No Mercy *revised*

WARNING: Rape, explicit violence.
BETA'ED BY: Shana. TEST-READ: Nina & Jianu.
NOTE: This is a fantasy, and I do not encourage such violence in RL to anyone.
FEEDBACK: Will be saved and cherished. Previous chapters can be found here or at www.livejournal.com/~troyslash. Thanks for following up!

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CHAPTER 4


“HECTOR!”

Young Prince Paris, who was only ten years old, screamed at the top of his lung as the great brown horse ran rampant in the market place, hitting stalls and knocked the merchants out. Women screamed, men shouted, and Paris hung onto the horse’s mane for his dear life.

Hector galloped after his little brother, and soon caught up side by side with the startled Andronikos. The horse panted hard, his nose flaring and his ears pointed sideward as if he were racing. Hector hooked his thighs tightly around his own horse, one arm reaching for Aandronikos’s rein. He could maintain the speed long enough to finally grasp it, his eyes dashing around at the frightened crowd. Andronikos was running toward the temple wall, and he had only now. If he missed, it meant Paris’ safety. Hector took hold of the rein, and leapt. Landing behind Paris, who had his eyes squeezed and arms holding around Andronikos’ neck so tightly, Hector reined in the horse and slowed him down.

“Easy, Andronikos! Easy.”

He steered the fierce stallion outside the city wall into the field where he let the horse run his heart out. He let him run around the wall, and soon Andronikos started to give in and slowed his run. Hector patted his neck and glanced down at his brother.

Paris looked up at him with startled eyes of a shot pigeon.

“Are you all right, brother?” Hector asked.

Paris nodded, and turned back to rest his chest shakily against the stallion. Hector brought them back into the city wall, and in the market place, everything looked hectic. He walked Andronikos to the stall Paris had hit. The merchant lay unconscious, his crops scattered around him, his wife crying.

Against his body, Paris was trembling.

“Is he alive?” Hector asked the wife.

“Yes, my Lord…but I don’t know if he will wake up the same man! Look at him, he looks as if he were dead,” the woman wailed.

“I’ll send the best physician.” Hector glanced at his youngest brother again. He then ordered the guards to carry the man into the shade of the temple, where he could be tended to.

“See to it that everything is all right. Pay them for their loss,” he told the guards.

Paris slowly lifted himself up and turned to his brother. “Will Father be angry?”

Hector sighed, and replied sternly. “Yes, he will. You almost killed yourself and that man.”

Paris trembled even more. “Will you be with me, brother?”

Hector could not stand the hurt in those eyes. Grimly, he said, “Yes, Paris. I’ll be with you.”

King Priam was distressed to learn that his people were hurt in this incident. He was furious to learn that Paris had stolen the greatest warhorse from the King’s stable and run him like a race beast.

He scolded Paris, and sent the sobbing Prince back to his room.

“He could have killed himself,” the Father said to his oldest son.

“He knows, father, that you care for him,” Hector replied gently.

“Hector…come here,” Priam reached for the youth. “You are the only one he looks up to. You have to teach him, because you can’t always protect him.”

After he was dismissed, Hector went to Paris’ room. The boy was asleep, with tearstains on his cheek. Sitting down on the soft mattress, and slowly stroking the boy’s soft hair, Hector looked into the fireplace, his father’s words echoed in his mind.

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You can’t always protect him.

The sea sounded like the voice of his father, pushing against the shore in his head, reminding him what he could have done, what he could have prevented. Such insistent sound was the only wall between him and the cheering of the Greeks.

His back was on fire, and he felt the blood flowing down his legs, pooling around his ankles as they whipped him. Even when he had sunken to his knees when his legs gave in, he never let out a cry.

The shout suddenly muted. Hector heard someone approaching, and in his trance, he remembered such steps.

The two Spartan floggers said, panting, “He didn’t make any sound, Achilles.”

Achilles signaled the soldiers to leave, and the men were gone. He looked down at the form that was slowly moving. Hector lifted his head and looked at Achilles, his defiance unbroken. Achilles took in the trembling body, eyes following every lash on Hector’s back, bloodied under the clothes ripped open by whip and cane. The sun was setting. Its crimson light bathed on Hector, making his back redder.

Eudorus came up beside him, and mumbled, “My lord, King Agamemnon has sent a message…he…he would honour Patroclus by arranging games, wine and fine meals for the men. He wishes you would accept this show of respect… for the dead.”

Achilles knew why Agamemnon had made such offer. The sly old bastard wanted to draw him back into the alliance. He wished he could rip the man’s head for using Patroclus. But glancing at Eudorus and other Myrmidons who stood nearby looking strained, it looked like a good offer. His men could use a relaxation. Thus, Achilles nodded his approval.

“Leave us alone,” he said, his voice hoarse and faint, lacking its usual authority. His men nodded and left.

They went their ways back to their camps. Far away, Achilles saw fire and heard faint noise of them talking and shouting, telling each other of the coming ceremony. They sounded cheerful, despite the uncertain outcome of the war. Their spirit seemed to have been lifted.

Achilles sat down and crossed his arms around his knees, staring at the still form in front of him. Hector met his eyes and they fixed their stares. The sun had sunk into the water, and the dark sky enveloped them. The wind was strong, as if there would be storm, even if it was summer. Just like one might think Troy would never fall.

And now Achilles got Hector under his paws.

“You didn’t make any sound,” he said plainly. There was no answer from the Trojan who turned away.

Achilles watched him, feeling the void widen. He then watched the starless sky, because the moon was high and full, and she shone brightly on the beaten man. His flesh played with the moonlight like a lover, gleaming with its smooth richness, even covered by sweat and blood.

He raked his eyes up and down Hector’s back, thighs, and the bare feet. He had spent earlier hours watching this man, hurting him, beating him, nearly killing him, but Hector did not yield. He did not cringe. No plea for mercy escaped his lips. He fought Achilles when he knew his words would not save him, which angered the Greek even more.

Achilles remembered when they first encountered—Hector advancing towards him, dark eyes glaring from behind his helmet, not fearing the threat. Achilles was drawn to that mouth as they snarled at him, accusing him of desecration, and the thought of having them on him flashed through his mind. The tensed body gleaming with sweat, so fresh that Achilles could feel its taste by watching. The temple air was dense with incense and male lust for battle. The man before him did not fail his imagination; his feral strength made Achilles want to break him through his shield and teach the Trojan prince who was the best.

This man killed Patroclus, said another voice in his head.

Sorrow gripped his heart and squeezed till its claws sunk in, making it bleed. Achilles let tears swell in his eyes and they fell on his cheeks as he stared into the night sea. Images of Patroclus appeared before him like a dream—beautifully displayed in the bright sunshine of Phtia. His lean form danced around, a wooden sword in his hand, fighting and teasing. His fine voice sang while they sailed. His laughter. His lips. No more. Everything had been ripped from him, and the only thing was left was a cut in Patroclus' throat by the edge of Hector’s sword.

His guts twisted and as tears poured out his eyes, Achilles groaned aloud, bringing Hector’s attention to him.

Achilles huddled, panting open-mouthed as if he was in a stroke of pain. Like a seabird sensing storm, Hector pulled himself up, his muscles were in great pain as if all sinews had been torn from the strains. He sensed danger radiating from the hunched body, and he rose to his shaky feet, watching Achilles for the first sign of attack.

The men started singing in the distance, drinking wine that had been distributed to them.

Achilles’s body shook. When he looked at Hr, hr, his tear-stained face was that of a wild predator with madness in his eyes. He rose to his feet and stalked towards the captive, who watched with his blurry sights for the first assault. He pushed and pulled at the post, trying to steer himself to face Achilles, but all was in vain. When the man drew near, Hector swung his foot to kick his enemy but he was too slow. Achilles dodged the kick, threw back his fist into Hector’s thigh with a loud thud, causing him to sag. In a blink of an eye he was on Hector, one hand seizing his neck and pressing him against the pole.

“You’ve taken everything from me,” Achilles grunted into Hector’s ear. It was a fault accusation, the Trojan protested, and he felt Achilles’ hand pushing up his tunic.

Hot breath fell on his neck and the burning palm slid along his thigh. Shock kicked in as Achilles gripped his genitals and squeezed tightly, wrenching a cry from him.

“Don’t you move,” Achilles growled hotly into his ear, his hips pressing up against the other man’s rear, and Hector felt Achilles’ erection grow full as he touched Hector’s flesh.

Hector’s heartbeat sped up like war drum and for the first time he was fully panic.

“Step back, Achilles,” he snarled, shaken, but Achilles pressed closer, his hardened cock touching his cleft, rubbing and aiming for the entrance. He tensed and Achilles squeezed his genitals. Then, as brutally as he could, Achilles thrust.

The roar of pain almost drew the men out of their drinking stupor, but they were caught up in music and wine, waiting for the King’s food to fill their stomachs. Only Eudorus and a few Myrmidons turned and looked at the beach, and the image that greeted them sent flame to their faces and cold to their hearts. They stared in shock, and quickly they turned away as if they had stolen a look at a ghost.

Achilles closed his eyes momentarily, breathing deep, feeling the tight heat that enveloped his throbbing flesh. It was good he wanted to stay that way, but another thought replaced quickly: this was Hector. This was the man who caused him so much pain, and he could not touch him as if he was a human. Achilles wrapped one arm around Hector’s waist and pulled him in to meet a hard thrust.

Hector drew away but the arms held him fast, capturing him. The pain was immense and sharper than anything he had experienced, as if the blade was tearing him from the inside. It stabbed right back in again and again, not allowing him to breath. Achilles' assaults seared him with hatred and accusation, crashing waves of guilt and humiliation into him. He thrashed, trying to shake Achilles off, a guttural groan tearing from his chest as he fought. But Achilles held tight, thrusting, then fastening his teeth on Hector’s neck. Hector threw his head away from the moist breathing on his flesh, fighting the mixed pain, but Achilles’ lips locked down, his teeth biting into at the tender spot just an inch below his ear near his jaw, causing him to gasp with pain.

“You took…everything…from me,” Achilles growled, punctuating his every word with a forceful plunge. He took Hector as hard as he could, punishing him, with Hector trapped between the pole and Achilles. Hector's body was hot and flushed, and Achilles shuddered at the sight. He took the neck between his teeth, biting down again, tasting Hector's sweat, feeling the man break under him, and it was not enough. He gripped Hector’s hair, pushing his head down, then sunk his teeth on the pulsing spot until Hector’s blood broke into his mouth, filling him with frenzy. Marking him, hurting him, shoving Hector against the pole, he stabbed harder and faster, tearing strangled cry from the Trojan, making him know there was no escape from Achilles.

Hector’s struggle and groans filled Achilles like fire, sending scorching flames from his head to toes, enclosing him in the mind-numbing anger and lust. He was buried deep inside the man who had stolen his sanity, making him blind with madness, and was now shattering beneath him. Hector shut his eyes as if to shut Achilles out, biting his lips, willing himself not to make another sound. But he gasped with a start when Achilles angled his hips and caused a hot bolt inside him. Achilles repeated the assaults, his fingers digging into his hips, impaling him with pure, animalistic pleasure.

Achilles slid one hand and cupped the Trojan’s flesh, and he lost himself in painpained body. His heart was breaking with the sensations. And then...Hector’s scent touched his nose—fear and panic reeked from the captive. It was so sweet, like the blood lingering on his tongue, flowing down his throat and then he came forcefully, pouring his seeds into Hector, his body shuddering from the release.

After a moment he pulled out, and saw blood on his softening erection. Achilles rearranged himself and looked at the man he had just raped, now sagging against the pole. Hector’s tunic was sliding down, covering his bruised buttocks marred by Achilles’ hands. Between his thighs the fluid was trickling down on one leg, mingling with the other trails. The sight sent sickening feeling to his guts.

Achilles’s heart raced as he watched and wiped his mouth filled with Hector. He turned swiftly away and paced towards his tent, leaving the man behind.

He washed his mouth and cleaned himself, ridding off Hector’s blood smearing on his body. He could not tell if he was disgusted by the man, or by himself, even though the tang on his lips tasted like wine. Finishing, he dropped on the bed, a cup of wine in his hand. He swallowed but the drink was stale, unlike the rawness he had drunk. Achilles threw the goblet away and it crashed the crates on the floor.

The air dropped colder than usual and Achilles turned in his bed, hearing the laugh of his men from outside as they gathered around Hector. Their drunken mockery and laughter crept into his tent like a snake. And he lay awake, eyes wide and hallow.

Sleep did not come to him at all.

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(to be continued...)