Favorite Son

Author’s notes: This is set well before the Trojan War. Be advised that Paris is seventeen years old. There are ten chapters so far and the most up-to-date chapters will always be in my LiveJournal page. Feel free to visit the page at http://www.livejournal.com/users/montmorency/


*** *** ***

I am not pleased although I hide it well. For I am heir to Troy and I must behave always with the dignity attached to that station. I have now passed one score and five years since the day of my birth, and I have fought in many battles to protect my beautiful city from the uncouth marauders who covet her wealth and fear her civilized ways. Trojan men of twice my years look to me for courage and strength and leadership, and it would seem at times that every maiden in the city tries to catch my eye. And indeed some of the men as well.

Thus upon a victorious return from a campaign to the east, where we valiantly defended our allies from invasion, my men and I have every reason to believe we will be welcomed with fanfare. We suffered no losses and it is in my mind to sacrifice in Athena’s temple as soon as I may. Yet we meet no messengers from the city when we are yet one day off, camped near the Hellespont, and on the next day as we crest the coastal hills and come in sight of Troy, glorious in the fading sun, none ride out to greet us.

Rather, as we near the Dardanian Gate we hear music and sounds of revelry deep within the city walls. Our horses are eager to be inside, yet I hold all back for a moment to speak with the captain of the men-at-arms who guard the gate.

“Archeptolemus!” I cry. “Is all Troy engaged? Is there no one besides yourself and your men to welcome us home?”

“Prince Hector!” he responds with a low bow and a laugh. “Do you not know what has happened? The city is in an uproar!”

“Had you sent a messenger,” I say somewhat testily, “perhaps I would not seem so ignorant.”

He pays no heed to my tone. Archeptolemus has no fear of me, and once was bold enough to ask me into his bed. I could not in good conscience accede, though I honor him greatly as a friend and a comrade-in-arms, and at times I have teased him about emulating the Spartans.

“There are games in the great square,” he says happily. “For three days now the king has held contests of sport and strength in honor of the return of Prince Paris.”

I pull sharply on the reins and my stallion stops prancing. “Prince who?” I ask with awful politeness. I have many brothers but none bears that name.

Archeptolemus laughs again. “Go in and see the king and queen. They will explain!”

I love Archeptolemus like one of my many brothers, but at this moment I would like to cuff him hard on the head. Yet as I am a prince of Troy, I smile graciously and lead the way into the city.

*** *** ***

No, I am not pleased at all.

Unwelcomed as we ride through the near-empty streets, we leave our horses at the stables and make our way to the great square. I leave the curious warriors at the foot of the palace to find themselves a place in the stands, and I ascend the inner stairwell and come out on the royal balcony, where the king and queen have no eyes for me, so rapt are they by what transpires in the square below. There, a veritable boy is playing at target-practice as Troy’s worthiest archers stand and watch and cheer.

It takes but a moment to realize that the boy is indeed skilled with bow and arrow, and the archers seem unusually gratified by this as they slap his back and congratulate him upon every perfect shot.

It would appear that the boy has bewitched the entire city with the sole exception of daft Cassandra, who sits in the shadows to my left. She mutters to me something about Mount Ida, and goddesses and gold, and sheep on a hillside, and prophecies of doom. I kiss her cheek and whisper to her that I have brought something for her from the far east, but she only shakes her head and talks more nonsense.

My mother, finally noticing my presence, leans over to me as the crowd roars another approval down in the square. “Hector, dear Hector, do not be envious.”

“I am not envious, Mother,” I reply tightly. No, not of a shepherd boy who lays false claim to the title of son of Priam. It appears he has fooled others already, but I am not the defender of Troy by way of being known for foolishness.

“Aphrodite has brought Paris back to us. The gods have protected him all these years,” she says softly, and there is much sadness in her tone. I turn and see a tear falling slowly down her cheek, and I impulsively reach out and brush it away with my thumb. She smiles at me and I cannot help but return the smile.

“Dear boy,” she says, laying her thin hand on my arm and composing her features, “I hope that your little brother can forgive me one day.”

I say nothing to that, for I have nothing good to say, but instead place my hand over hers. I remember the whispered talk when I was very young. The queen had visions of the baby in her womb: that he was a torch flaming inside. And then they told us that the baby was stillborn. For one full passing of the moon, while our nurses cared for us, we never saw our mother. When at last she came back to our rooms, never again was she as carefree as before. And yet now, as I steal a glance at her, her smile seems so radiant, and I wonder if it has ever been so for me.

There is another roar of approval from the crowd and I realize my attention has wandered. My father the king leaps to his feet, applauding and crying out, “Well done, my son!”

Son? He is not speaking to me.

All eyes but mine shift to the king. Mine remain on the boy in the square, who looks up at the balcony and bows to acknowledge the king’s gracious compliment. His eyes scan the people and alight on me. Even from this distance and in the gathering gloom, I can feel his eyes upon me, searching, it seems, deep inside me. I am held by that gaze and find myself unable to move.

A chant, growing like the waves beating upon the shore, disturbs me. It is the people of Troy and they are chanting my name. My father looks at me and smiles widely.

“Hector! You have returned!” he exclaims. “I am so pleased to see you. Go, my son, join the contest!” As in a dream I rise and the roar increases. They wish to see me in contest with this imposter? The people of Troy who, before this, always cheered loudest for me? I am not used to sharing adulation.

“Why do you hesitate?” asks my father. “Go, prove once again your worth. All Troy knows of it.” He claps my shoulder and the spell seems broken. Perhaps I have misjudged and allowed jealousy to cloud my thoughts. I wave to the people and leave the balcony to a new roar of approval.

By the time I have descended to the level of the streets, the city has quieted again. The contestants part to let me approach my supposed brother.

He stands his ground as I come close, his bow held loosely in one hand, the other grasping an arrow that he is about to string. He is small and slender but strong, his skin made golden by the suns of some seventeen summers. If he seems unfit to be my brother because he lacks stature and sinews, yet his hair is russet and it curls like mine. Next to him I feel myself a rough-hewn soldier, battle-scarred and brutish.

He looks at me shyly, yet boldly all the same. He bows gracefully to me and says, “Prince Hector.”

Without taking my eyes from him I extend one arm and someone places a bow and arrow in my grasp. Abruptly I string the bow, turn towards the target, and let fly the arrow. It thuds into the very center of the target. An unexpectedly excellent shot for myself. Archery is not my best skill. But the boy need not know that.

All of Troy yells in delight. I turn to the interloper and smile. It is not my nicest smile, for I am feeling predatory, but the boy does not appear to understand, for he smiles in return and it is as though the setting sun flared brightly for a moment, outshining the torches that are being placed around the square as Apollo leads his chariot from the world.

Stringing his bow confidently, the boy turns to the target. The muscles in his arm are wiry as whipcord, as full of tension as the taut bow. His arrow sings through the air and, to the utter astonishment of all, splits my arrow in the center.

Scowling, I fit another arrow to my bow, draw it and release the arrow. It strikes directly left of my first shot. The boy also draws and aims, and his arrow again splits mine. How did a simple shepherd learn to handle a bow like that!

I am beginning to seethe with anger.

Thrice more we shoot and although each time I come respectably near the mark I choose, each time he splits my arrow. My ire grows with each cheer from my people. How soon they forget their true hero! I refuse to look directly at the boy, but on the edge of my vision I can see that he is watching me very closely, with an arrow already fitted to his bow. As I draw and string my last arrow, I pivot and aim for the uppermost pediment on the temple, which we used to do when we were young. The boy’s bow twangs almost in tandem with mine and, quite impossibly, his arrow strikes mine in mid-air and both clatter gracelessly back to the earth.

The roar from the assembly shakes the very foundations of Troy.

Stunned, I glance at the royal balcony. The king and queen, and indeed all there, with the possible exception of Cassandra, have leapt to their feet and are cheering with great enthusiasm and vigor. I turn to the boy and find that he is beaming with pure joy.

He is very, very beautiful and I am very, very angry. I know I am turning red with fury. When he sees, his smile fades and his eyes drop.

“What else can you do, boy?” I ask in a low snarl.

Startled, he looks at me from under his lashes. “I can run very fast, my lord,” he says.

“Ah, a very useful skill for a warrior,” I cannot stop myself from saying. “In what other talents will you best me? Can you wrestle? Can you fight with sword and shield? Would it not be fair to test yourself against one of my virtues?”

“Everything about you is virtuous, my lord,” he says, clearly trying to appease me.

“Are you strong?” I continue relentlessly. “Can you throw a javelin? Can you do this?” And here I drop the bow, grasp him by one shoulder and one thigh, and hoist him bodily into the air and hold him over my head. He is not very heavy and I could hold him like this for a long while except that he is squirming vigorously, which perhaps accounts for the laughter from the archers and indeed the entire crowd.

“Prince Hector,” the lead archer, a giant of a man, says, “I hope you do not intend on making this a new sport in which we must all compete!”

I grin ruefully at that. “No, Socus, you are safe. A monster like yourself I could never lift.”

Amid more laughter, I lower the writhing boy rather roughly to the ground and he tumbles onto his backside in the dirt. Unharmed, however, he looks up at me with a sweet yet sly air. “I concede, Prince Hector,” he says. “You have won.”

If he is mocking me, he shall pay.

*** *** ***

“You have done what?” I bellow, then regret my harshness immediately. My mother never faults my temper, thus it is not right that I show it most to her. Yet I can barely believe what I have just been told.

“Hector, dear, it was for the best. After all, you were away from home and your house was empty. And he will need someone to teach him how to be a prince.”

Why must that person be me?

She takes my hand but I am not prepared to be mollified entirely.

“Could you not have made him stay with Helenus or Deiphobus?” I protest.

“Hector,” she says, pushing a fallen lock from my forehead as she has done since I was a boy. “He is your brother. Will you not welcome him home and be glad?”

I breathe deeply, controlling my anger. To think that only this morning I was glad, that my men and I had shown great courage and suffered no great harm in fighting side by side with our allies, and had expected to return to Troy to the adoration of our people. And now this! This evening the world has become unbearable and I have suffered one insult after another.

“Hector,” my mother says in her gentle voice, looking alarmed. “Are you well?”

For my mother, I will do this. I nod abruptly and bend my head so that she may kiss my forehead. She speaks softly in my ear: “He talked of nothing but you until we were quite weary of it. He has been so anxious to meet you.”

I swallow hard at hearing this. I do not wish for another brother, especially not this one, so beautiful and fleet of foot and strong of arm, with the eye of an eagle. He has enchanted the entire city, when they should be mine. I understand that what I feel is beneath me, and yet—

“He is my son, Hector,” she whispers in a breaking voice. She feels guilt for having abandoned a helpless baby so many years past. She wishes to make up to him the lack of a mother’s love for those years. Yet if she loves him, she does not love me less. This I know in my heart, and I will try hard not to add to her suffering.

But if I discover that he has lied to her, I shall assuredly make him suffer.

*** *** ***

In my darkened house there is but one lamp lit. I have little in the way of furnishings for my needs are few and I spend a great deal of time away from Troy to take care of the city’s defense and its business.

On my lone divan in the great hall, my supposed brother sits cross-legged, silently waiting for me. I can feel rage building again but I am determined to control it. I school my features and stride across the room as I undo the fastenings on the armor which I have not yet discarded since arriving.

Paris sits up straighter. He is alert, like a deer that hears a stalking lion.

I halt before him and drop my breastplate to the floor where it rings loudly. The greaves fall with equally loud crashes.

I am not known for being tidy.

Paris does not flinch, I give him that much credit. He rises slowly. He has dressed himself quite nicely in a long robe of royal blue with gold threads that wink in the lamplight. He is so close that I can smell him, and what he smells is clean.

Earlier, I had noted that he is the smaller of the two of us. Now I have leisure to observe how much this is so. I am a head taller and my shoulders are broader. I outweigh him by several stone. His skin is as smooth as a maiden’s and I find myself wondering, unbidden, if it feels as soft.

“May I help you, brother?” he asks quietly.

“With what?”

“There is warm water yet, from earlier, in my—” He stops short.

“Your what?”

“I took the smaller chamber.”

“Ah,” I say. “I hope you found it to your liking.”

“I wish—” he begins, and falters. Then his roaming eyes lift up to mine and he goes on more boldly. “I wish for us to be friends, Prince Hector.”

“I have not known you for the rising of one sun and yet you desire to be my brother and now my friend. That is very forward of you.”

“I beg your pardon,” he says. “I could not help myself, for I have always known of you – the great warrior-prince of Troy. All people know of your bravery and heroism. All of our countrymen owe our lives to you. Troy remains safe and whole because of you.”

Against my will I feel somewhat mollified. I find myself thinking, He at least seems reasonably generous in his praise, and well-spoken. And properly submissive. I look him up and down appraisingly. He seems to blush under my glance but it is difficult to tell in the dimness. “If you are a true son of Troy, you will be honored to fight for her,” I announce portentously.

“I shall.” He seems earnest.

For long moments I do not answer. He holds his ground and does not look away. “The sons of the king must learn the arts of war. Tomorrow,” I promise him, “you will begin.”

“Yes,” he agrees quietly.

I fix him with my sternest glare, then turn to leave, for I had almost forgotten my vow to honor Athena: for that I must remove the filth of battle and travel. Striding toward the smaller of the inner chambers, I halt abruptly and change course to the larger. I am now very, very displeased. Yet he could not have guessed, I suppose, that the smaller one is my bed chamber.