A new life for Paris

An eternity seemed to pass before Paris finally regained full conscience. Maybe he'd been out of it for months or just weeks, or maybe even a year or a day. He had no idea how long it would take to journey through the Underworld.

The male voices in hushed conversation seemed disturbingly familiar. He couldn't seem to hear Helen's voice. Where was she? Her voice should be beckoning him, he should be feeling her close to him.

Breathing was cumbersome. Moving his limbs was like trying to move heavy wooden logs soaked too long in seawater. He remembered the voices now, and he remembered what had happened. There was something wrapped tightly around his throat, and it felt like his neck had been chained to the ground. Despair exploded in Paris' chest. He hardly dared to breathe, hoping – praying – fearing that they might discover that he was awake. He wanted more than ever to die – to disappear, and he cursed his existence, his failure in dying. He wished himself back to the Palace, his little hideout.

Paris lay on something soft. What was it? Sheepskin. Soft fur beneath his naked, bruised flesh was gently tickling his thighs, his arms. He heard the crackling of burning wood and the low conversation from the spartan soldiers. They were eating, toasting with ale. Someone was humming a tune from the mother land. A hymn to the goddess Athene. Paris felt their eyes on him, and it was as if the blanket across his body was invisible.

He felt fresh tears push their way through his closed eyelids, and they moistened his cheeks. Paris fought with the lump in his throat – fought to keep quiet and to stem the wave of emotion inside, as it dawned on him that he was in deed alive. The torture and the degradation would go on. He would find himself in the rough, unwelcome hands of his enemies once more, and there would be no quarter. Even death was unobtainable. The future seemed without hope, without salvation. Like a long dark bottomless pit into which he continued to slide further and further down. No one saw his pain. No one cared for his tears. No one wanted to shelter him. He was lost – so utterly lost, and the loneliness inside ate away at him like a worm inside a carcass.

Paris failed to hear the sombre topic of the soldier's current discussion. The order had been issued: They were to set sail for Sparta again, and still, after so long, they had not seen any pay for their troubles for the king. Some of the soldiers complained of having wives and children to feed. Jokes were made about 'let's not forget the mistresses too', and their mother in laws and so forth. They laughed loudly, and their sudden display of cheer startled Paris from his mournful reverie. He opened his eyes, and could not hold back a shudder. They laughed like – like when they were on a drinking spree, and – and...!
Paris' breath quickened. He braced himself for what was to come – or rather for what he was used to that followed after such a roaring laugh. He shut his eyes tightly, still unable to repress the tears pouring down his cheeks. He clenched his fists, hearing the crowd stir. They were coming for him now. They would be lining up now, stroking cocks in line, breathing raggedly and eyes greedy, waiting patiently for their turn. Sometimes, they were just five. Other times, twelve or more, and the night would never end.

Paris fought to stay limp. The lump in his throat wouldn't go away, and there was a burning, stinging sensation every time he tried to swallow. He was so thirsty. But water would be out of the question. They would never give him that. Perhaps he should beg for their sperm, though he hated the taste? It made him choke, yet, thirsting was worse. He tried to move his arms. He wanted to raise his head. There was a rush of complaints from the crowd, and Paris immediately felt to blame. There were hands on his chest gently pushing him back down onto the sheepskin, and he obeyed meekly. Feeling worthless – a sensation which grabbed hold of his chest and dug its claws into his neck and shoulders – made the lump in his throat even bigger. He didn't want to be hit or kicked, so Paris fought the violent sobs which threatened to part from his lips while he commenced to spread his legs as wide as he could. Experience told him as much that it was all about choosing the lesser of two evils. He could endure the pain of being kicked and hit senseless – or he could endure their rough cocks in his rectum. Right now, he was filled with a strange emotional mixture of the need to be soothed, to feel another person close to him – and the feeling of not wanting to endure any more abuse. He so badly needed to be consoled. And one of the ways to relieve that want, was simply to pretend that their touches were gentle, and to soak up every bit of skin contact and imagine that he was loved, that he meant something. Focusing on staying grateful for the minuscule attention he was being paid during one sexual intercourse after another, made it bearable. It gave Paris a sense of value, hoping his vain attempts at repaying said attention would be noticed. In time, it had completely altered Paris' attitude from perceiving himself royalty, to perceiving himself as a rat in the gutter.
It took some effort to stop weeping. But he could not control the growing trepidation in his stomach, as he almost against his will opened his eyes to gaze at the spectators. Somebody had shouted something. Soon, the crowd parted, giving space to Broethevs the Giant. Paris knew him by the size of his cock. It had been one impersonal sexual intercourse. He had been the warm, wet hole. Broethevs had played the part of the cock, pounding away, keeping Paris locked tight in a bruising grip. That was all. There had been no words. No teasing, no extra pain beyond the breach of Paris' puckered entrance. The servant and the master in a professional relationship. Broethevs had been looking to get sexual satisfaction through orgasm. He cared not if it was a male or female hole.

Paris disliked him because of his height and imposing character. Broethevs was like a bull in his prime walking upright on two legs. He could be as unpredictable as the sea – gentle, almost female in character in one minute, before ramming down his neighbor in the next, stomping at the ground and laying to waste everything in his path. Broethevs was unreadable, never showing emotion except if it was anger. His talent for reaping down enemies in battle was equal to his healing talent. He had an inexplicable sixth sense about medicating the injured. His knowledge of herbs went beyond those of the royal physicians, and he could remove pain from an area of the body simply by placing his hands on it. No one knew anything about him, for he seldom spoke, though it was rumored that he'd lost his wife and three children in a storm at sea. It was generally believed that he'd joined the army to get away from all things reminding him of his lost family.

Paris always made sure to stay as far away from Broethevs as possible. Compared to his size, Paris was a twig which could easily be broken. Now, said twig watched helplessly as Broethevs sat down next to him, obviously examining his throat. Paris pretended he was invisible, assuming the submissive position – not looking Broethevs, or any one else in the eye. Paris was startled as Broethevs made a violent move, producing a water flask made of whale skin. He flinched, jerking his head away, ready to be slapped, hit or violated. His chest heaved up and down in rapid waves as he kept bracing himself for the worst. Broethevs caught his chin, placing it in a firm grip while he gently trickled drops of water into Paris' tongueless mouth. The act of generosity made Paris' head dizzy. His chest filled to the brink with thankfulness, and he could not hold back the fresh tears. He wanted to say thank you, wanted so badly to show his appreciation. He shaped the words with his mouth afterwards, trying to find a pronunciation similar to normal speech, but by then, Broethevs had already risen, and was heading to the other side of the fire.
The perceived sign of rejection blended with gratefulness coiled and spun inside him, and Paris turned his head away, shut his eyes and sobbed quietly at the image on his retina of the giant turning his back at Paris. He was unloved. Unwanted. Kept alive to serve as a plaything. If only Paris never had been born –!

“ –hey dog, close those legs before I plug your hole with a log from the fire!” Broethevs suddenly growled, cutting through the returning murmur of the rest of the soldiers gathered about the fire. Paris immediately obeyed. He'd been called a dog from the first day Agamemnon had surrendered him to the soldiers. He'd learned to respond to the word, along with the name 'whore' and other synonyms. And in lone moments in The Palace, when loneliness ate away at him, his mind had begun to make up reasons why he deserved such names. Had he not been like a dog after Helen? Did he not bend down on hands and knees like a dog when they took him from behind? Did he not beg for scraps of food and water and wine, like a dog? Eating his food like a starved dog? Had not his voice resembled even more that of the howling of a dog after they took his tongue? Did he not rub his crotch against a tree or a piece of wood whenever his longings for tenderness became too great? It was all true. He deserved it all. They'd seen his true nature long before he had.
Equally was he a whore. He was served around like some dish for everyone to taste, throwing himself at their feet, offering himself in exchange for food. And all the women he'd seduced previously to that. But those memories belonged to a past he'd rather forget as it reminded him that he was the cause of the downfall of Troy.
At night, the ghost of his father haunted him. Those condemning stares, the clenched fists and the open wound in his chest. The blood-soaked toga. 'You're no son of mine' Paris often heard him say. You're a dog! Not a man!'

Why had Paris tried to stay alive anyway? Why had he spent two years begging for food when the easiest way out of this nightmare simply was to stop eating? And if he stopped eating, he would stop moving. If he stopped moving, someone was bound to get angry at him for being in their way, and then they'd hurt him real bad and perhaps then, he would die from the injuries. And if not instantly, then all he had to do was starve himself some more until his body simply collapsed. That was it. The answer to his problems were right there. He simply had to stop eating.

Having found a resolution brought Paris momentary peace of mind. He decided it was time he stopped pestering their air. He wanted to return to the cold and drafty Palace and be alone with his thoughts. Lying like this on the sheepskin, however comfortable that was, made him uneasy. He felt like he was in the way. As if he was unwelcome, and Paris guessed he'd overstayed whatever hospitality the soldiers – probably in some flare of inexplicable insanity – had decided to grace the Trojan whore with.

Gritting his teeth and mobilizing every strength left in his limbs, Paris began to move. Propping himself up on his elbows was a momentary victory, as Broethevs' sudden growling caught Paris' attention. Like a predator ready to attack. Paris knew he was going to be chased, raped and then beaten senseless for moving, but that was what he wanted right? To die?! He felt horror strike him dead in the chest as he toiled and moved clumsily to get his bruised and stiff limbs to obey. If he showed disobedience, perhaps he could anger Broethevs enough to kill him? There was a plan, all right. Somehow, he managed to crawl out from underneath the blanket, out onto the sand only to realize he'd no idea where the Palace was. Stopping to get his bearings, he realized Broethevs was looming over him, placing one decisive foot on each side of Paris' waist.

“Dogs stay in their place until they are told they can leave” Broethevs' voice rumbled angrily. Expecting brutality, Paris was surprised to be handled gently up from the ground and back onto the soft fur. He immediately ventured to crawl away between Broethevs' legs and out onto the sand. Broethevs grabbed his hair, making Paris halt. ″One could almost think the dog has a death wish″ Broethevs said out loud. Someone in the crowd snorted in reply.

″I don't see why you bother to waste herbs on that Trojan whore, Broethevs. The order has been issued. We're to break camp at dawn tomorrow and head back to Sparta. All slaves are to be disposed of.″

″Menelaus don't want any extra mouths to feed″ someone added a comment before taking a sip from a bottle.

″Is that so?″ Broethevs' voice rumbled contemplatively.

″What we should be doing is to give his arse one last good pounding which will last him all the way to Hades!″ another Spartan laughed.

″Now I propose we give him to Broethevs this last night, so he doesn't have to feel he has wasted all his herbs and skills for nothing. Let's show some generosity! What say you?!″

There was general agreement among the crowd. Broethevs simply shrugged his shoulders, wandering off to where he had stored his belongings.