our Ida sojourn – while I seek words to open a dialogue. Surely this is as discomfiting to my friend as well as to me. Yet even now he makes all right for me, for he begins.
“My lord – “
“I would have you call me Hector,” I interrupt, concentrating on the leather in my hands.
Beside me, I hear him take a breath. “If it pleases you, my lord.”
“It does.”
“My lord Hector.”
I suppress a sigh. It will have to suffice. It is not his fault that he was born to his position, nor I to mine. “Tolemus,” I begin, “I am not much like my father.”
“Are you not?” He had not expected this.
“No,” I continue. “I have not his happy demeanor. For all the noble and fearsome deeds he has done, his accomplishments sit lightly upon his shoulders. Have you not noticed?”
“I am not often in the presence of the king.”
“Ah.” This is quite true. For many years now, the army has been my charge, and rarely has my father intervened. “Paris is very like the king in the matter of temperament.”
“Prince Paris seems goddess-blessed indeed,” he agrees quietly. “To have survived what he has, to have returned to his birthright beyond all expectation. His great beauty and his charm alike are undeniable. He has the love of all the people.”
How odd that I find I want desperately to hear him talk of Paris. It is something I can never have: a simple, ordinary conversation about matters that concern my heart. It is a weakness to expect this of my friend, but who else might do this for me, I know not. Thus I wait, not looking up.
“Prince Paris,” he says thoughtfully, “handled himself very well in the night attack on the – “
“You have told me.”
“He has improved enormously since his arrival in Troy.”
I nod curtly.
“My lord, you have been hard on him. More than he deserves, I believe.”
I find myself gripping the leather tightly and twisting it round my hands. Yet I wanted him to speak freely and it would seem churlish to complain now.
Archeptolemus continues as though he has not noticed my agitation. “Your expectations are high, as they should be, and yet I feel that he would blossom more fully were he not subject to continual worry about your good opinion. Place him entirely under my care. Allow me to develop his skills and his courage further. He will worry less about disappointing me than he would you.”
As usual, my friend has thought more clearly than I. In my blindness I did not see how my very actions were inhibiting Paris’ improvement. “Make it so. And, Tolemus, long before now I should have given you a regiment to command. My desire to keep you in my own regiment has clouded my eyes.”
“I thank you, yet I prefer to stay with your regiment. It is better to be the prince’s second-in-command, than to command my own regiment.”
This moves me greatly and I fear to answer, lest my voice betray emotion. In the stillness of the stable, it is clear that neither of us is paying attention to the task at hand any longer. The polishing of the tack will have to be completed later by the other men.
Archeptolemus lays aside the leather pieces. “Prince Paris craves your good opinion above everything.”
“I think very well of his progress.”
“Some things must be said aloud, my lord,” he tells me, “or others may not believe them to be true.”
“Such dim faith,” I murmur.
“He is but mortal, as are we all. If you ask my advice, I say this: give him what he desires. He has earned it.”
The reins in my hands slip forgotten to the stable ground. “It is more than that, Tolemus.”
I feel his eyes upon me. “I know,” he says gently.
“No!” I cry, rising and pacing to the other side of the stable. “You do not know. You have no notion of what my life is!” From this distance I can bear to turn and gaze upon him. His face conveys a look of astonishment.
“My lord – “
“Can you not even do as I tell you and call me Hector?” I shout. “I am tired of being a prince! I want to be a man.”
Astonished he may be, yet he remains bold as ever. “You are a man.”
Frowning, I continue darkly, “No, a man like you. A man like Dresus. For you, Tolemus – you have more freedom than I, the heir to all of Troy. I envy you greatly.”
“It may seem like freedom,” he says quietly, as though I am a skittish colt that he wishes to calm. “And yet my lot is not worth your envy.”
“You are free to love Dresus.” It sounds petulant and I despise myself for that.
“With one command you could separate me from my love,” he counters.
I am horrified. What does he think of me? “I would do no such thing,” I say hotly.
“That is true, my lord, and I place my faith in your kind heart and your goodness.”
This mollifies me somewhat.
“And yet it remains true that my continued happiness is not in my hands. I am not in charge of decisions that affect my own life.”
“I just said – “
“If the king, or Prince Deiphobus, were to give a command in your absence, I could say nothing.”
I stop pacing. He is quite right. I feel a fool for pitying myself before him. “My apologies, Tolemus. We are both in chains, of different sorts, but chains all the same.”
“Then it matters most,” he says evenly, “how you deal with the chains.”
“I love him,” I blurt out, turning away as heat suffuses my face. “But I think it is wrong.” He says nothing, and I grow fearful. “Is it wrong? Tell me freely. You must, for no one else will.”
He speaks slowly as though choosing words with care. He is a man of action, not words, and fears to misstep. “I do not believe so. There are many sorts of bonds one may form – with brothers, with fellow warriors, with sisters and mothers, wives and lovers. So long as we care for those we love, I see no wrong.”
“You say this because you think it is what I wish to hear.”
“I say this because I love you, my prince, and I wish to see you happy.” His voice tells me his meaning: he loves me as a brother. I hear him rise behind me, and then his comforting hand clasps my shoulder, and it feels as though it warms me through. “You of all men – “
But I must stop him and I speak quickly. “Will you find Paris and let him know that I have gone to his favorite place?”
His hand falls from my shoulder. “Yes, I shall do so.”
Without looking back, I stride from the stable, yet before I pass the threshold and into the sunshine, his voice stops me.
“Hector, my friend.”
I turn and look back.
“Give him what he desires most,” he says simply.
I nod. “Thank you,” I say, and go outside into the blinding sunshine.
*** *** ***
For one last time I walk to a spot on the mountainside much favored by Paris, a grassy and gentle slope overlooking the distant sea. The place is but a league from the village, so I wear nothing but the long skirt and sandals. The temperate sun is soothing on the flesh of my shoulders, and the ground undulates gently beneath my feet.
When I come to the place, it is empty, and the whole of the world is mine alone. I pluck a handful of red mulberries from a large and tangled shrub, and then seat myself upon the ground beneath the spreading branches of a tree that will not bear apples until the season of the harvest, but is in full leaf and flower now. Stretching my legs before me, I lean back against the sturdy trunk and bite into the sweet fruit. A great sense of contentment steals over me as I gaze toward the remote water that glints in the midday sun. The tree’s branches reach over my head as though they would protect me; indeed, I feel at times that I am the only member of Troy who can look to no one else for protection. Like all Trojans, I pray to the gods, yet so often it has been my observation that the gods bless you one day and curse you the next. How I would like to feel warm and protected for once.
I draw up my legs and sit cross-legged so that I may lean upon my knees and contemplate the vista. As I take another bite I hear a voice call my name; cocking my head to the side, I see Paris coming along the ridge.
Almost he seems a vision, for there is some soft floating glow around him, or near him, something that seems to be made of bright mist taking the form of a beautiful woman, then fading again into some other shape. I close my eyes and open them again and the vision has disappeared. Perhaps it was only an apparition created by the sun. I chuckle at myself, for the simple brightness of his smile could blind me.
And then there is only Paris, dressed as I am – for he loves to emulate me in every way – with his goddess-blessed visage, his lithe young limbs, and a soft look for me. He sits upon the grass beside me, leaning against me until I find that my arm drapes itself around his shoulders of its own volition.
We sit in great ease for long moments, watching the wheeling birds, listening for the near-imperceptible sound of the sea, feeling the soft zephyrs that tangle our hair.
“You mean for us to leave,” he says at last.
“We must. We cannot stay forever.”
“I know.” He turns his face up to me. “Yet have you not been happy here?”
“I have been most happy,” I say, keeping my eyes forward, for there is something I must tell him, and I am not keen to do it, yet ever have I done my duty. I shall not slack now.
I am relieved when he returns his gaze to the sea. “I saw a hydra once,” he says, and then I do look at him to see if he is teasing. He turns again and smiles at me. “Truly, Hector – a hydra playing in the waves.”
“It is too far,” I object. “You could see no such thing at this distance.”
“My eyes are the eyes of an eagle,” he says proudly.
I tousle his hair lightly. He giggles and leans over to kiss my cheek.
“I like your beard,” he says. “It feels so soft. And you are so strong and so big.” His finely made hands move to stroke over my shoulders and arms and chest. “It has been two days, Hector,” he whispers shyly.
Gently I take Paris’ hands and remove them from my body. I kiss the backs of his fingers on each hand and then lay them upon his thighs. “Paris, we need to think of our return.”
He squints and a furrow appears between his dark brows. “What have I done wrong?”
“Nothing.” I look back toward the sea. “Father needs us.”
“For what?”
“He needs us to behave like the princes we are. This is our future and our duty.”
“You always uphold duty and honor, Hector. No one finds fault with you.” I sense his hesitation and the deepening of the furrow. “Except yourself.”
“This disturbs you, little brother.”
“I dislike greatly seeing you in this mood,” he says in a low tone.
“Someone must be responsible.” That was perhaps more cruel than necessary. I have no wish to hurt him. He is still very young and moreover had not my advantages from the beginning. “Do you recall when first you came to Troy?”
“Yes,” he says quietly.
“I was very angry.” My pride makes it hard to admit to this truth.
“You were right to be angry.”
“I was vain.”
“It is not vanity in you. For you are Hector.”
“You bested me.”
“I did?”
“At archery.”
“Oh. But you are better at everything else.”
“I wanted to rule you.”
“You do rule me, Hector. You know that.”
“I wanted to possess you.”
“I am yours, Hector.”
I sigh deeply. “But it was not always so. And that troubles me, more than I care to tell.”
“I have only ever been yours, Hector,” Paris whispers, pressing his face against my chest.
Only mine? What can he mean? For he told me – I recall it very clearly – that I was not his first. I have spent the past several days staring at one after another of the men in the village, imagining the very worst of each, and yet unable to say a word or to accuse anyone of anything, even though I was suffused by a cowardly desire to run my spear through the body of any who had defiled my brother by thrusting a spear of flesh into his young body. For I knew not which man it was, nor even how many, nor…
“Paris!” I bellow. “You lied to me!”
He starts violently as I stand and tower over him.
“I – ? Hector?”
“You told me that you had done it before.” I will not allow his look of adoring confusion to sway me. He lied to me and I cannot allow that to pass. I wait for him to remember, while the very thunderclouds of Zeus settle upon my brow.
He casts his eyes downward. “Ah,” he says, and begins to chew on a fingernail.
“Explain yourself.”
“You would have stopped,” he says at last.
“That is no matter.”
“But you would have.”
“It gives you no leave to lie to me.”
“I wanted you to continue.”
“Princes do not lie.”
“I was not much of a prince then, was I?” he says, bitterness entering his voice. He rises with formidable grace and turns to walk away from me.
What have I done now? I wonder, smiting my forehead. Archeptolemus would be ashamed of me. I have spoiled Paris’ favorite place, and made things worse, not better. Clutching my head and squeezing my eyes closed, I try to think what it was my friend told me.
Give him what he most desires.
Opening my eyes, I command: “Halt!”
So well-trained is Paris to my voice that he stops instantly. Yet he does not turn to face me.
Give him what he most desires.
In a few strides I am before him, looming once again. This is not right. I go to my knees before him. I cannot look at him. I look at the ground.
“Hector?” comes his small, wondering voice.
“I love you,” I say in deep misery.
The silence that ensues feels like the silence of Hades. I cannot look up. And it seems I need not, for Paris suddenly drops to his knees and clutches me about the neck and rains kisses on my face and shoulders. “Hector, oh Hector,” he babbles like some demented creature.
Much as I long to reciprocate, I know what I must do: I take his arms and pull them away and return them to his sides and hold him from me. “We can do this no longer, Paris,” I whisper.
The furrow is back upon his brow, and his eyes are imbued with a look of terror and disbelief. “What do you mean?”
“We are sons of the king, we are brothers, we are guardians of Troy. We cannot be lovers as well.”
“But you said – “ His voice breaks.
“Because it is true, Paris. I have never loved anyone as I love you. I have no wish to love anyone this way again. You will always be my love.”
His lower lip is trembling. He is trying not to weep, but his beautiful dark eyes are brimming with unshed tears. “Then why cannot – “
“It is enough that we love one another,” I say, knowing that I try to convince myself as well as him. “Pure, true love does not require satiation of lust.”
A tear rolls down his cheek. “Will you never touch me again?” he asks.
He has broken my heart many times. This is merely one time more. “You are my brother, Paris, I will behave as I do with my other siblings. When we return to Troy, it is time that we establish a household for you. Our parents have been thinking about this in our absence.”
“I want no such thing,” he says bitterly.
“Nevertheless,” I push on, “it will come to pass.”
“I would rather stay here on Mount Ida and be a shepherd again.”
“The choice is no longer yours to make.”
“Why not? I shall be Alexandros. If I am merely Alexandros, you can love me.”
“I already love Paris,” I remind him gently.
“But Prince Hector can take the shepherd boy to his bed and no one will care.”
“You are not a shepherd boy.” I take his head in my hands. It seems so small and fragile. His cheeks are damp with tears; with my thumbs I brush away more moisture from his long lashes. “You are a prince of Troy, and I am very proud of you.”
He sobs once. “You cannot do this to me, Hector. You have to give me something.”
“I will give you a last kiss,” I say, leaning forward. His arms reach for me and I release his head to grab his hands and place them upon his thighs. “You must not,” I murmur, leaving his hands there and removing my hands to my own thighs.
“Hector,” he whimpers.
I cover his lips with my fingers. “Let me kiss you,” I say, and replace those fingers with my own lips.
Thus we kneel together in the light of Apollo’s chariot, only our mouths touching as I kiss him in sweet earnest, tasting the salt on his skin, tilting my head to kiss him more deeply, stroking my tongue beneath and around his. At last he responds and kisses me as though he would never stop.
And I consider, for the first time in all the years of my life, whether I might relinquish my duty to Troy, and call myself prince no longer. Deiphobus is strong just as I am; he is dedicated to the city, he is a noble and wise warrior. Were I to leave, Troy would remain in good hands. And what if I were to die on any of a dozen sorties outside the city? I am not immortal, and if such happened, Deiphobus would be required to take my place. What difference could there be if, instead of dying, I simply left? Paris could be Alexandros again, and I could learn some simple trade, perhaps as a blacksmith. We could join a caravan and travel far away where none would know who we are. I pray to whatever god or goddess might listen... yet they do not listen, and the world has not changed when I remember once again where I am, and who I am.
Gently, I break our kiss and bow my head. When I lift it again, tears are streaming down my own face. Paris sees and cries out and reaches for me. I know he wants to comfort me, but I will not permit it. I push his hands away again.
“No more,” I insist harshly. “Do as I say.”
He falls on the ground and buries his face in his hands, while his bitter sobs stab through me like burning spears.
*** *** ***
How my fallen enemies would be surprised to see the mighty prince of Troy weeping like a maiden. In spite of the bright sunlight, their Stygian shades seem to taunt me now.
“Alexandros,” I whisper to the boy whose head rests in my lap, “I need you. I know not what to do. But I will keep you safe. I will keep you safe.”
He says no word in answer. He is angry with me now. Yet he will come to learn that it is for the best. He will come back to Troy with me on the morrow, for he must.
Looking over Poseidon’s great, wide sea, through eyes still brimming, I think of things that I will give up, and things that I will not.