Take Me Home

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Part 25

This night was as if the night of the men journeying to the shore of Hades. It was a strange hour indeed for the silvery-blue moon was in its perfect roundness, casting a trail of shimmering wakes to guide the helmsman so that he would not stray nor lost his way. Men believed in magic and also the omens. While it showed greatness in triumph, but it also represented tragedy to many. Who would win and who would survive; who would slave for the Lord of the Underworld or be swept away by Apollo to Mount Olympus to enjoy Zeus’ Garden of Eden?

Darkness crept from the edges where the light from the lamp would not penetrate. It tried to reach out its gnarled hand to pull any willing victim into its hungry waiting mouth. Fortunately, the cold, blinking stars so believed to be the eyes of the Gods, were watching over them.

A young man in his early twenties, his face cleanly shaven from this afternoon, stood watch near the prow. He had joked to his friends that if he were to die in battle he would want to look good when he entered the Elysium to meet his long, dead mother.

He yawned widely and gave himself a good stretch to avoid falling asleep. It was boring work – the night watches – as there was not much to see. Dawn was still several hours away. He scratched the side of his leg out of habit and turned aft to find his partner. He found him talking to the helmsman. By coincidence, they were both related through a marriage.

The navigator had announced earlier that they would be nearing Troy just before dawn. This stirred a lot of excitement among the men whether from nervousness or gladness to see land once more. Not everyone was happy, of course, because it meant life or death for them.

A few extra lamps had been lit to ensure their visibility to the other ships as they were in the vicinity of a busy shipping lane. Orders had been given that every man on board must wear their armours to sleep, except for Paris who received none. It was strange to see the many gleaming metals under the dancing light from the lamps. It was as thought the ship was filled with precious cargoes to be presented to someone very important. Indeed this was true in one aspect as Neoptolemus was surrendering his men to Agamemnon.

Edgy tenseness was felt all day. The soldiers were chatting more animatedly than usual, a side effect of unloading their anxiety of a first timer going into battle. Neoptolemus didn’t suffer this; he was cool and collected while staring at the direction of their destination and meditating. The only person who brooded darkly was the other blue-blood who kept himself away from everyone else. No one paid any heed to the boy besotted by many fleeting emotions.

The few war veterans were going about as usual. They knew what to expect and spent the rest of the day, double checking their weapons and armours, making sure that everything were in order. After that, they performed their prayers to the Gods, asking for protection from harm and mortal injuries.

Slaves were kept busy too, cleaning and sharpening swords and javelins. Their weapons would be given to them when they get off the ship. Minimal armour plates such as chest plates were already distributed to them so that they wouldn’t waste time putting them on.

Around an hour later, the watcher saw a faint flicker somewhere on the north-east. He wasn’t sure what he saw and didn’t want to rouse the men to a false alarm. He made a discreet whistle to the other watcher on the second ship and pointed to the position he saw the light.

By now, his partner had heard the shrill note and he went quickly to the bow. All four watchers studied the flicker until they saw more appeared in a line. Arm signals were passed back and forth – the conclusion that those were the torches from the Greek encampment.

“Troy! Troy up ahead!” the first watcher shouted to wake the men. He heard a similar shout from the other ship.

It had been difficult to find sleep that night and by the time they nod off, the alarm was sounded. No one made a complaint, but swiftly picked themselves up to run to the side of the ship. Leathers creaked and metals clanked as the mass of bodies moved and gathered close among them. Necks craned from behind tall shoulders and their low murmurs were like bees gathering. The slaves below deck, the only ones who couldn’t see anything from where they were, listened intently to the commotion upstairs to gather the information.

Neoptolemus and Pynder pushed pass the crowd to get to the front. By now, everyone could see the long row of flickering lights becoming more prominent and bobbing closer. They could also make out the darker outlines of lands and high grounds.

“All right men. We have been waiting for this action for days now. Get to you station. We row to shore,” Neoptolemus issued his command loudly so that everyone could hear him. Then he made his way to the helmsman to give him a last minute instruction when he came across Paris.

The lanky youth stood dumbly in the middle of the deck, a little unsteady on his feet. With arms dangling listlessly by his side and his unkempt hair fluttering over his face, no one could ever guess that this was once a prince of a powerful king and the object of infatuation of the gods and goddesses. He seemed rather detached from reality as his eyes stared blankly ahead of him; not even the commotions around him could rouse him from whatever planes of dream he had ascended.

In truth, Paris hadn’t believed that he would see the shore of his homeland once more after all that had happened. His emotions were a mixture right now, as he didn’t know what he should feel. He was happy to be home yet he wondered how his family would receive him. Would they take him back without questions or would they lock him out from the city fort forever pretending that he didn’t exist anymore? Was he going to get love or pity from them? Would the subject of Troy mock and despise him for daring to show his face after throwing them into the jaws of greedy wolves?

“Paris!” Neoptolemus called out. He waited until the youth was aware of him. “You will not get off this ship until I tell you,” he warned and went to join Pynder who was waiting for him at the aft of the ship.

“Pynder, as soon as we reached shore, I want a messenger sent to the gates of Troy. Tell him to give this message to Priam and wait until he gets his answers before returning to me directly.” Neoptolemus took out a wax sealed letter from behind his chest plate and handed it to his Second.

“What is it about?” Pynder asked as he eyed the twice folded paper in his hand.

“I am going to send that Trojan whore back to his father. But first, I want the old man to witness with his own eyes what his son is now. I am sure Hector would be crying for blood-revenge after this. When he comes out from his hiding, Achilles will finish off Troy as Thetis had predicted.”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Agamemnon stood in the middle of a clearing and dark, lush forest walled him in. Despite that the trees were all healthy and green, yellow and brown leaves that he knew not where they came from drifted in circles around him whenever some invisible force breathed. He also didn’t know how he got here or why and just as unexpected, a black stallion – tall and magnificent – appeared just three strides from him. The creature stamped its hoof impatiently and snorted while throwing its head back and forth, causing its long, silky mane to whip about. Fearing the horse’s next violent reaction, Agamemnon stepped back.

Instead of stepping out of danger, all of a sudden, blood gushed out from unseen wounds behind his corselet. The pool of crimson began to expand from under his feet that quickly turned into a lake. Terrified by the sight of his own blood, Agamemnon screamed for help.

Something powerful grabbed his right shoulder and shook him. The King of Kings fought to get away from that strong grip. He opened his eyes to find a familiar face looming over him. He was just having a bad dream.

These horrifying nightmares had been plaguing him ever since he was injured in battle. As a result of the deep wound on the side of his right thigh, the physician had ordered him off the field for a while. Agamemnon accepted defeat for now and conducted his warfare from his tent instead.

“My king, the watch tower guards had spotted two ships coming towards the shore. Aeclus wanted to know what are your orders concerning this?” the man asked. He was Agamemnon’s aide and had been the one to wake the king up whenever nightmare struck the older man. He never asked Agamemnon about his dream like all the other times. The king was already quite jittery about this bad omen. Many diviners and priests had been brought into the camp to decipher those weird dreams, but thus far, no one had succeeded.

“Did he say whose flag they are carrying?”

“He is not sure, but he thinks it’s from Phthia. However, he is positive that it’s not Achilles’ ship,” the aide informed.

“Tell Aeclus to escort their commander to me. I want to know why Peleus is not sending his son to Troy.”

“Yes, my king.” The aide bowed and left the make shift chamber quietly.

The King of Kings sat up and rubbed his face vigorously. He was getting tired of this never-ending war. Many good and capable men, including himself, were either temporarily out of commission or had crossed the River; some were lying dead still on the dusty ground and picked upon by the merciless carrion. Although he didn’t like Achilles for many reasons, he needed this prophesied hero of Hellene to change their luck and defeat Prince Hector. He was impatient to ride into the fort and pick the city clean.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Agamemnon’s Audience Chamber and Throne Room was small compared to what he was used to in his palace. Instead of hundreds of lamps that brightly lit the entire hall, here he had to save for fuels were hard to come by in times of war. Two bronze braziers in the shape of a wide-rimmed bowl set upon three clawed paws were used and placed in the middle of the room. Pieces of logs from chopped trees were alighted, giving enough illumination and some heat.

Besides the man himself on his throne, there were several other leaders, alliances to Mycenae’s crown. They sat in silence and stared at the dancing flame in front of them. Everyone’s eyes were red and wrinkled from the lack of sleep and much worry. No one knew why Agamemnon had called for them at this forsaken hour of the night and he had yet to explain himself.

“Prince Neoptolemus son of Achilles,” Agamemnon’s aide announced.

Every pair of eyes was now upon the newcomer. They had never heard of him, but his relation to Achilles intrigued them.

It was a blond young man, not much taller than most of them walked in with his head held up high and his chest puffed out in a proud pose. For those who had seen Achilles before, they recognized some resemblance in this young man.

Neoptolemus came within three paces from Agamemnon’s throne chair and immediately knelt down on one knee. He bowed his head and waited to be addressed. He was so excited that he was barely able to contain himself. He had never in his life been presented to so many powerful kings under the Hellene’s sky, all at the same time. This was his moment of glory, to show to them that he was no more a child, but an accomplished warrior not to be reckoned with.

“I welcome you, Prince Neoptolemus. We are all glad to see that Phthia had finally decided to rejoin this war. And how is Peleus?” the King started off with the usual greetings and niceties.

“Thank you, my lord,” Neoptolemus replied almost too eagerly. “King Peleus is well. He also sends his well wishes and good hunting to you.”

“Good. Good. Tell me, Prince Neoptolemus. Why isn’t Achilles here?” Agamemnon asked impatiently. War made a man tired and jittery. All he wanted was to get to the point so he could plan he next move.

The young prince felt slighted. It was Achilles that everyone wanted, not some representative of Phthia.

“He is on his way, my lord,” the blond prince replied simply. He didn’t want to show his annoyance. “I have brought with me four hundred of my best men. I’ve trained them myself and they are as good as the Myrmidons,” he tried to divert the attention back to him. After all, his infamous father was only prophesied to defeat Hector, not Troy. It would be he, Prince Neoptolemus, who would steal that glory. He would make Agamemnon rethink of Phthia’s position in his group of alliances.

“Excellent,” Agamemnon finally showed some interest. He felt less stressed now as the war would end soon. “You must be tired from the long journey here. Take your rest. Tomorrow you will return here so that we may begin our plans for the day.”

“Yes, my lord.” Neoptolemus stood up and bowed to everyone in the room before he walked out. Just before the thick hides that were the door drew closed behind him, he heard Agamemnon addressing the men inside – he had been left out from the crucial war council.

How dare he? How dare he dismissed him like some little brat and sent off to bed? For once, he agreed with his father that Agamemnon was a blind fool, guided only by his lust for power and wealth. The man had no true vision. Did he think that he could win the war by himself with his thick wits? Let the man be happy sitting on his empty nest; he has a grander plan for Troy.

It was good that the sea breeze was cold; it dampened his irritation a bit. While the sun was not yet up, the camp was relatively quiet. There were few soldiers on guard duties – some patrolling about and others on the watch towers. No one paid much attention to him for they knew he was the newcomer with fresh supplies of troops.

Occasionally, Neoptolemus heard coughs and stifled moans from inside the tents; the wounded were increasing by the days. At the other end, close to a steep rock face, he saw a huge bonfire burning – the dead were being cremated. Dark columns of smoke billowed to the sky, carrying the pain and anguish of lost souls to the gods, hoping that the Messenger might help them carry their regrets and unspoken last wishes to their loved ones.

Neoptolemus shook his head and started walking back to his camp area. The way was not far. As they were the last troop to arrive, they were allotted the ground at the very end of this makeshift ‘village’. This was perfect for Neoptolemus. He could carry out his secret arrangement with Priam without arousing too much suspicion.

And speaking of Priam, waiting in his tent was a most delectable youth. This made his heart beat a little more excited and he hurried his pace.


The two guards posted outside the tent entrance drew their spears aside when they saw him coming. He passed without acknowledging them and pushed the flaps open to enter. To his surprise, he was greeted by the sight of Paris bound hands and legs and lying on the fur-lined ground. The youth glared heatedly at him.

He wondered what had happened.

Right on cue, Pynder appeared to stand behind him.

“He tried to escape,” Pynder explained as he, too, eyed the youth. It was astounding when he looked at that thin and malnourished body that Paris had the reserved strength in him, taking two soldiers to chase him down and restrain him.

“Did he?” Neoptolemus spoke without looking back. “I’ll deal with him. Make sure no one disturbs me,” and he entered the tent. Pynder smirked at the implication and went away to leave the prince to his amusement.

Paris pushed back when Neoptolemus came closer to him. There was some rebelliousness burning in his eyes.

“Eager to go home?” Neoptolemus asked. Paris played mute.

“Where’s your manners? After all, you are a prince in this land. Shouldn’t you be inviting me into your home? Introduce me to the family?” Neoptolemus chuckled to himself.

“When are you going to let me go? If ever,” Paris added the last words bitterly.

“Don’t you trust me?” The blond prince laughed again. This Trojan youth was such an entertainer. “I see that you don’t. Well, that depends if your father and brother still wants you after all the grief you’ve brought upon your city. But, don’t worry. We will know for sure by tomorrow.”

An ice cold hand gripped his heart. Paris couldn’t imagine that his brother would not want him back.

“What happens to me if they … don’t … come for me?” Fear crept into his voice.

“Let me see. If you still amused me, I shall keep you for a while. Otherwise, I know someone … well, I should really say a few people who are interested in you,” Neoptolemus reached out to play with a strand of Paris’ curls. “Don’t put your hopes on my father. He will never find you and he will kill Hector. I will make sure of that.”

Paris’ eyes widened in comprehension.

“That’s right Paris. You’re the pawn in my scheme. I’ve kidnapped you here knowing that my father would do anything to save you. The only trouble is he will not find you here and he will not leave until you are safe in his arms again. My next plan is to get Hector and Achilles to fight to the death. Of course, I will provide a strong incentive for my father to kill Hector. With him out of the way, Troy will spread her legs to be raped and plundered.” A smug grin appeared on the blond prince’s lips. He couldn’t help feeling proud of his ingenuity.

Desperation was written all over Paris’ face when he listened to this. Why was he so stupid? Why didn’t he see this earlier? His fate was hanging by a thread now. Although right at this moment, it wasn’t important what Neoptolemus was going to do with him. He was just a worthless object that no one should concern themselves with. It was Achilles and Hector that he must try to save. They would destroy Troy and themselves through these greedy conspiracies.

The blond prince didn’t waste his opportunity to rake his eyes hungrily over the partially covered youth in front of him. The back of Paris’ buttocks was quite exposed because he wasn’t able to pull his tunic down to hide himself. This tempted Neoptolemus to run his calloused fingers over the rounded hip.

“Take your hand off me!” Paris snapped and rolled away. However, Neoptolemus caught a clump of his dark curls and yank back harshly, making Paris cry out in pain. His neck hurt badly.

“You’re suddenly so spirited. I think you need to be reminded of your position while you’re still in this tent,” Neoptolemus hissed, his spittle raining down on the youth’s face.

He stood up and seized Paris’ upper arm mercilessly. Not only were his fingernails digging cruelly into the flesh, his brutal manhandling almost dislocated Paris’ shoulder.

The sharp pain prevented the youth from fighting back. He frantically tried to keep up with Neoptolemus as he was dragged to the bed and flung on to the soft mattress.

This sudden violence terrified Paris. His first instinct was to get away, so he started to roll himself off the bed. However, Neoptolemus was fast to catch him by the waist and dragged him back.

Without thinking, Paris swung his arms back and smacked the back of his hand against Neoptolemus’ face. His assaulter cursed aloud, but did not let go of his waist. He tried again to hit the prince, but Neoptolemus recovered swiftly and caught his hands in mid-swing. In one quick motion, he slapped the bound hands down on Paris’ abdomen and sat on top of them. Then he threw a hard punch on Paris’ left cheek.

Blood oozed out from the corner of his mouth. Paris barely recognized the salty taste on his tongue as his brain seemed to have jarred out of his skull. Unhindered and helpless, this was the perfect chance for Neoptolemus to breach the gate of the young Trojan, much like how he would tear down the Great Gates of the city when they were defenseless without their champion.

With every thrust that he made, a simulation of his intended brutality upon Troy, he caused Paris to groan aloud. By this inhuman act, the youth’s consciousness returned with clarity by the fiery heat that seared his entire being.

Paris was made the embodiment of Troy, to rehearse all his plans and ambitions to come. The proud city must be taught to humble itself on its knees – to submit and to obey, willingly. At the last thrust that he made, Neoptolemus buried his cock deep inside Paris’ bowel; to mark his possession over the boy. He wanted to ingrain this memory into Paris that his very life and fate depended on his one master.

When Neoptolemus pulled out of Paris’ broken body, he saw blood on his wet-slicked cock. This was exactly the evidence of a conquered city – oppression.

NOTE: Not sure if this all makes sense. I dont' feel very well right now so I hope I'm not writing junk. I'll try to get chapter 26 out in the next few days. Cross your fingers.

Oh yes, I must say thanks to everyone who had left their reviews especially Masquerade. I'm deeply touched by your words. (sniff) I'm not sure if I really deserve them, but thanks for your cofidence in me. ^_^

As for Ranni. I don't hate Orli or any of the characters he plays in movies. Opposite, I adore him. Hehehe... however, this is a dark fic and thus, I like to TORTURE him a little. If you consider this dark, then "The King's Property" and its sequels (LOTR) are child's play. ^_^ Yea, it's a hint. You can find them at my site: http://breathless.shadowess.com

Ciao!!