No Covenants

Certain he ground a portion of his teeth away for the effort Hector nonetheless clenched his jaw together to prevent those permitted screams. He took a great breath, as much as possible with Achilles’ weight upon him, and pulled against the fingers wound throughout his hair sure that Zeus’ own lightening bolts could not rival the white flashes from this movement. Achilles relinquished the fierce grip on his scalp. Unprepared for the movement his skull landed with little gentleness to the dirt floor.

The action brought no relief to Hector since the free hand could now force his uninjured shoulder to the ground, allowing Achilles the leverage to dig his fingers deeper into the exposed muscle. His captor twisted his mouth into, had he not been tormenting Hector that very moment, a smile. Those blue eyes that had, years earlier, flashed in challenge on the fields of battle had an eerie light to them now; an indiscernible emotion behind them that sent a chill through to the sinew and bone beneath Hector’s abused flesh. Achilles withdrew his knee easing it lower on his captive’s prone body and leaned in until he was close enough to bite Hector’s own nose should he have chosen it.

Still weakened from battle and his mind not wholly focused on the present Hector could do little more than lay under the angered Greek. With his wrists bound and body left immobile under Achilles strength he thought to appease the man with an attempt of compliance to his wishes. Perhaps then they might agree to terms with one another, though Hector did not place much faith in Achilles’ desire to be reasonable.

Prodding deep into the open wound with one calloused finger Achilles lifted it between them before he brought it to his lips and touched just the tip to his tongue. “How much shall I spill, I wonder?” Achilles murmured more to himself as his eyes remained transfixed on the bloodied finger while he moved it down between them. “Patroclus was darkened nearly all over his body with it.”

He dragged the slick finger down one side of Hector’s face staining his cheek with a thick line of blood and spit before clenching Hector’s strong jaw between his fingers. “Noble tamer of horses, poisonous lie…all I see here is a filthy murderer of children.”

“By the gods, Achilles,” though Hector’s throat ached as though he had swallowed half the sand in Troy he forced the words over his cracked lips, “I did not –”

“Silence!” Removing both hands so from Hector’s body he delivered a mighty blow across Hector’s jaw, snapping the man’s head to the side and splitting his lip. “I have already told you,” again he flung the back of his hand against Hector’s face snapping his head to the opposite side.

Once more he took hold of Hector’s bearded chin, “Do not speak.” If he spoke more to him Hector did not hear it. Hector could not number the blows Achilles rained across his face all sound, save the crack of flesh thudding against flesh and the sliding of his teeth as the blows mercilessly rattled hid jaw, was muted under the assault.

Hector was unwilling to allow a scream to fly from his throat, yet he knew his own reluctance was only a part of why the sound did not come. His body was still exhausted and his lungs strained just to take in each breath; had Achilles not halted him from speaking when he did Hector had doubt that he would have been able to continue speaking. However, there was no doubt, that neither pity nor the achievement of satisfaction ended his beating at Achilles hands.

“You will learn your place.” Achilles all but leapt off of him and once more Hector could not accurately monitor his movements as his mind had not fully separated itself from the fog surrounding his thoughts.

He did register the pain on his back side when Achilles yanked the stakes from the leather securing him to the ground and the injuries he received from being dragged behind the chariot alighted across his back and legs. Hector could not entirely prevent the sound, as it came from deep within his chest, but he was able to convert the moan into a rumble – a pitch nearer a growl than the piteous whine he knew lurked in his lungs.

He was quickly turned away from Achilles and faced towards what could pass for a large wooden mast that looked to be recently planted within the tent. Every struggle he made was met with a force as unyielding as a mountain and he idly wondered if this was what it was like for Paris each time they wrestled. His heart swelled sorrow flooding his veins with the knowledge that he could no longer protect Troy and that she may fall; as he had.

From the little that Hector could make out in the dark the column of wood was thicker than any of the posts used to keep the tent erect. Achilles wasted little time in securing each wrist by dragging the leather thongs through bronze loops, Hector had not noticed these, driven into either side of the post. Slack from each wrist was wound to the other side of the post and though it was not within his sight Hector imagined Achilles knotted them firmly. He tested them once, but there was not a finger width’s give to the leather.

Within moments Hector realized the care that was taken in planning out this tethering and were it not designed for him the prince might have marveled at the ingenuity. The height his arms were drawn up to by these fastenings ensured Hector’s body would garner neither comfort nor rest. Should he allow his wrists to take the weight then the leather would cut into them and his body was left partially kneeling, but if he attempted to rest his weight upon his feet thereby alleviating the pressure to his wrists, shoulders and forearms then his back was left in a painful curve as he could not straighten his body entirely.

Although layer upon layer of bruise ached from under his skin, Hector could not hold his tongue. He would not sag, beaten and bare, as some sacrifice, before this man and remain silent at his bidding, “I…am a murderer…when…” straining over the words and the raw grief, he continued, “my young brothers were before you…did you spare them, Achilles?”

Numb for a breath at these words, their truth, Achilles quickly recovered and sought shelter within his rage. Seven, twenty, forty-three – it did not matter what number of Trojan bastards were dead by his hand; Patroclus was worth them all. Patroclus had never seen war, never killed a man, but Hector, the prince of Troy’s feats were boasted across the Aegean; this man knew the measure of war and now Hector would learn the misery of being the loser. He would learn until the last whisper of air escaped his teeth.

Achilles had been of a mind to leave Hector thus, secured to the post and unable to stand erect or kneel completely on the ground; he would remain in agony with the stretching of his joints and strain of muscle. The Greek was tired too, weary from their spar and desirous of some rest, but he would not let the accusation of this mongrel hang unanswered between them.

His palm conformed to the back of Hector’s skull and he threw his whole weight into slamming the man’s face into the wooden column. At the resounding crack he slicked his lips and imagined he could taste the blood he was certain flowed from Hector’s nose and mouth. Keeping his face pressed there – though Hector managed to nudge his hand a bit he could not dislodge Achilles grip – Achilles reached around and slackened the thongs which in turn let a bit more leather ease through the bronze rings embedded in the wood.

If Hector were able to sense any of these adjustments he did not take advantage as he made no move against Achilles before the Greek pulled him about so quick that his wrists snapped against each other as they crossed. Once more face to face with his enemy Hector held his tongue, but curled his lip into a silent snarl while his bleeding nose dripped a deep red and stained the hairs of his beard; his handsome face a gruesome display of the savagery in both men.

Though Achilles own visage was not one of blood and bruises it was no less terrible in that moment. There would be no more solid strikes to the flesh, from now on Achilles would take care that every touch to Hector’s body would ripple pain straight through to his spine. Before Hector could move his head Achilles’ tongue licked across his upper lip swiping at the blood there and as Hector reared his head back he caught his lower-lip gnashing the malleable skin between his teeth.

He pulled back and spit. Eyes that had moments before promised a vengeful challenge met his in awe. Achilles smiled at his captive then, moving towards him once more and the dark gaze shifted in wariness as Hector attempted to evade his tormentor. When Hector turned his face aside Achilles laughter rumbled between them as his intent was not upon a capture of Hector’s lips this time.

Instead he twisted Hector back to him by his chin with his left hand while his right curled around the exposed flesh lying between Hector’s thighs. Achilles gave his own silent snarl to Hector’s indignant glare. At first he only gripped it, kept in a secure hold, he flicked his thumb against the underside. Tightening his fingers’ hold he pushed downwards and then dragged it back up sliding his blunt nail over the vein.

Bored within moments, though Hector’s vacillating expression between fury and disbelief amused him greatly, he desired to push further, to cause him pain past endurance before he was even near ending his torment. Loosening his grip, just enough to allow movement, he began a slow slide of his hand over the flesh, coaxing the slightest hardness from it. Achilles kept his strokes firm and steady in pace.


Hector called upon the very gods he was sure had forsaken him to grant him mercy and let him slip into a deep unconsciousness. Each pull to his length felt connected to his insides and bile crept its way to the back of his throat. Blood all but poured from his split lips and though he feared he would bite clean through them trying to distract himself from the stimulation. His breaths coming in ragged, hissed-out, pants now he struggled to maintain his silence.

“Take pleasure in this? How many of your soldiers worshipped you thus?” Achilles grip became tighter, until he was no longer stroking Hector, but yanking the organ towards himself.

Abruptly releasing the length Achilles flattened his palm against Hector’s stomach and slipped his other into the dust-lightened curls of dark hair surrounding his flesh. A groan slipped from Hector before he could stifle it, unsure whether it was from the shame of such a caress or the shock at the gentleness of it. Although his hazy mind was coming to realize that gentle was not a word to associate with Achilles.

No sooner had the thought moved through his head than Achilles matched it. His hand gnarled into the hair and twisted the thick curls sharply. “Never again shall any touch bring you pleasure.” So stating he demonstrated as well and ripped out the hairs between his fingers.

Achilles was pleased with the high-pitched hiss Hector emitted at this and he rewarded the man with a drag of his blunt fingernails down the abused shaft. Spurred by his success Achilles flung Hector back around, his body offering none of its prior resistance. Further good fortune met the gold-haired Greek as the slack in leather allowed Hector to hang lower than before almost on his knees and they scraped in a feather’s touch to the ground as he swayed before the wooden post.

He gave Hector a moments breath, the man had leaned his head against the wood even before Achilles had fully tuned him. Stepping away from his prize to retrieve the braided whip from his chariot where he’d lain it when the sun was still descending. He cracked it into the dust, eyes glinting when he observed the small flinch as Hector’s head turned towards the sound. He choked out a laugh as the bound warrior attempted to straighten. He let the leather fly and the feet that struggled for purchase slid downward as Hector’s shaking muscles could no longer bear the strain of his weight.

Already having a taste for his blood Achilles could nearly smell it as he watched each lash create a fine red line, skin raising from the blood flowing beneath. His own breathing was ragged with the excitement of his vengeance and he lashed the dirt covered back without pause the leather further marring the surface. Once his back was a cross-hatch of welts he moved steadily covering the skin down to his ankles.

Swallowing the muted sounds, not quite moans, his thoughts whirled and Hector leaned his forehead against the post willing himself to plunge into a darkness without thought, without pain. Fortune smiled briefly on him and his exhausted mind let him fall into the rhythm of the lash enough that it dulled somewhat; he let his shoulders slump and his eyes slid shut.

Achilles noted the change in posture and realized neither of them could sustain this pace; yet he would not concede to reaching a plateau. Instead Achilles let the lash fall into the sandy floor swiping at the imagined taste of blood in his mouth and counting off a few beats of his pulse. He looked down at the whip, like a dark serpent, inspired by its semi-coil on the floor and he struck in one fluid movement.

Tightening his grip on the whip’s braided handle he poised to strike. Sensing a change, tension so palpable in the atmosphere, Hector tilted his head up slightly but did not have a chance to open his eyes of his own accord before the final lash fell. Achilles brought the whip up in a vicious flick up between Hector’s legs. Hector’s eyes opened automatically, he was certain he tore through his lip this time and swallowed several mouthfuls of bitter fluid.

Before the impact of leather fully registered with Hector, Achilles released the lash, and plastered himself battered back, fingers clutching the skin of Hector’s buttocks like talons on a harpy. In one movement Achilles thrust, the dry penetration wrenching forth the long desired scream.