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Twist of the Fates	By : Sagittarius Category: S through Z > Troy Views: 32712 -:- 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
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Title: Twist of the Fates

Author: Sagittarius325

Email: Sagittarius325@hotmail.com

Chapter: 4

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: Achilles/Paris, Achilles/Patroclus implied

Warnings: This fic depicts graphic m/m interaction, consensual and non-consensual activities of varying and sordid kinds. If any of these subjects offend you, if you are underage or the laws of your country prohibit you from reading such material, then look away.

Summary: When Achilles and his Myrmidons win the Trojan beach, what if it had been Paris, not Briseis, captured in the temple that day.

Disclaimer: No infringement is intended, no money is to be made.
*****
Huddled in the oppressive darkness of his prison, Paris rested his abraded wrists upon his drawn up knees and listened for what news he could furtively gather from the rooms above. Subdued, it seemed, were the Greeks now that they had returned from their war. There was no joyous celebrations, no song or dance or raucous recountings of tales of battle.
Instead, there was an ominous and empty quiet, the footsteps above cautious and respectful, the voices lowered and hushed. It was clear to Paris the battle had not gone the way of the Greeks, that Troy still stood, yet even that surety did not assuage his terrible uncertainties. Did Hector his beloved brother still stand, and unharmed at that? Had Menelaus somehow taken Helen and was even now murdering his beautiful once-bride? Did Agamemnon�
Paris swallowed and closed his eyes. Did Agamemnon still breathe Trojan air? Or would the King of Kings return this very night to resume his desire to abase his captive? That Troy remained unsacked, unsullied, would surely mean Agamemnon would seek its rape through the youngest prince in its stead.
They had freed him from his restraints sometime in the early hours and brought him food, water, the former remaining untouched and fly ridden for Paris could not stomach it. He had spent long and futile moments seeking an escape, fingernails scraping over planks to test their durability, but the hold was secure. His only other means to elude his Greek captors was self-harm and his cowardice had not yet permitted him to attempt that unholy means of flight.
Perhaps should Agamemnon return this night he would regret that, but for now Paris could only wait and hope for word of his brother and Helen.
The trapdoor swung open, the clatter making him jump and freeze like a deer before a hunter. The sound of armoured men descending the steps forced Paris to his feet, though he trembled shamefully. That Hector would have faced down innumerable odds this day without hesitation, without quaking in his boots gave Paris the courage he needed to face the soldiers who had come for him.
"What do you want with me?" he demanded, lifting his chin.
His proud stance earned him nothing but a sharp cuff to his face that staggered and shocked him.
"Silence, slave," the soldier who had dared to strike him rebuked. The man removed his helmet, passed it to a fellow warrior, then reached out to lay ungentle hands upon the youngest prince of Troy, grabbing his chin to turn his face to the uncertain light. "He�ll do. I know which of the Spartans his pretty looks will appeal to."
Paris� eyes widened in horror at the man�s words and he pulled away. "No," he gasped.
The soldier smiled and Paris could sense the anger beneath the pleasant look. Could feel the anger radiating from all the warriors that surrounded him. They had lost today and now sought to retaliate in the one way left to them. To humiliate and torture the helpless captive who represented the very reason for their sailing to Troy and defeat.
"King Agamemnon�s orders, boy," the warrior told him, near gleeful. "To succour his brother�s spirit on its way to the Underworld."
Before Paris could even begin to understand his words, like a pack of dogs they had closed upon him. The young prince lowered his head in defeat and something inside his chest shattered into a thousand shards as hope failed him at the last.
*****
"Your private battle with Achilles is destroying us."
Odysseus had spoken with nothing but certitude when he had accused Agamemnon of his folly. That only Triopas was present had allowed him to rebuke the drunken King without fear of reprisal. The defeat of the Greek army, the death of Menelaus, Ajax, warriors unaccounted meant Agamemnon now needed his counsel more than ever.
That the King of Kings had actually capitulated to Odysseus� demand to make reparations with Achilles spoke volumes of his grief and diminished pride in the wake of the Trojan onslaught. And his continued greed.
The war should have ended with Menelaus� death, Helen no longer a trophy to be won, but to flee the shores of Troy now would signal weakness to the enemies of Greece and invite further bloodshed and battle. No, it would end here and for once Agamemnon and Odysseus were in silent accord. Troy had to be taken for the safety of all of Greece, for the safety of Ithaca in the far West.
Ducking into the tent set aside for the Great Lion, Odysseus spared a moment to look around the empty lodgings, seeing the signs of Achilles� spent rage, before heading down to the seashore. The son of Thetis was ever to be found within sight of water at his lowest moments and Odysseus guessed Achilles� mood to be black indeed after the day�s defeat.
The silent, despondent Myrmidons stared at him as he passed, yet none rose to halt his passage as he headed towards the lone figure on the beach. Achilles was gazing out at the dark ocean, perhaps seeking his mother�s council over the leagues that separated them. Or perhaps seeing his destiny slipping like seawater through his fingers.
Achilles did not look away from the emptiness beyond as Odysseus came to stand at his side, but continued his watchful vigilance. "The gods mock my vanity," he said, quietly, a gentle breeze stirring his golden locks. "Proud Achilles, they say, brought low by his own arrogance."
Whatever he saw out there in the undulating waters was not for a mere mortal�s eyes and Odysseus turned away to regard his friend and war brother.
"Let the gods play their games," he counselled, placing a hand upon Achilles� shoulder, feeling the restless tension thrumming through the warrior. "They are far beyond the likes of us. But the intrigues of men, now those we can play."
He allowed a measure of slyness to creep into his tone and Achilles turned eyes sparking with fire upon him.
"You speak in riddles once again, brother," he said. "But I am in no mood for games. Too much has been lost this day."
"That is true," Odysseus conceded. "We have lost many men and much of our courage. Agamemnon knows this," he pressed quietly. "And he now seeks to appease the Great Lion, to see him return to the very battle he was born for."
Achilles snorted and folded his arms, sceptical. "And what could the King of fools offer me that would see my return to his treacherous fold."
Undaunted by his stubbornness, Odysseus quietly replied, "The boy. He would gift the boy back to you."
Even in the growing darkness, he did not miss the speculative gleam that appeared in Achilles� eyes. Nor the hopeful look the son of Peleus cast him. But it was quick to be replaced by a foreboding frown.
"I know Agamemnon, he has already spoiled the boy," Achilles said, tightly. "And now seeks to barter the damaged goods in return for my skills�"
"No, no," Odysseus was quick to reassure him. "He hasn�t touched the boy, I give you my word. There was not time before the battle and this night he grieves for his brother. But�"
He hesitated then and Achilles grabbed his arm. "Speak, brother, lest my patience with your riddles finally finds an end."
Recognising the uncommon tone of desperation, Odysseus took pity. "Agamemnon has gifted the boy to Menelaus� Spartans, to console them for the loss of their King."
Achilles hesitated for a scant moment, then, without further words, thrust Odysseus away from him and began striding up the sands, heading for the Geek encampment. Suddenly fearing for the men who even now toyed with the Trojan Prince, Odysseus wondered if his strategy would yet cost more Greek lives.

Curse these intrigues that I must play, he thought, bitterly. "Brother!" he called desperately to the retreating figure. "Will you now fight for us?"
There was no answer as the son of Peleus broke into a run and was swallowed by the darkness.
*****
"Here, give him to me."
There was raucous laughter as the youngest prince of Troy was swung, unresisting, into another�s arms, his hair pulled to one side as the man ran a grubby hand up the side of his face in a grotesque parody of affection.
"What�s the matter, boy?" the Spartan sneered into his ear as Paris flinched. "Never had a real man before?"
"Boy doesn�t yet know his place," another cajoled, slapping the prince�s face lightly until the dull brown eyes rested upon him. "You�re not a Trojan prince anymore, but a Spartan slave. Though, considering his brother, I had hoped for a bit more bite in this one."
The others laughed drunkenly again as he thrust his mouth against Paris� lips, bruising the tender flesh beneath his vicious assault, before pulling away to spit disgustedly into the sands.
"If I wanted a sack of grain in my bed," he complained, "I�d have taken that cold whore you stole from our King."
At that an angry spark of defiance rose in Paris and he surged forward, only to be pulled back.
"You will not speak of her so," he hissed, struggling to the amusement of the others.
The Spartan warrior simply backhanded him in a casual display of brutality, the force of it near knocking Paris from his feet if not for the man that still held him. Dazed he was pulled upright,

stiffened as the man behind him slid an arm about his waist, holding him tightly in place.
"I think this slave has too much fire in his belly," someone called.
"He needs to be reminded what he is now," the warrior who had struck him said, with a malevolent grin, and moved over to the fire, picking up a glowing branding iron meant for Greek cattle.

Gods, Paris thought, desperately, struggling. It now required two men to hold him steady, the terror and thought of his flesh burning asunder beneath the hot metal lending him a strength to resist he had not known he possessed.
But the Spartans were stronger, merciless and while one held him in a crushing, airless grip, the other turned him to face the branding iron, tearing cloth away to bare his pale hip. He let out a whimper, then clamped his teeth, already imagining the scorching heat tearing at his skin, praying that he would pass out soonest and be done with.
"The mark of a Spartan slave would look pretty, just there," someone grinned, and he shuddered, tensing.
A moment later he heard a scream of pain, a sizzle of flesh and cried out, thinking it was his own. A dull thud and the grip holding him was torn away. Dizzy, weak from fear, Paris fell to his hands and knees in the sand, hearing the sound of battle above him.

Hector, he thought, on the verge of tears. He has come to save me.
For he knew none who would take on such odds to rescue him from such torture. But the next moment, he realised his mistake. There was one man who still possessed the courage to save him.
"Achilles!" someone gasped above.
Paris glanced up to see, not the dark curly hair of his beloved brother, but a spill of golden locks, gleaming in the moonlight. Achilles towered above him like the lion men named him, strong and proud and fierce, threatening harm to those about him.
"He is mine," Paris heard him warn the others and felt a thrill chase down his spine.
When the Spartans had fallen silent, retreated, Achilles carelessly tossed aside the branding iron and a moment later, Paris found himself swept into strong, tender arms, cradled protectively to a powerful chest, his head resting in the crook of smooth, warm neck. Too weary to protest, he buried his head into the soft, surprisingly silken hair of the warrior and allowed himself to be carried away.
*****
The boy was surprisingly light in his arms and trembling like the delicate wildflowers that graced the shores of Greece before the capricious sea breeze. Achilles fought down the urge to return to the Spartans and pay them in kind for the brutality they had shown the Trojan Prince to leave him thus. Only the fact that Paris was at last secure within his cradling embrace and clinging to him as if a child, whole if not unharmed, stayed the warrior�s instincts for vengeance.
If any of the Myrmidons recognised Achilles� burden as he passed, they did not remark upon it. Nor follow him to his tent where he now headed with as much haste as he dared without disturbing his prize further. Perhaps even in the darkness they witnessed the fury in his bearing, but as he carefully ducked into the simple dwelling, he was sure to school his expression to one of solicitous concern lest he frighten the boy.
Lowering Paris onto the fur-lined pallet, Achilles averted his eyes as the youth drew his knees up to his bare chest, and instead reached for a bowl of clean water with which to tend the prince�s hurts. He sponged a cloth, then slowly reached out to gently wash away the grime from Paris� pale, dirt smudged features.
To his surprise, the young prince allowed him such a liberty, wincing upon a bruise, yet his unexpected trust in the warrior made Achilles� heart yearn with a new found tenderness. More so considering the treatment he had received from the Spartans.
"Are you injured?" Achilles asked, huskily and Paris mutely shook his head, dark curls ruffling.
Achilles sighed and rocked back on his heels, casting a sure and knowledgeable eye over the quivering frame. There were no tell tale signs of abuse, no blood on the boys inner thighs or staining the scrap of cloth that covered his modesty, though fading fingerprints could be seen on his shoulders, bite marks on his neck. But if Agamemnon or the Spartans had had the prince, he would not be sitting so easily, for if it were truly his first time, he would have been torn no matter the gentleness of his partner. And Achilles knew neither the warriors nor the King of Kings would have been moved to tenderness.
No, Paris remained untouched, that much Achilles was sure of to his burgeoning relief and satisfaction. He soaked the cloth once more and brushed the boy�s curls aside to tend to the ugly bruise marring his temple. The dark eyes that found his were despairing and forlorn, full of a crippling shame.
"What troubles you, boy?" Achilles asked quietly, gruffly, avoiding the pleading look lest he be distracted when he received his answer.
"I have failed," was his reply, spoken barely above a whisper.
Now Achilles stopped his task and placed a finger beneath Paris� chin, raising the boy�s face to his own. "You are alive. Your city still stands."
"Yet for how long?" the youth demanded, eyes darkening in an inward anger. "You will fight once more for Agamemnon and his brother now that you�have me." At that he ducked, flushing, before continuing more softly, "You will kill more Trojans. My brother perhaps�"
The warrior hesitated at that. What could he tell the prince, for since Agamemnon had relented and returned to him his prize, Achilles would lose nothing if he were to return to the war.
And how it called to him, beckoned to him with the seductive wiles of the Sirens, offering glory and battle, a clash of the heroes of Greece and Troy to be recounted throughout the ages with wonder and awe.
Yet instead of answering, he handed Paris the cloth and reached back for a plate of food no doubt prepared for him by a repentant Patroclus. There was one piece of hope he could offer Paris, that he could speak of plainly, honestly.
"You need not fear Menelaus," he told the prince, before tossing a grape into his mouth, savouring the burst of sweetness before adding, "Hector slew him before the gates of Troy this day. Already has Agamemnon burned his brother�s body and sent his spirit to Hades."
Paris lowered the cloth from where he had pressed it to his temple, uncoiling at last to stretch out his slender legs. "It is over then," he said, in wonder, in growing elation. "The war. Without Menelaus, there is no longer any need for the Greek Kings to fight for him, to reclaim Helen."
Born to a life of the sword, Achilles could not help but marvel at the innocence of the prince. Did he know nothing of the way of men, even now? Had he remained so untouched, so sheltered from the harshness of life by his powerful brother Hector, that he could not see Menelaus� death meant nothing?
By Paris� youthful age, Achilles had already slain men uncounted, had led the Greek army to victory time and again. Had become adept at intrigue, at killing, at war. He wondered if he had ever possessed the purity of thought that, miraculously, Paris still bore.
"Agamemnon will not retreat," Achilles said, simply, wishing he were not the one to crush Paris� hope, to see those eyes lower once more in despair. "He did not come here for his brother�s honour nor for the Spartan Queen, but for your city and its wealth. His greed will not permit him to return to Greece empty handed."
"But he has no hope of breaching our walls," Paris protested. "Unless you�"
"With or without me," Achilles cut him off, "Agamemnon will attempt to destroy your city. Not even the death of his brother will stay his hand. Eat," he commanded, offering the tray to the suddenly despondent youth. "You will need your strength."
Paris flushed again at that, at the meaning behind the words, but hesitantly reached for the food. Achilles glanced his way, saw the tattered robe had fallen haphazardly to bare one sun-kissed thigh and steadfastly looked away again to feed the tiny fire.
His sap had risen dangerously, from perhaps the time he had swept the lithe prince into his possessive arms, but curiously he felt an uncommon restraint. Paris had been brutalised and nearer to defilement at the hands of the Spartans than even he perhaps realised. Achilles did not wish to add to his discomforts, but would instead await the youth to reveal his desires once more.
But though Achilles held himself back this time, it did not mean he had to remain silent of his ardour or appreciation.
"How the gods must envy me," he said, boldly as he watched the prince, not even attempting to conceal his admiration of the boy�s beauty.
Paris paused, then smiled tentatively, wryly. "The gods envy no one," he replied, "if ever they were to exist. Though my father would chide me for my lack of faith."
"Your King is a wise man," Achilles replied, softly, with a certainty that made Paris curiously look his way. He moved closer as if to reveal a precious confidence, "Let me tell you a secret son of Priam. The gods envy us. Ours lives are fleeting, but because we are doomed in each moment do we find greater passion, greater beauty."
Unable to refrain from at least touching his prize, Achilles moved to stroke the boy�s soft cheek and Paris swallowed, though he did not pull away from the tender touch. "You will never be more fairer that you are now, prince of Troy. And in this moment, I see something the gods will never hope to see. Brief in the time of Man is your beauty, but never will it be more glorious."
Paris gasped softly as Achilles moved to kiss him, so gently, so reverently. As intoxicating as the most potent wine were the prince�s lips, but Achilles forced himself to patience, to a gentleness he had rarely known. Tasting each petal, he closed his eyes, stroked the boy�s silken curls, feeling Paris opening up to him, unfurling at last, a tentative touch fluttering to lay upon his shoulder�
Of its own accord did Achilles� other hand drift down, to rest atop Paris� bared thigh and suddenly the prince flinched and the moment was forever lost. Achilles pulled away with a silent groan of disappointment, removed his hand and returned to tending the fire.
Desire verily burned within him, consuming him, his flesh hot and hard and proud, but he could not bring himself to simply take, to slake his lust and ruin whatever it was that was blossoming between him and his captive. And Paris was so slender, so fragile compared to his battle hardened body that he truly feared to inadvertently hurt the boy should he resist his advances.
"Eat," was all he could bring himself to say and refused to look at Paris lest temptation overwhelm him once again.
A moment later he was surprised when the prince replied.
"Thank you," Paris said, almost inaudibly, shyly.
Staring hard into the fire, Achilles could not help the small private smile that curved his lips as he heard the tentative utterance, for he had a feeling of such surety that the prince was not speaking solely of the food.
*****
The fire had burned low, the twisting tinder utterly consumed so that only a meagre heat remained within the ashes. But the night was humid and Paris, though clothed in the tattered remnants of his royal robes and bare from the waist up, did not feel the slightest chill. Indeed, he felt a warmth in his very being, one that was centred deep inside his belly, bringing a flush of ardour out onto his naked skin.
A tiny rivulet of prickling sweat wandered down his back and he shifted, unable to help but cast yet another uncertain glance to the slumbering warrior, before looking quickly away as an unusual shyness assailed him for spying upon the naked man.
Achilles had stripped before him not long after his words of desire, casting clothes away with a casualness that spoke of an unashamedness of his body before other men. Tales had been told of the son of Peleus and his dalliances with fair youths. Paris� older brother Troilus had even caught his eye, but the youngest prince was still taken unawares by the display and was abashed when Achilles caught him staring in awe.
Golden in the firelight was the warrior, his flaxen hair like the mane of the lion he was named for, the burnished bronze of his skin glowing as if kissed by the sun itself and Paris could not help but feel desire for this beautiful, unworldly being. Even the length and breadth of his manhood somehow thrilled the young prince, as it lay semi-quiescent between the warrior�s thighs.
Yet Achilles paid him no heed, instead stretched out upon his fur-lined pallet like a sleek, well fed predator after the hunt. Indeed, his captured quarry even now resided with him, though he made no move to force the prince into his bed and seek to end the carnal hunger displayed so vividly within his shining eyes. He kept no weapons at his sides that Paris could see, nor viewed his vulnerable nakedness as a hindrance to fight should the need arise, as many men would.
Paris sat quietly by the fire, staring brazenly now that the warrior had closed his eyes, amazed how the peaceful lines made Achilles appear so young, so innocent though he was anything but.
"You are welcome to join me, son of Troy," Achilles invited, softly, without opening his eyes and Paris started.

How does he know I watch him? Paris wondered in consternation. Then, Does he sense how much I would desire to lie with him?

"I will remain here," he found himself replying haltingly instead, as fear overcame his impulse to sate his curiosity and join the warrior upon his pallet. To find passion with the strong and fair prince of Greece.
Ironic, Paris thought, that men called him the Trojan whore, who would sleep with anything woman born. And now here he was, desired by one of the most powerful men in the known world, whose very beauty captivated him, thrilled him to his core. Yet this once he could not bring himself to obey his instincts to seek out the pleasure he would no doubt find within the bed of Achilles, the bed of another man.

I have not been a trembling virgin these past years, Paris scorned himself. I have no wish to be one this night. And he would not hurt me overly much. Already he has halted himself where I could not have done so.

When the warrior had placed a covetous hand upon his thigh, Paris had realised with an acute startlement that his arousal was already hard, his flesh aching in a way it had not done so since he had first come to know of its pleasures. Yet disappointment had followed when Achilles had abruptly withdrawn his hand and though the temptation lingered, the moment and chance was gone.
Moodily, Paris poked at the dying fire. His father would say it was the gods� way of punishing him for his past infidelities and wayward behaviour. Neither Priam nor Hector would approve of him indulging in such a carnality and with an enemy of Troy no less, one who was camped outside their very gates, ready to take their fair city and slaughter its heroes, all for his own glory.
One who had already spilled Trojan blood in countless numbers.
That last made Paris� blood run chill with fear. Achilles would return to the battle on the morrow, fight for Agamemnon alongside his Myrmidons, kill yet more sons of Troy. And what if he were to fight Hector? What if�?
Paris swallowed against the bile that had risen up in his throat. What if Achilles were to slay Hector, his beloved brother? Without Hector, the city would be lost. He would be lost. And it would be his fault, for the crime of stealing Helen and bringing enemies to the shores of Troy. For allowing himself to be captured, then returned to Achilles like he was little more than a war prize with which Agamemnon bartered for his champion�s skills.
None of this he had thought upon while in the keeping of Agamemnon. No grief or guilt for those who had already lost their lives to his impetuous scheme of taking the Spartan Queen. And selfishly, all he had thought upon since his rescue from Menelaus� men was Achilles and the possibility of gracing his bed.
It was with a wretched self-loathing that he picked up the carving knife, twisting the blade in the dull light. He should have remained with the Spartans, he thought, suffered defilement at their hands, taken their cruel punishments. Then perhaps Troy, his brother, his father would be safe from Achilles. He was a coward, he realised, to have accepted the safety the son of Peleus had offered him. Would he ever be worthy of his family, to suffer for them as they even now suffered for him?
As he had admitted to his brother but weeks before, he had never taken a life, more suited to the arts of love than the brutality of war. It was at both his father�s behest that he be kept safe from battle, no doubt reminded of his fallen son Troilus, and Hector�s own protective instinct that had rendered him impotent to kill.
Yet now Paris looked towards Achilles, sleeping as innocently as a babe and wondered upon it, upon his own courage.
In his hands lay the chance to save hundreds, possibly thousands, to make amends for his foolishness. With one stroke, Helen, Hector, his father would be made forever safe against the might of Achilles. It was a cowardly act that he contemplated, but Paris had no illusions. He could not fight Achilles fairly and even hope to win. But a stealthy, shameful attack was all one such as he possessed.
Gathering courage, allowing no time for his conscience to prick him into retreat, Paris rose to his bare feet, moving silently through the cool sand to stand over the slumbering warrior, contemplating this murder. How beautiful he looks, he thought, gazing down upon the son of Peleus. Would any fear him or seek to do him harm if they knew not of his fearsome reputation?

The firelight had long since died and the shadows of the night cast an unearthly sheen of silver over the sleeping form, his silky hair spilling down in the moonlight�s path to create lustrous, argent halo.
Hand shaking, Paris slipped the knife under the warrior�s chin, placing the razor sharp blade against the vulnerable skin. He had witnessed cattle slaughtered thusly, all it would require was a quick and determined movement to end the life of Achilles the Lion, to spill his blood onto the hungry Trojan sands where it would be forever lost�
"Do it," Achilles murmured suddenly and Paris started in fear, feeling the blood leeching from his very veins. The warrior turned his head carefully to look upon his would-be murderer, blue eyes flickering like flames in the moonlight as he fearlessly regarded Paris. Then, more forcefully "Do it!"
Paris was rendered mute, frozen, unable to move, to speak, to plea for forgiveness. Almost, his clutching, icy hand moved of its own accord, to cut, to spill blood, but the power that radiated from Achilles� eyes held him mesmerised, captive. He felt the warrior�s callused hands slip up his bare arms, grasping him tightly and still he could not move, a rabbit before the mighty hunter.
Without warning, Paris was roughly pulled down, flipped onto his back, Achilles� hot, naked body pressed heavily upon his own. His breath caught on a hitch, the knife still in place at the warrior�s throat, but he could not find the strength to struggle.
Expecting cruelty, punishment for his near crime, Paris was surprised when Achilles instead ran his hand down the side of his face, a look of avarice across his fair features. The warrior gently but insistently nudged Paris� legs apart to make a place for one of his own and a hand trailed greedily up the outside of Paris� thigh, pulling the ruined cloth aside to cradle one buttock.
"I would have you," Achilles confided in a whisper and Paris was near consumed by a surging blaze of lust and desire.
"Take me then," he breathed back tremulously, and heard a dull clutter as at the last the blade fell from his nerveless grasp.
*****
At the young prince�s breathy sigh of surrender, the dark head tumbling back against the pillows in the sweetest of submission, Achilles could restrain himself no longer. Hungrily he lowered his mouth to Paris� lips, claiming them with the scrape of teeth and the lave of his tongue, and with an animal like ferocity and longing that caught even the warrior by surprise. It was still not enough though and he teased Paris� mouth to part before his fiery caresses, arrogantly plunging his tongue into a moist warmth redolent of berries and fruits, hungrily swallowing the muted gasps that came from the boy beneath at his abrupt possession.
He needfully brought their bodies closer together, fevered skin melding, legs intertwining, and his firm grip on Paris� naked thigh allowed him to fit himself against the prince so that their slick, mutually arching flesh met at the last. Paris grounds upwards into him and moaned with such a helpless wantonness that it all but undid the warrior, perilously tempting Achilles to throw the boy�s legs over his shoulders and claim him in one swift and perfunctory thrust.
But he could not and Achilles forced himself to calm, slowing his kisses, shortening his caresses until the dangerous thundering of his blood had abated somewhat. Paris was gazing up at him with lust-clouded eyes, both wanton and pleading, but a fear remained lurking within their sable depths, a faint tremor of nerves wracking his frame where passion had not yet conquered.
That Achilles could not abide, though he knew that until the Prince had his first experience of a man�s hard flesh within, no words or tender touches would dispel him of his virginal apprehension. Instead Achilles pulled back, taking in his fill of the fair form strewn so lasciviously before him, a slender, hedonistic gift solely for himself that the gods themselves must surely envy. Tenderly, the son of Peleus stroked down the boy�s damp, silken chest, grazing the dusky nipples to pebble hardness with his fingertips, seeing Paris� chest rise and catch at that.
Patroclus had taught him well and this night Achilles was determined to seduce his pretty bedmate with every trick he had learned from his able cousin. Just so he could have the pleasure of watching Paris of Troy come undone beneath his touches. Just so the prince would long to return to his bed time and again.
Lowering his head, Achilles replaced each touch with a considered kiss, feeling Paris� belly fluttering as the prince let out a soft whimper. Unerringly, his tongue trailed downwards to touch upon the softest of fur above the hollow navel. The scrap of cloth that had once been the prince�s robes remained, yet Achilles made short work of the once rich material. In one move, he stripped it from Paris� body, tossing it aside without a care that he might at last gaze down upon the youngest prince of Troy in all his naked splendour.
"Beautiful," he breathed at what he saw and Paris� eyes darkened further in desire.
To his surprise, the young prince hesitantly reached out to touch Achilles� own chest, tracing slender fingers over the contours of his muscles, his erect nipples, trailing the flat of his palms down over the warrior�s toned chest and prominent ribs. His touch was both innocent and questioning, a slight frown of concentration marring his brow as he pressed his fingers into Achilles� hips, then slid his thumbs to touch the rearing flesh between the warrior�s legs.

His only experiences have been with women, Achilles reminded himself, gritting his teeth to remain still at the innocent yet somehow potent questing, numerous though they have been.
"You are magnificent," Paris sighed, appreciatively, then flushed at his words. He glanced up at Achilles through shy, lowered lashes. "I see now why they call you the Great Lion."
Achilles smiled and placed a finger beneath the prince�s chin, tilting his head back to bestow a praising kiss before pressing Paris back down to the fur covered pallet. He loved that his body could cover Paris� lithe, fragile seeming frame, though there was a tensile strength in the boy, in the slender muscles, the shapely figure that brought to Achilles� mind the delights that yet awaited them both.
Bare now, there was no hindrance of cloth and the heat of his skin had penetrated the prince�s so that both men glistened freely in the warmth of the night air as their slick flesh melded together once more. Achilles snared the boy�s lips again, this time feeling Paris� own rapacious kisses grow in boldness and urgency, the prince�s hands grasping his shoulders to greedily pull him down. The prince drew Achilles� tongue into his able mouth, sucking moistly, voraciously, before thrusting eagerly back with his own.
Sensing that lust had at last dispelled Paris� fears, Achilles reluctantly pulled away, bestowing feathery kisses along Paris� jaw, the skin beneath his lips as soft as a woman�s. When Paris sought to capture his mouth once more and was thwarted, Achilles appeased his frustrated whimper by sliding his forefinger into the wet warmth between the prince�s lips, biting back a gasp of his own as Paris obediently began to suckle upon it.
Achilles pressed his lips to the side of the boy�s vulnerable throat to stifle his appreciative groans at the erotic act, nuzzling just below the delicate shell of one ear, even as he ran a possessive hand down Paris� naked flank, coming to fondle and caress one bared buttock. Paris moaning in disappointment as Achilles withdrew his now wet finger and slipped his hand underneath the prince�s thigh to press the slippery digit against the tiny opening.
"I am not so large," Achilles murmured, "that you cannot take me here, prince of Troy."
A tremor shuddered through Paris at that, though by the way he clutched at Achilles� shoulders with a sudden fervour told the warrior it was not through fear of being taken.
"I will be gentle," Achilles insisted, raising himself to look into the prince�s dark eyes, willing him to understand that though he did not wish to hurt his prize, neither could he stop now. "But I must have you this night."
Whatever Paris saw in his expression, heard in his words, seemed enough to soothe the prince�s fears for he lay back quietly, silently surrendering himself to the warrior�s heady needs. Achilles smoothed back the hair from the prince�s finely sculpted face, kissed the petal lips in reassurance, then determinedly pressed his finger inwards more firmly.
There was resistance from the untested muscle that came with claiming any virgin, but it gave beneath the warrior�s knowing touch and his finger slid in, instantly clamped in a moist tightness that had his lust raging once more. Paris arched beneath him, biting his lower lip in a futile attempt to keep silent as Achilles began to move his finger in and out of the gripping sheath. Patroclus had oft chided the warrior to prepare his chosen lovers thusly, even captured slaves whose comfort meant little to Achilles, stretching them enough to take his formidable girth lest he ruin them.
And this night he did not want to damage his precious prize. He wanted Paris for more than a quick tumble and release, wanted the prince in his bed for many a night to come.
So he would look to Paris� comfort, see that he gained equal pleasure, for Achilles would not abide it if he were to tremble fearfully in the warrior�s arms. He twisted his finger as Patroclus had taught him and when he was rewarded with a startle shout from the prince, a stiffening of the slender frame, Achilles knew he had found that one spot that made playing sheath to another man�s cock or fingers bearable. Even intensely enjoyable.
He stroked the little kernel once more, smiled at Paris� second cry, his amazed look. Perhaps he would explain it to the prince later for no doubt Paris, innocent in the arts of male love, thought it some magic of his that he could elicit such pleasure. The boy�s flesh was hard and peaking against his belly now and Achilles took hold of the hot, silken rod, graced it with a light stroke, somehow pleased by Paris� obvious excitement though in past times he had not always cared if his bed partner was aroused.
Paris was different though. Beautiful and unbearably sensual when steeped in lust, Achilles found himself wishing to see into the prince�s eyes when he spilled his seed. He worked the younger man in a knowing grasp and Paris writhed, panting, gazing at him in confusion though his eyes were dilated in pleasure and his hips sought to move against Achilles� sliding grip in an age-old rhythm.
He scarcely made a sound of complaint when Achilles slipped a second finger into him aside the first, using both now to fully awaken that sweet, hidden spot and bring him to completion. Smearing the milky liquid that issued from the boy�s leaking flesh, Achilles aroused the taught, slender shaft to imminent release. Paris� wiry body arched suddenly, griping Achilles� fingers where they had pushed inside to the full, and the boy opened his mouth in a silent cry as he emptied himself in copious pearly strings of seed.
Breathless moments later Paris� flushed body sagged and glazed, satiated eyes fell helplessly upon Achilles, a smile curving about his kiss-bruised lips. At his come hither look, the warrior could ignore his own gratification no longer. Withdrawing his fingers, he ran them through the seed that now covered the skin of the boy�s chest and used it to coat his own formidable length, groaning at his bare touch.
Paris� breathing had slowed, the bloom brought to his cheeks at his completion fading and his eyes were lazy, satisfied. He was limp and liquid as a tamed wildcat, pliable beneath Achilles� insistent hands as he pulled the prince�s pale thighs apart and drew the slender legs upwards to rest upon his shoulders. A fiery burn of acute pleasure thrummed through the warrior�s loins as he caught sight of the perfect, pristine hole that marked the entrance to Paris� body, wet and glistening invitingly from his earlier preparations.
Without hesitation, Achilles gripped Paris� hips and with the breathtaking aim he was renowned for, impaled himself within the prince�s body in one sure and forceful thrust.
*****
The laxness gained from his release allowed Paris to accept the hard and turgid cock inside his body without resistance or hurt, though his eyes flew open in shock at the abrupt and strange feeling of being conquered so. It burned somewhat and was not entirely comfortable and his first instinct was to pull away though he was helpless in Achilles' implacable grip. Close to panic, it took a moment for him to realise Achilles had forced himself to stillness, not seeking to press further inwards and this restraint and consideration for the prince�s comfort allayed his fears. Achilles would not harm him, he knew this.
"Do I hurt you?" the warrior asked, huskily, as if reading his thoughts in his eyes.
Paris wordlessly worked his mouth, then shook his head, bending his legs at the knees slightly to relieve the ache in his stretched opening. Achilles slowly ran his hands up and down his thighs, turning his head to kiss the inside of Paris� knee in a display of affection. Yet the trembling in his touch, the sweat that beaded his furrowed brow told Paris the warrior was holding onto restraint by the merest of threads.
And after a moment Achilles began to rock gently against him, offsetting the growing feeling of fullness by stroking his hips, his flanks, distracting Paris with light touches to both arouse and soothe. Lulled by these caresses, rendered sleepy by his earlier release, Paris allowed his body to relax, to let the warrior in deeper until, to his surprise, he felt the soft crush of Achilles� furred groin pressing against his opening, the warrior�s heavy balls gently buffeting his taut buttocks.
Looking down to where they bodies were now joined, Paris felt a jolt of lust deep within his core and was astonished to see his flesh hard and aroused once more, so soon after his earlier spending. It had never happened so before, not with the women he had bedded, nor with Helen, though they had all expressed their immense satisfaction after the first coupling and desired not a second so soon.
Achilles leaned over him then, bending his legs back till they near touched the pillows, and snared his mouth to seal and complete their joining.
"So beautiful," the warrior whispered, between reverent kisses and breathy sighs of pleasure that only enflamed the prince further. "So tight. So warm."
He continued to rock against Paris� taut buttocks, never fully withdrawing, still speaking words of praise and desire, moving their bodies together in a slow undulating rhythm until the youngest Prince of Troy could bear it no more. He clutched desperately at the tense shoulders above, captured Achilles� lips against his own and thrust his buttocks urgently against the hardness impaling him so deeply.
Achilles moaned into his mouth at his display of wantonness and gripped the prince�s hips, his weight heavily pinning Paris to the pallet now to hold him in place, his belly rubbing against Paris' hard and weeping flesh. Now he began to thrust in earnest, withdrawing his slick girth, before arrogantly plunging back in, claiming every inch of Paris� gripping passage. And when it brushed against that special something the warrior�s fingers had found earlier, Paris cried out, unable to hold back his shouts any longer.
The grunts of the warrior above him only heightened Paris� pleasure and he gazed helplessly upon his lover�s lustful beauty. Face flushed, golden hair wild and gleaming in the moonlight, Achilles could have been one of the gods themselves, a tale told of a magnificent, immortal being descending to the earthly realms to claim a mortal for his bed.
"Take me," Paris cried out, impassioned, and Achilles sought to obey, slamming so fiercely into him that he felt he might split with the force of it.
His second moment of release came upon him so quickly he had no time to gainsay it. The pounding deep within his body wrung from him a cry of need and Paris spilled himself in short bursts of intense pleasure, felt himself clench tightly around the hard flesh thrusting inside of him which wrung a final spurt of his seed that left him weak and gasping. Achilles shouted out his own completion above him, stabbing roughly at the last and Paris felt a liquid warmth inside of him as the warrior emptied his cock in one final spasm that shook the very bed.
Achilles� weight sank heavily onto him and the warrior stroked his heaving flanks, speaking meaningless words of praise, of comfort that made no sense wrapped as he was in a post-coital haze of languor, yet soothed his jumbled mind nonetheless. And after a little while Paris felt the hardness inside him soften. Achilles withdrew so gently he barely felt any discomfort, felt his legs lowered, the muscles tenderly massaged and the weight lifted from him.
A wet cloth wiped away the evidence of their coupling and the warrior at last drew Paris� sleepy frame into his strong, warm arms, soothingly carding his fingers through the prince�s hair. Paris snuggled closer at the tender caress, feeling satiated, protected, loved, and wrapped a covetous arm about Achilles� waist before drifting into a deep and beckoning slumber.
*****
The dual shouts of release from their Lord�s tent elicited a few knowing chuckles from the Myrmidons that remained to sit around the fire. They knew all too well of Achilles� predilection for male captives and had expected such a culmination from the moment their Lord had returned with the pretty prince.
"He is taken with this one, is he not," one commented, idly.
"A pretty thing like Prince Paris, it is no wonder Achilles himself sought to deflower him," another replied, with a leering grin. "I should not wonder if Hector himself shows up, seeking to avenge his little brother�s honour."
Eudorus glared at the speaker in warning, who fell silent at the chastisement. One did not jest at such, not with battle on the horizon and Hector tamer of horses no doubt at the forefront seeking their demise.
Nor was it wise to gossip about Achilles� lovers with too loose a tongue. Eudorus recalled all too well the Greek soldier who had drunkenly slandered Patroclus as Achilles� male whore. The son of Peleus had killed the man then removed his genitals so that in the afterlife he would be the catamite of every warrior who had passed over. Fair as he was, none of the men had sought to make advances to Patroclus after that.
"Still," the first Myrmidon continued, thoughtfully, "I should not wonder if the Trojan prince will return with us after this war."
Before Eudorus could move to reprimand the men to hold their wagging tongues lest Achilles hear of it, he caught sight of a figure with pale gold hair, watching them, listening. Had he not known Achilles was ensconced in his tent with the young prince, Eudorus would have mistaken Patroclus for their Lord, so alike in form were they in the darkness.
A moment later, Patroclus turned and marched away, fists clenched in anger. Eudorus sighed and shook his head. War was no place for lovers, especially those spurned and his instincts told him nothing good would come of this new union between the Houses of Peleus and Priam.
*****
Awash with hues of red and gold, dawn broke upon the eastern skies to find the son of Peleus risen from his bed, the turmoil of his thoughts driving him too soon from a tranquil sleep nestled close to his new and most precious of lovers. It was the youth Paris that he even now contemplated, the drowsing Trojan princeling who had but a little while before shared both his pallet and his passions, meeting the latter with an ardour equal to his own.
Asleep, Paris resembled more a child than the man Achilles had so thoroughly bedded in their night time tryst, sprawled in peaceful oblivion upon his front, his face smooth and restful, kiss bruised mouth parted as he lightly respired. Upon his fair skin were signs of their mutual passion, marks where Achilles had claimed him with skilful fingers, voracious lips and teeth, and perhaps his childlike sprawl stemmed from the hidden ache between his buttocks created by their lustful coupling.
The dark sheet had slipped perilously downwards from the prince�s shoulders and back, baring the delicate arch of his spine and offering the merest, most tantalising glimpse of the swell of ripe, pale buttocks. Achilles fought back the temptation to disrobe and slip between that sheet and his Trojan prince to spend a leisurely morning reacquainting himself with the delights Paris� pliant body had to offer.
But it was too soon for his second taking of the prince. Once in the night had both men awoken, disturbed perhaps by some noise from the Greek encampment. In his possessive embrace, Paris had stirred, turning large, dark eyes upon the warrior, his hand coming to rest intimately upon Achilles� chest. His slender fingers had traced the contours of the warrior�s muscles, even as his head had dipped to taste each budding nipple until Achilles had stilled his movements with a firm hand in his sable locks.
Though he burned inside with a reawakened need, the son of Peleus had chastely kissed Paris� lips.

"Hush my prince," he had bidden softly at Paris� confusion and disappointment. "Rest now."
For Achilles knew Paris would be too sore to be taken so soon after his first piercing and he doubted his self control would settle for anything less than a full claiming. At his bidding, Paris had once again laid his dark head atop the warrior�s shoulder and returned to his rest. It was a while before Achilles� own lust diminished enough for him to follow his prince and allow the web of sleep to snare him once more�
Only to awake some time later to a morning�s cold clarity. The lassitude brought on by his coupling with Paris, the culmination then satiation of his desires, fled upon the break of day. Ugly war still awaited the Great Lion as the dreams and blessed simplicities of the night faded. Hector still stood for his city, silently, unwittingly challenging Achilles with his mighty skill and prowess, with the very breath he continued to draw.
Hector, the beloved brother of Paris, of whom Achilles had become enraptured.
Yestermorn, it had been so simple. Today it was not.
Steepling his fingers beneath his chin, Achilles watched the prince breathe softly, the fluttering of closed eyes as Paris dreamed, and found within his heart a tenderness it had not before known. Ere he had sailed to Troy, Achilles had sought his mother�s council, for Thetis was ever wise and knew her son�s heart and mind well.
She had spoken to him of a family, of a wife and children, of finding peace after a lifetime of battle. Yet her promise was an empty one, for what woman could ever offer such succour to still his fevered blood lust long enough for him to lay down his sword and shield. War was his mistress, demanding and cruel, never to permit him respite from the life he had been born to, not once to allow him to forsake her for another.
But the Fates were wont to play their tricks and now Achilles found his heart rent as if by the very gods themselves. The moment of his destiny was upon him, to meet Hector on the field of battle where one would fall, the other to gain an immortal name that would stretch throughout the ages of the world.
And if Hector were to be the one to burn, Achilles knew Paris� heart would never wholly belong to him. The harsh life he had led left him few to care for and the thought of beautiful Paris broken, inconsolable, bereft in grief for his brother�
His cold mistress War would find herself spurned upon the shores of Troy, Achilles knew then with cool certainty. Her favours of glory and immortality would be withdrawn from him, perhaps never to be truly regained. But in turning away from her seductive wiles, Achilles would stand to win a far greater bounty than the sacking of fair Troy. The love of Paris.
If the Trojan prince would but agree to sail with him. Wistfully, he imagined leading Paris along the shores of his homeland, teaching him his mother�s wisdom in herb lore or perhaps crafting for him a seashell necklace, twin to the one he even now wore to honour Thetis.
And the nights would be given over to passion, lovers bound so deeply, so intimately that not even the gods would dare to separate them.
And if he could not convince Paris to return with him to Greece to be his lover, Achilles would find other means of persuasion. His pride would not allow him to beg and he feared his very nature would urge him to forcefully subjugate rather than temptingly seduce. One thing he did know, he would not release Paris to return to Troy, not with the threat of destruction still hanging above the city.
His brooding thoughts fled as the beaded curtain was suddenly drawn aside, allowing a cooling waft of salty ocean air to penetrate the humid dwelling. Eudorus ducked inside and opened his mouth to speak, but Achilles was quick to silence him. His second in command caught sight of the sleeping, near naked boy then and hesitated, flushing, before hastily withdrawing.
Achilles sighed and rose. It would not be a simple task to inform the men of his decision to withdraw from the Trojan war, for Myrmidons did not retreat from battle. Many had left wives and homes to join him and already some would never see those wives or homes again. Already he had asked much of them, yet knew loyalty would hold them to his side no matter the cost.
With a final glance at his sleeping prince, Achilles assured himself the youth had not been disturbed and would therefore not awaken alone, before ducking out of the tent to confront his warriors.
*****
The faint jingle of beads roused Paris from a deep and fathomless slumber and he moaned quietly into his pillow as a soreness assailed him from deep within. Images of his night time passions tumbled before his closed eyes; Achilles glorious and verily incandescent in his ecstasies above him, taking him with a desire Paris had never experienced nor felt for another. The golden mane of the Great Lion spilling about his shoulders as he threw his head back, face taut in sharp relief as he roared out his completion, spilling himself deep within Paris, who in turn found his second culmination in the beauty of the moment.
Stirring sleepily with incipient arousal at the memories, Paris stifled a yawn and rolled, expecting to bury his nose in a flaxen mane or wrap a possessive arm about his comely lover�s waist. But he only met an empty pallet, the furs cool where Achilles had abandoned his bed long before.
Paris stilled in sudden doubt as he looked about the humble dwelling, became crawlingly aware of his nakedness and vulnerability and pulled the sheet about his chest to cover his near nudity. Had theirs been but a single night of passion? He had not thought so, but perhaps Achilles had taken the flower Paris willingly offered, only to discard the gift the following morn as his interest waned.
It seemed so, otherwise why had the warrior forsaken their bed come light of day? And Paris recalled the moment in the night when Achilles had been quick to rebuff the prince�s seductive overtures. Did it mean then that his warrior's lust had been fully slaked and nothing more was to come of their union?
Drawing his knees up to his chest, hearing shouts from the Greek army, the soldiers, the rush of the waves breaking upon the Trojan shore, Paris huddled in a shame and hurt he had never known. Passion had overtaken him, clouded his mind. What he had read in Achilles� jewel like eyes as their bodies joined suddenly seemed no longer certain, the love and tenderness therein perhaps a lie for the sex. Paris had witnessed it all too often in the women he was wont to lie with as they professed their love, only to return to their husband�s cold bed the following morn.
Not that he had right to complain, for a single night�s tryst had been all he had required of them, and they him in turn.
Helen had been different. She had risked all for their love, to be parted from her husband and homeland in order to remain at his side. But though he loved her dearly, he did not burn for her the way he burned for Achilles. Something in his young and innocent heart had cracked upon his affair with the Spartan Queen, and now Achilles had thrust it wide open, penetrating it more deeply that his phallus had Paris� body, claiming it for his very own.
Only to leave it gaping and bleeding as he spurned the fragile gift come light of day. Adrift in a sea of enemies, foolish participant in a onetime coupling that had stolen more than his male virginity, Paris curled on his side, ready to weep his shame. Achilles would return to the war this morn to slaughter Trojans and all for the single, betraying night of debauchery their prince had willingly given him.
But perhaps if Paris were fortunate, Achilles would regard him kindly for his base favours and permit him to return to Troy ere the war ended. There the prince could at least join the archers upon the Trojan walls, for his cowardice and treachery would not permit him within the ranks of true warriors. There he would be able to defend his city, in some small way make reparation for his selfish acts and the death and destruction he had wrought upon them all with his indiscriminate whoring.
Yet even that brought no relief to Paris� misery, for without fair Achilles� love, even in death he knew his shade would find no peace from the heartache that assailed him. He bowed his head and clasped his knees closer to his chest and sought to still his despairing heart.
*****
"It is less simple today."
Taking a deep draught from his goblet, Achilles almost smiled at the good humour in his words. A warrior desired simplicity in his life, but for Achilles less simple in the form of Paris had brought him pleasure beyond comprehension.
"Love has a way of...complicating things," his companion replied. Odysseus smiled also, but there was despair behind his easy demeanour.
Love. So the cunning King of Ithaca had observed what others would see as simple lust, that Achilles had not been swayed by a pretty face and lithe body to warm his bed. But was afflicted by that which was most dangerous to mortal hearts.
"Of all the kings of Greece," Achilles began, "I respect you the most. But in this war you are a servant."
Odysseus finished his wine and rose, sensing he would gain no more from his war brother. "Sometimes you have to serve in order to lead," he told the younger man, without rancour though his words were tinged with an inward bitterness. "I hope you understand that one day."
As Achilles watched him leave, he sensed another presence come upon him.
"We are going home?" Patroclus demanded, in youthful petulance.
Achilles knew his fair cousin well and something was troubling him. "We sail in the morning," he answered, leaning back, attempting to discern the meaning behind the defiant tone.
"Greeks are being slaughtered," Patroclus protested heatedly. "We can�t just sail away."
Now Achilles felt his own ire rise as he heard the disapproval in his cousin�s words. Did the pup think to name him a coward? Though they shared a close kinship, it would not halt Achilles to lay the flat of his sword to the boy�s backside if he dared to voice such accusations aloud.
Forcing down his temper, Achilles instead considered his cousin�s recent shame in his betrayal of Paris to Agamemnon. Perhaps Patroclus merely hoped to make reparation by proving his worth in battle.
"If it�s fighting you still long for," Achilles told him, hoping to bring forth the sweet temper he knew the youth could possess, "there will always be another war. That I promise you."
But Patroclus was clearly not swayed and an angry frown still marred his fair features. Achilles knew then that it was not their abandonment of the Trojan war that had so riled his cousin. No, something else pricked at the younger man.
"These are our countrymen," Patroclus continued. "You betray all of Greece just to see Agamemnon fall!"
The boy was no fool but this arrow aimed at his mentor flew false. Achilles no longer cared for the pig of a King. Agamemnon and his greed were of no concern for Achilles would never again lift a sword nor lead an army into battle in his name. His theft of Paris, then careless handling of the prince, had severed their accord beyond the repair of Odysseus' clever tongue.
"Someone has to lose," Achilles retorted, turning for the tent he shared with Paris and signalling their conversation at an end.
He had taken but a step through the sand before Patroclus� next words halted him.
"You betray us for that Trojan whore!"
Had his sword been within reach, Achilles would have drawn at the slanderous accusation. No man had ever named him traitor and lived, and any who sought to debase the Trojan prince would find themselves likewise slaughtered.
Instead, Achilles turned and fixed Patroclus with a cold, level stare. "Did my blood not run in your veins, you would lie dead for those words, cousin."
He saw that he had shocked the boy when the blood drained from Patroclus' face. "Once you would never had said such to me, cousin," Patroclus whispered bitterly and his blue eyes turned watery. "Once you loved me as now you do him�"
At that last Achilles felt his fury suddenly fade, replaced by an unhappy understanding. In his blind lust and desire for Paris, he had allowed the Trojan Prince to supplant Patroclus in his affections and his bed, had all but abandoned his beloved cousin without apology or explanation. It was no wonder the younger man was bitter with hatred and jealousy of the prince who he saw as his rival.
It took but a few steps for Achilles to reach his cousin and pull the younger man into his arms. Patroclus stiffened and resisted this effort to make peace, but soon realised it was hopeless to free himself from Achilles� stronger embrace and lowered his head to the warrior�s shoulder.
"Forgive me cousin," Achilles murmured, into the pale spun hair, and felt Patroclus shudder, felt wetness against the cloth of his tunic. He kept Patroclus� head bowed lest any should witness his weeping. "I did not know the hurt I caused you."
Patroclus clutched at his shoulders, stemmed his tears to raise red eyes to his cousin. Achilles tenderly wiped the telltale saltwater stains from his face, stroked his hair soothingly.
"I confess I have been blind to your needs," the warrior continued. "I who brought you here, only to abandon you."
"I followed you," Patroclus retorted. "I will always go with you cousin, whether you wish it or no, for my heart is yours."
Achilles sighed. He had taught Patroclus much of fighting, of battle, but rarely had he spoken of Aphrodite�s gift to men. "It is not love you feel for me, Patroclus," he told the younger man as gently as he knew. "I am your mentor, your cousin, what you feel for me is but a ghost of what I feel for him. What some day you will feel for the woman who will bear your children."
Patroclus began to shake his head in denial but Achilles stilled him. Reaching back, he untied the necklace his mother had given him for his war gift and placed it around his cousin�s lean throat. The youth wonderingly touched the seashells, turning confused eyes upon Achilles.
Achilles leaned forward and kissed Patroclus� forehead, in a silent gesture of farewell. "We sail in the morn," he told the youth once again. "And you will find another to love."
He did not pause to see tears form anew in his cousin�s eyes, but strode up the sands and away from the forlorn figure that stood silent until he had passed from view.
*****
It took longer than Achilles had wished before he could at last return to his fair captive. Errands for food, clothing and ointment he would usually have given over to Patroclus, but knew it wise to allow the younger man time to compose himself after their turbulent confrontation. Stepping from early, bright day into the dim and humble dwelling, Achilles sighed when he saw Paris roused. He had not wished for his lover to awake, alone and unarmed and seemingly abandoned, but hoped the gifts he bore would atone for his apparent thoughtlessness.
Paris was sitting awkwardly, knees drawn to his chest, the sheet wrapped haphazardly about his narrow waist and he looked upon Achilles with a dark and unreadable gaze the warrior could not fathom.
Achilles sent him an easy smile meant to charm as he lowered his burdens, hoping to ease the prince�s intense demeanour, but received nothing in return. As passionate and open as he had been in the night, this morn Paris was cold and withdrawn, his eyes shuttered and grim. A sense of foreboding assailed Achilles. Some happenstance had occurred while he was absent.
"I have brought clothing for you," Achilles told him, sinking onto his small stool, furtively appraising his lover for signs of recent abuse. Had any dared to enter his domain and touch what was his, he would know it and seek redress in a display of fury that would shake the very foundations of Greece.
To his relief, Paris appeared unharmed beneath his knowledgeable eye. But when the prince silently reached out a hand for the gift of the pale blue sarong and tunic, his confounding refusal to speak, to acknowledge the warrior, only served to prick at Achilles� good temper.
"There is ointment that I must first apply, for you are no doubt sore," he told the prince brusquely, placing the items firmly out of reach. The familiar scent of herbs filled the tiny space as he withdrew the small pot of ointment and unwrapped it from its sailcloth covering.
"You need not touch me," Paris replied, shortly, seeming to shrink in on himself once more. "I require no cosseting, my hurts are my own to bear."
Exasperated now by the prince�s aberrant behaviour, Achilles slid across to the pallet, gritting his teeth against a sharp remark when Paris flinched from him.
"You cannot do this yourself," Achilles told him firmly, taking hold of the bed sheet to remove it, only to have Paris clasp it obstinately.
This sudden prudish temperament considering what they had shared in the night irritated Achilles. Even were the boy shamed by their act, his effort to withhold himself from the warrior�s tending was foolish considering the pain he was no doubt in. Reining in his temper and the urge to shake the prince until he spoke, Achilles soothingly ran a hand down Paris� arm instead.
"I must tend to you," he cajoled, pressing a kiss to one bared, cool shoulder. "I would not have you uncomfortable for my sake. And more, you will enjoy it, I promise."
Paris abruptly twisted from his touch and grabbed the jar, flinging it to the ground, eye blazing in fury and defiance. "I need nothing from you, barbarian!" he spat angrily.
Without thought or consideration for what came next, Achilles grabbed the prince by the scruff of his slender neck and dragged him over his lap, ripping the sheet aside to land a sharp smack to Paris� bared buttocks.
The crack was loud in the sudden, shocked silence. Then Paris began to struggle anew, vocalising his displeasure in an array of filthy curses that Achilles had not known a wellborn man could possess. Achilles took both the prince�s wrists in one hand to pin him down, though Paris� wildcat fighting did not cease.
Two unhappy lovers in one morn, Achilles thought, wryly. The gods must be in desperate need of amusement yet again.
"Release me," Paris gasped, kicking to free himself to no avail. Then at the top of his lungs, "Filthy Greek!"
"I think I preferred you silent," Achilles mused, then brought his hand down again, hard, as Paris twisted and attempted to spit in his face. "Must we continue like this prince? Or will you calm enough to tell me what troubles you."
*****
The first slap against his bare buttocks had been enough to outrage Paris� princely pride. Not even as a child had he been chastised as such, for none of the lesser born assigned to his care would dare to strike him and his father had doted upon him. A frown from Hector had been all that was required for the child Paris to repent his mischief and make amends.
And yet Achilles had dared to commit such an indignity as spanking him, though Paris was beyond his childhood by many years. The smacks, though firm, stung far less that the humiliation of being dragged across the warrior�s knees like a misbehaving child and for a punishment he did not deserve. Achilles had been the one to abandon him, to end their tryst with nary a word.
He heard Achilles sigh. "If you will not tell me what ails you, prince," the warrior told him, "then you will stay like this all morn."
Exhausted by his futile struggling, head hanging limply, Paris managed to spit bitterly, "Don�t you have a war to fight?"
"I believe I am fighting one now," Achilles parleyed back easily enough.
Paris bit his tongue. Mayhap if he did not bait the warrior, Achilles would become bored of this power struggle and free his captive to return to Troy. His own rage had caught him by surprise, so heavy was his heart earlier, yet to erupt in fury, to strike out at the one who had caused his misery in order to allay his own had come all too easily to Paris.
He felt Achilles shift his grip on his wrists, pinning them more heavily to his back, and tensed, anticipating another mortifying smack. Instead he felt a gentle, callused hand on his buttocks, caressing away the burn of the slaps and could not suppress a jolt of arousal at the intimate touch. And when the warrior pried them apart, Paris gasped aloud, struggling now to will away the hardening of the flesh between his legs. He had not asked for this desire and to yield to it now, when Achilles had cast him aside, would be a degradation he could not bear to suffer.
Coldness was spread quickly across his sore opening, soothing it to a comfortable numbness and Paris sighed in reluctant gratitude. He lowered his head in surrender, praying to the gods he would not end up purring like the kittens that had once been brought to Troy as both an amusement and an oddity as Achilles tended to him.
He spread his legs further at Achilles� insistence, beyond shame now as the relief to his pain was efficiently applied. And when Achilles slipped a slick, cooling finger inside him, Paris� respiration quickened, unable to restrain the rampant hardness pressed against the warrior�s leg. The burst of pleasure from Achilles� knowing touch, surely deliberate, sent him rocking against the body that held him, unable to hold back his whimpers.
Shame and anger forgotten, Troy and Helen but a dim thought in his mind, Paris moaned at the fiery, potent touch. How quickly this warrior could make him come undone, to play the whore once again despite his aching, angry heart.
"Will you speak?" Achilles demanded, though gently and Paris nodded as the sweat dripped from his forehead to be swallowed by the sand beneath.
In the same manner as he had been manhandled by the warrior, Achilles flipped him over onto the pallet with a frightening speed and plunged two anointed fingers back into the prince�s waiting opening.
Paris arched and cried out at the abrupt stretching, though the pleasure was fast spreading throughout his entire being, an insidious invasion of his senses that made all else beyond his understanding.
"Have me," he cried out in passion as Achilles knelt between his open thighs, working his fingers in and out of the prince�s willing body. "Have me."
Like a mantra he said the only words his mind could conjure, his need too great for pride. And when a wet, enveloping heat closed about his straining phallus, Paris� eyes flew open to see Achilles pleasuring him with his strong, sucking mouth, ripe, glistening lips sliding up and down his taut shaft.
Their eyes met and Paris felt hot tears on his face for the first time as he wailed and emptied himself in a long and forceful surge into the warrior�s skilled mouth, his passage clenching onto Achilles� fingers. Achilles took all that Paris offered and carefully removed his fingers, his face a picture of concern as he regarded Paris� tears. Beneath his sarong however, Paris saw he was erect, aroused.

He still desires me, Paris thought, elated, and before his breath had returned to him, he sat upright and grabbed for the warrior, pulling Achilles� robes aside to desperately take the head of the large cock into his mouth.
Paris sucked away the creamy moisture that had sprung forth at its tip, savouring it as if it were the very nectar of the gods, gulping in air as he withdrew, before plunging back in. He felt Achilles� hands try to pull him away, but they were weak, lacking conviction and he was determined, grasping the warrior�s taut buttocks to pull him closer. He took in as much as the shaft as he was able, but the lump in his throat prevented more, all but undone by the sobs that threatened to emerge.
It did not take long, despite his lack of skill and when he felt the first spurt of the golden warrior�s seed on his tongue, he swallowed hungrily, determined not to let a drop of his lover�s essence escape his lips. If this were to be his final taste of Achilles, he would treasure all that the warrior could give him.
When they were both done, Paris crawled into Achilles� welcoming arms, resting his head beneath the warrior�s chin and burying his face into the glistening skin beneath. Achilles ran his fingers through Paris� hair, held him close and whispered words of comfort into his ear until Paris� tears had subsided.
Never one to have felt strongly or deeply for another, Paris felt exhausted, drained by the turbulence of his new emotions and he snuggled close to Achilles, praying for Hypnos the Bountiful to come soonest and give him respite from what he knew would surely come.
A sundering from the bliss he had come to know in the form of the Great Lion of Greece.
But Achilles refused to allow him to take flight into the oblivion of sleep, gently lifting his chin and cupping his face in his strong hands.
"Beautiful prince," Achilles said, tenderly, and with a shining love in his eyes. "Paris, tell me what troubles you so."
Confusion crept in to subdue Paris� fears as he regarded the warrior, enabling him to speak at the last. "I-I believed you had left me." He searched Achilles� eyes desperately, placing his hands over those of the warrior. Should he see laughter or mockery in the cerulean depths, he believed his fragile heart would shatter. "You were not here when I awoke, and you did not lust for me during the night. I thought you no longer desired me and wished no more from me."
Paris waited then on an in-drawn breath, afraid to hear the answer that would either deal a mortal blow to his uncertain heart or elevate it to a height of joy he had never known.
Instead of replying, Achilles claimed his mouth in unfeigned passion and hunger, his able hands drawing Paris down onto the pallet where their satiated bodies melted fluidly together. He withdrew only when it became apparent Paris needed air and the prince took a gulp that was nearer a sob.
Achilles pressed his forehead to Paris�, looked into his eyes. "I desire you still, son of Troy," he said, softly, stroking Paris� cheek and the prince quietly gasped. "I lust for you more than you could know. And still, there is much more I would have from you."
"I did not know," Paris whispered. "When I awoke to find you gone�"
"Forgive me, that I did not wish for," Achilles broke in, repentant. "But it was fruitless for you to seek to reject me with your childish tantrums, for I will never let you go prince. You are mine."
He emphasised the point with a second, thorough kiss, and Paris blushed at the possessive words, heart singing with sudden joy. He would gladly belong to Achilles, for the warrior had already claimed his body and heart. There was nothing left but the sweetest of surrenders.
Smiling happily, Paris cuddled close to Achilles, shy now as he regarded his lover, touching him with feathery caresses, fascinated almost by the warrior�s sleek and muscled frame. Achilles moaned softly at his innocent questing and laid his hand atop Paris� to still his movements.
"Enough," he said, firmly. "Once again you test my resolve boy. Or would you have me take you now, sore as you are."
Paris flushed at that and sighed, daring to claim a kiss from the warrior, before settling, stifling a yawn that Achilles did not fail to notice.
"Sleep Paris," he suggested softly. "I will be here when you awaken. That I promise you."
Paris found he did not doubt his lover�s resolve. "But the war�" he began, sleepily.
"There is much I would tell you," Achilles said. "But later. Do not fear, boy. All will be well."
And Paris believed him as he slipped into a gentle slumber.
END OF PART FOUR
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Twist of the Fates