A new life for Paris

Paris had the weirdest of dreams, and not even there, in the realm of the dreamer could he escape Agamemnon. He knew he was dreaming, sensing the absurdity of it all, and he felt the wrongness of the situation, still he somehow accepted it. In his dream, he was Agamemnon's eromenos, an adolescent boy in a love relationship with an adult man. The Eromenoi were valued for their beauty, modesty, industriousness and their courage; In all the male colleague to the Geisha of ancient Japan. It was a custom which flourished particularly in Athens, and Paris dreamt he had been brought back to Agamemnon's court in Sparta. And he was fine with it. In fact, it flattered him to have Agamemnon's full attention, and Paris tried to live up to the ideals of an Eromenoi. But Agamemnon's behaviour kept annoying him. For as flattering as the attention was, the King of Sparta desired his body, not his intellectual, and to desire the body of one's eromenoi was as if a father should have desired the body of his own son. Paris found Agamemnon's courtship to be more and more intense, the king himself to be less and less chivalrous and more of a disgusting drunkard. Paris wanted to remove the jewels which Agamemnon had decorated him with, but they would not come off, reminding him more and more of handcuffs and not bracelets. The eerie feeling in the back of his head that something was very wrong, kept nagging.

Paris awoke on the very spot he'd passed out on several hours later. His throat was burning and his head ached. The sun was just rising, and morning's chill was still in the air. Soon, it would begin to become very hot. He took the loincloth which was gathered around his waist, and tore it into two pieces. Looking down and examining the soles of his feet, he estimated the soreness, scratches and blisters to start aching after a very few minutes if he didn't take some precautions. Working fast, he wrapped the pieces around his feet all the while keeping an eye on the Spartan giant who was still sleeping. Paris struggled to get his body going, and he stumbled forward as soon as he trusted himself to walk straight.
He came across a small river running in one of the larger cracks. He drank until the thirst vanished, then he undid the wrappings around his soles before he decided he would brave the rocks and immerse himself in the cool water. He must have been hot, for he felt refreshed the instant he ducked under from head to toe. Coming back up to the surface, Paris did so with a moan, clearing the wet curls from his forehead and wiping water away from his eyes. He stopped dead in the motion as he was met with a roaring laughter. Somehow, three of king Agamemnon's guards had found him! They were still breathing hard as if they'd been running. Their faces were covered in dirt, streaked with rivers of sweat. Whether it was him or the water they were staring at, Paris couldn't tell. They snickered at him, then the gard in the middle said:
“The most handsome man in all of Troas. A true beauty” the guard in the middle said with contempt. He rested his fists against his hips in a triumphant manner. Sweat poured from his forehead and down into his thick beard. He had narrow, hard eyes which seemed to glue Paris to the very spot in the middle of the stream, and he had a wicked smile on his lips. “The king must be joking!” he continued, earning himself a laugh from the bystanders flanking him. “Well, prince of Troy. I suggest you undo the spell of unattractiveness you must have cast upon yourself, or we'll all be extremely slighted, knowing we've come all his way watching our comrades die for nothing short of a walking carcass!” The grin on the bearded man's face extinguished. Long seconds passed in silence as they anticipated a move from Paris. But no conjuration came. Paris remained as he was; scrawny, hollowed-eyed and defeated. The guards watched as he bowed his head towards them. A bow of submission. Glancing up, Paris saw that the bearded man's face was glowing with anger. “Tie the scarecrow's hands!” he spat angrily. He watched as Paris was fetched out from the water. His hands were tied infront of him. Inside, Paris was screaming.

“We need to move now ”the guard standing to the left said. There was a hint of urgency in his voice, and his gaze kept shifting from point to point along the hillside. His nervous behaviour told Paris that Broethevs probably was still alive. They'd come across Paris by chance. He knew he wasn't far from Broethevs. Maybe not more than thirty minutes' walk. Paris' feet was in an impossible state. But what was he doing? Laying all his hopes on the Spartan? Waiting for salvation from the very one he ran away from? No he couldn't. He couldn't expect Broethevs to come looking for him. There was no logic for him to do so. Why waste time on a walking carcass? Paris tried as best as he could to resign himself to his fate. But in his heart now burnt a new emotion, and it was fear. It burnt just as strong as it had two years ago. The thought of being in Agamemnon's hands made him sick to his stomach.

After ten minutes down the hillside, they realised that Paris could walk no more. He was falling behind, and he often fell a lot, hissing at the pain in his feet. Upon examining them, the chief guard understood, but he said harshly: “Were it not for the fact that our king wants you alive and unspoiled, I would cut off both your feet by the ankles and leave you right here to bleed to death! And since we're on the subject of 'unspoiled', my men and I expect to be compensated for our efforts. I believe some atonement for the lives of our dead colleagues, is in order!” He marched over to where Paris lay and picked him up as if he weighed nothing more than a feather. He put him across the shoulder and marched onwards downhill, inching one finger into Paris' puckered entrance. He was confident it would get the trojan prince to play his game later on. The bearded man had only one concern; They had to get far enough from the Spartan giant, but not too close to the ship waiting at the beach. King Agamemnon was waiting impatiently. The old king had the eyes of a falcon. He could spot a moving object from miles away.

An hour down the hillside, and Paris was really beginning to lose his hopes on Broethevs. The finger playing with his rectum was doing nothing to help the eerie feeling that he was in the hands of these brutes. They set camp next to a large boulder which was taller than the tallest of them. Paris was put down on the ground, and he looked up swiftly to see the bearded man reach inside his tunic, undoing his breeches. The other guard took up watch by the boulder while the third one sat down to eat, waiting his turn. Paris was told to roll over to his stomach and he promptly obeyed. He spread his legs and waited for further orders.

“Now we'll find out what this carcass of a prince is worth! It's been on my mind the entire walk. But I'll be damned if I can figure out why something so unappetizing should interest the king. My only conclusion so far is that you must be a heck of a ride in bed. Now is you're chance to prove it!” The bearded man laughed, and the ringing laugh echoed down the hillside. H e sat down between Paris' legs, and put one hand beneath the young Trojan's hip on each side. He hoisted Paris' backside up and parted the cheeks, exposing the puckered rose hiding between them. Positioning himself, he then entered Paris, inching his way inside while he waited for the big sensation to blow his mind. It didn't come. Paris was barely able to keep himself on his knees, and he kept his face buried in the dirt and his torso limp. His knees quivered purely from the effort of maintaining the weight on top . Paris was grateful for the finger in his arse on the way down. It had warmed him just enough to take away the pain of the intrusion he now suffered. The bearded guard let out a disappointed snort. He pumped away at Paris' behind, and little by little, Paris' body came awake. He propped himself up on his elbows, and just as he looked up, Paris looked straight at another cock. The guard who'd been eating grabbed a fistful of brown locks and forced Paris' head a little higher, stuffing his cock into the trojan slave's mouth. The position became uncomfortable, forcing Paris to get up from resting on his elbows to instead be resting the weight of his torso on his hands. He opened his mouth wide and arched his backside, adjusting his footing just enough to get a little more comfortable, allowing the bearded man a little more space. The adjustments made him feel as if the bearded guard pumped deeper into him, and the angle certainly improved so it benefited Paris as well. The cock pumping away in his mouth would provide him with some liquid. And maybe, just maybe, would his complacency contribute to a taste of some water or maybe wine. Still the thought of Broethevs bothered him. His moments with Broethevs had opened up doors to forgotten emotions. He'd seen glimpses of a lovemaking he'd become a stranger to.

They all stopped dead in their tracks as the one who'd been guarding, suddenly slumped and fell backwards. He hit the rocky ground hard, and the bearded man, Paris and the other guard all turned their heads to see him dead on the ground with an arrow through his throat. Paris heard the bearded guard behind him curse before pulling out, while the other guard struggled to get his trousers back in order. Something made Paris crane his neck and gaze to the top of the boulder. Silhouetted against the blue, cloudless sky, was Broethevs. Despite himself, Paris felt his heart nearly leap out of his chest. Gratitude towards this giant was overwhelming, and he had to check himself not to dissolve in tears. It was neither the time nor the place, but Paris would take his time to shed some tears later on. Broethevs was poised, crouching like some mountain cat ready for attack. Flexing his muscles, the Spartan charged at his countrymen,drawing a short sword which was convenient for close combat. Paris made himself as small as he could, putting his hands protectively over his head, drawing his knees close to his stomach. He heard the guard who still hadn't been able to do up his trousers scream just as the sickening sound of metal piercing flesh severed the hot mountain air. The sun was scorching everything once again, silently witnessing the last struggles of the bearded man to stay alive. He was quick. But Broethevs, despite his size, was quicker.
Broethevs made a quick examination of Paris' body. He didn't say a word, but opened his water satchel and poured the warm contents into Paris' mouth. It was water, and Paris gulped it eagerly down. Taking the rope which still tied Paris' hands together, he tugged at it and started walking upwards the hillside again. At first, Paris did not want to say anything out of gratitude. He was so glad and grateful, and trudged along behind Broethevs as best he could, ignoring the pain beneath his soles. After thirty minutes, Paris limped, but he gritted his teeth, not wanting to encumber Broethevs with his problems. He tried to keep up. But after another ten minutes, he started falling behind. When Broethevs turned to see what the problem might be, Paris fell to the ground and hissed at the pain. He motioned for his feet, showing them to Broethevs. He dared not look up to meet the gaze of the giant.

“So, the dog can't walk anymore” Broethevs stated. His deep voice rang like heavy bells through the silent mountain air. Paris felt despair clutch his heart, and he suddenly became afraid that Broethevs would leave him. He whispered a plea, desperately trying to shape the correct words. But without his tongue it was difficult. And demeaning. Those times he'd become angry enough to start babbling, Paris had only been laughed at. For he couldn't get the pronunciations correct. He sounded like a big baby. Paris wrote the word 'please' in the sand between the rocks. He crawled over to Broethevs and kissed his sandal clad feet, wishing with all his heart for Broethevs to take pity on him. Just as highly as his heart had leapt when he first saw Broethevs again, did it now fall as it occurred to Paris that Broethevs might not desire him because Broethevs had seen him as he was fucked by the guards. But before he was allowed to wallow any further in self-misery, did Broethevs pick him up and put him across his right shoulder.

“You're lucky to be nothing more than skin and bones, dog” he heard Broethevs complain. Paris said nothing. He bit back whimpers, letting his tears drop to the ground in silence.

Four hours later, and Paris was still tucked away on Brothevs' right shoulder. Broethevs was sweating. He had retraced his steps back to the backpack, and they were now well on their way up into the mountain. Finding shelter against the unrelenting afternoon sun, Broethevs peered at the snowy top which now lay ahead. He kept coming back to the lowest point which separated two tops. It would allow him passage to the other side. Question was; Was there something guarding it? Thugs? Wild animals? More of the king's guards? And what of the dog? Broethevs turned his head to look at Paris. The slave was sitting on a piece of fur, absent-mindedly nibbling on a piece of dried meat, gulping down wine mixed with bread. The slave seemed to be regaining some of his strength, but his feet was a mess. Looking through a modest collection of herbs, Broethevs decided it was best to keep on carrying the slave some more. The herbs had to be saved for more immediate use. The place by which he'd made camp, was a natural fortress. It was a natural cave, and upon exploring it, Broethevs decided it was a safe a haven as any. Paris needed travelling strength. He needed to gain weight, but food was scarce. Broethevs relied on finding new supplies on the other side of the snowy pass, or they'd both perish from hunger. As night drew on, Broethevs made camp deeper inside the cave. He placed pelts on the floor, and guided Paris to lay on top of them. It was just enough room for the both of them, and they had to lay real close. It would benefit them both. The night would be much colder here, in the mountains and so close as they were to the snow.

Paris was prepared. He was so tired he could hardly keep his eyelids apart, but he was prepared to repay Broethevs for his salvation from King Agamemnon's guards. He would be cooperative. He would be warm and giving, Paris told himself. He would perform. He would give everything of himself and then some. Broethevs would be pleased. He would repay every kindness he'd been shown. He would smile. He would be inviting. This would be the night. He watched in anticipation as Broethevs lay down next to him, face to face. But all though he tried, Broethevs did not meet his gaze. He lay down close, so close Paris could count the hairs making up the Spartan's eyelashes. Flesh was pressed against flesh, thigh against thigh and belly against belly, and Paris felt a growing warmth inside. To have an intimate moment without the violence was like magic, but he was puzzled by the apparent indifference Broethevs presented. The Spartan had closed his eyes, and was snoring softly. His left arm was resting across Paris' waist, and the weight of the arm was comforting. Paris felt protected, and he was so happy he could weep. He stirred slightly, moving closer and planted a gentle kiss close to to Broethevs' mouth. The giant stirred, briefly opening his eyes, gazing directly into Paris' brown orbs. He said nothing, but went back to sleep. Paris had no way of finding sleep. Much tension and much stress needed releasing, and he tried his best to lay still whilst tears kept pouring. It felt strangely good to be so close to someone and to able to be so humble, so honest in one's emotions, and not be scorned for it. Above all emotions, gratitude was the ruling one. Paris dared not to contemplate the future, but he knew for a fact that his days at the beach, serving Spartan soldiers, was very much over. He set his hopes to every god that king Agamemnon would turn his attention elsewhere and forget prince Paris. Laying here, so intimate and warm next to Broethevs, in a cave, far from the wet sand and the damp wind of the Trojan shore, was unreal, almost like a dream. He prayed he would never wake up.