A new life for Paris

The howling wind woke him. He peered out into the darkness. His first thought was that he had now come to the afterlife. Tartaros, the Underworld. But he had expected his strength to be renewed. Instead, he felt weak and disorientated. Where was his precious Helen? Looking to the end of the bed, beyond his feet, he instantly recognized his father. King Priam. He was pale, and he kept wringing his hands in concern. He was clad in his royal robes which Paris remembered that his father had died in. But the colours had faded. Priam looked troubled.

“Baba*..?!” Paris stuttered. Just as he'd uttered the words, he realized his tongue was still missing. He closed his eyes hard, remembering that if one wasn't buried with it, one didn't get to bring it to Tartaros. Paris opened his eyes again. His father was no longer there. As his vision accustomed itself to their surroundings, did Paris realize he was lying on pelts on a floor. It was scarce with light, and the only source was a fire in the middle of what seemed to be a modest hut made from wood and snow. A shudder went through the timber as the howling wind seemed to make an onslaught against the modest hut. That's when Paris recognized the man squatting on the other side of the fire: Broethevs.

Paris felt how his heart sank to his toes. He put his right hand beneath the pelt covering him, and touched his limp member. True enough, his testicles were still missing, and the familiar ache in his body was still there. He was wet and sticky between his legs. Paris didn't have to look at Broethevs to know what had happened while he'd been out. Just as well. Better to be abused while unconscious so he didn't have to remember. He lay his head down again, staring into the ceiling. That's when Paris realized that the hut wasn't actually more than rock piled upon rock and then it was all supported with some crude wooden boards. He was actually lying inside a small alcove which was a natural recess in the rocky wall. The timber creaked and moaned once again under the pressure of the terrorizing wind outside, and Paris started, fearing it would collapse above their heads. Broethevs seemed undisturbed by the noise as he continued to stir the fire, adding some wooden splinters. Broethevs moved again, and produced the water skin from a dark corner. He shook it. The water had begun to crystallize, and the skin itself was stiff and covered in frost.

“Have some water” Broethevs said dryly, tossing the skin over to where Paris was lying. He had a nasty cut by his right temple. The bleeding had subsided a long time ago, and Broethevs didn't seem bothered by it. “You've been out cold for days. You must drink” Broethevs repeated, looking intently at Paris. Reaching for it, Paris realized he barely had the strength to lift it. Not being able to lift it all the way to his lips, he had to admit defeat and put it back on the ground again. He started as Broethevs moved over to him, sitting next to him in a flash, and Paris was certain he would assaulted again. And this time he would be conscious. But Broethevs simply lifted the skin to him, gently supporting Paris' neck so he could sip from the opening.

“You've been asleep for days again, you wretched dogskin!” Broethevs spoke in a strange, soft tone which was new to Paris. “Running off like that up the pass was a stupid thing to do.” To Paris it sounded as if the brute actually cared. “Well, the storm's got us both now. In here we're safe for now, but I'm warning you: If it lasts longer than my food rations, then I'll start breaking off your bones and eat them.” Starved as he was on friendliness, Paris paid the menacing words no heed. He listened intently to the tone by which Broethevs spoke. It was velvet to his ears and his mind, and they came in an abundance. Like poetry. Outside, the ferocious wind once again grasped at the modest hut, rattling its construction as best as it could. Broethevs spoke no more. They listened in silence as the storm outside seemed to peak. Paris looked from the wood in the ceiling to Broethevs and back again. The Spartan giant seemed nervous. He might be a proud, unbeatable warrior in a battlefield, but against a howling blizzard he wouldn't stand a chance. Paris understood. It was more likely that the blizzard would kill them rather than that Broethevs would eat him. It had been meant as a joke. The giant glanced over to the small pile of dry sticks. It was shrinking fast. In an hour or so, they would be without warmth, and left alone in the dark. Paris couldn't help but to drift in and out of half sleep. Whenever he opened his eyes, Broethevs would be crouched next to him, pouring water into his mouth.

“I once had a wife” Broethevs suddenly said through the half dark. Only the red embers could be seen, and it was growing chillier fast. Paris couldn't tell how much time had passed. He rather heard than saw Broethevs draw his pelt closer around his shoulders. “You remind me of her” he then added. The words hit Paris with much force. The words were spoken with sorrow, but Paris had the habit of taking in every word the wrong way. He therefore assumed that Broethevs thought about their years together with sorrow, as if she'd stolen something from him. His freedom perhaps. He expected Broethevs' strong hands to plunge at his throat at any minute in a fit of anger and take his vengeance on Paris instead of his wife. It was all he could think of; Broethevs' strong hands and the howling wind outside which was becoming more persistent by the minute.

Paris awoke to almost complete darkness. There was an unfamiliar sound, but upon opening his eyes, he realised that Broethevs was at work, digging his way out. Paris couldn't move. He was numb with cold and strengthless from days without proper rest and care. The first thought which came to his mind was regret. Why should he linger? Why could he just not go and die? And how much more could his body take before the end finally came? The heap of snow behind Broethevs kept growing into a large pile, and Paris wondered if it wouldn't fill the small hut soon. Broethevs didn't appear to be giving it much thought, but Paris very soon came to the conclusion that once Broethevs reached the surface, he would leave Paris behind, buried alive under all of the snow which Broethevs kept shuffling behind him. Truth was, there was no other place for Broethevs to put the snow, and he put great care not to shuffle it onto Paris. Years of experience told him that the snow outside had been packed into a dense wall, and it would soon suffocate them both if he didn't provide them with air. As he kept digging, he came across an arm. Wrapped in snow, he immediately recognized it. He heard the dog gasp, and he turned to look at Paris. The slave was startled, his eyes fixed on the lifeless arm. He could almost see the machinery in the slave's head work at full speed as Paris made the connection as to how Broethevs had acquired the hut in the first place. Broethevs said nothing, but went back to work, ignoring the arm. He heard his slave sigh a deep, troubled sigh. He kept digging a tunnel until it was as long as his torso and his head combined. Then he saw a dull light just past the remaining snow, and he figured it couldn't be far before he reached the open air. But it took an entire arm's length before he finally broke through to breathe the fresh air. Broethevs began to realize the amount of snowfall which had come. Widening the gap, he crawled and wriggled until he could slide out of the hole and down into the snow outside. From there, he began to dig his way back in.

Paris' heart was beating fast. He had been watching Broethevs' exit. He had been watching how his nightmare had come alive. Broethevs had in fact left him to die alone, with no means of escape, nor the strength to do it. His gaze was still locked on the dead arm protruding from the snow. Paris was waiting for it to come alive, to reach for him and dig itself out from its snowy confines. His heart beat hard and his breath was shallow. All he had, was the pelts covering him. He cursed himself for having the impertinence to hope, to put his faith in someone else, to rely on another man's mercy. Once again, he had been disappointed. Why did he do this? Why did he allow himself to dream, to think that someone would actually care for him after what he'd done? Why, oh why?!!
Paris felt tears press on. There was no one to see, so he let them fall freely. He whimpered and sighed, thinking about his misery and how it had come to pass that this was going to be his final resting place instead of ending up on the beach of his ancestors as a carcass being picked on by carrion birds. It was actually quite comforting to know that he would have some sort of a tomb, incarcerated as the hut now was in heaps of snow.

He was shocked to see movement from the tunnel, imagining it was the arm. Panic struck deep in his chest, before he realized it was Broethevs who had returned. Had he forgotten something? Some items perhaps? Had he decided to take pity on Paris? Paris swallowed hard as he watched the giant work to expand the tunnel. If he only could have moved, he would have risen and walked over to the Spartan and kissed him devotedly, declaring his unending gratitude. But he was without strength still. All he could do was to gaze at Broethevs and hope that the giant saw the gratitude in his eyes. Broethevs got rid of the large pile of snow inside before he shut the door, hiding his crime against the previous owner outside. In his mind's eye, Paris saw how it easily could have been him. He would have to take care no to anger Broethevs. Broethevs sat down in one heavy movement. He wiped sweat from his forehead and sighed. He fixed his gaze at Paris and said: “The storm's over for now. But the food's gone, and there's no more wood. The sun is still high on the sky. The better part of the day is still ours. We need to move now for us to make it to the lowlands.”

We need to move now, he had said. We, Broethevs had said. Paris was flabbergasted by the simple yet, meaningful words. It meant that he, a common slave, was included! He would not be left to die! Paris smiled. His whole face lit up and his brown eyes came alive again. Then Broethevs moved. He lifted his head slightly as he eyed Paris and the unexpected smile. The reaction of the seasoned warrior instantly frightened Paris, and he shrank beneath the scrutinizing look from the Spartan. He lowered his gaze. His smile vanished. The glow in his eyes faded and he was once again the frightened dog.

Broethevs nodded to himself, pleased with finding the crude sleigh made by the previous owner. It was a large piece of oak board, polished by sand in leather, and slightly curved at each side over the stove so it would perch ontop of the snow instead of digging itself into it. Broethevs had seen the board in action many a time, in desert as well as in snow. It would be just the right tool in order to make it down in time for sunset. Judging from the supplies he'd discovered, there would be a modest settlement not far. A place where the previous owner traded items. But if Broethevs set off in the wrong direction, they could find themselves wandering into the cold night, and this far up, they wouldn't last the night. That was, the dog would not last. But Broethevs would barely make it. He was going to get them to a safe haven. The dog's smile was still burned on Broethevs' retina. When they settled in for the night somewhere in the lowlands, he would see it again, he was sure of it.

Paris had just about the strength to stay on hands and knees while Broethevs arranged the pelts onto the sleigh. Having no idea what the giant was up to, Paris stayed on the cold floor which was covered in dirt, straw and ice. He was confused, thinking he'd be punished for his imprudence. He was sure of one thing only, and that was that Paris was in 'dog position': The position a slave often was ordered to assume so he or she could be mounted swiftly and by many. He turned his head to glance at Broethevs' snow covered feet. Broethevs had taken one of the pelts and swathed his legs in them all the way up to his thighs. The extra inches of fur added an even bulkier look to his already impressive muscles. Paris sighed, not feeling quite up to the task of pleasing such an imposing warrior. He shook from the effort of keeping erect, and he gasped as Broethevs took hold of him beneath his arms and lifted him to his feet. The snow stung on his soles, and he was quickly ushered onto the sleigh and wrapped in as many pelts as Broethevs could afford to do without himself. The cold air bit at his naked flesh, and every slight breeze whirled up a trillion snowflakes which stung like pricking needles against his ears, his nose and his fingers. Paris ducked down as best as he could, understanding that he was in for a ride. He wanted to tell Broethevs that he didn't think he'd have the strength to hold on to the sleigh if they came down a steep hill. He watched closely as Broethevs had a look about. It seemed as if he tried to determine what direction to take. Meanwhile, Paris moved alittle to better adjust his position. They had both failed to see that the sleigh had been positioned a little downwards, pointing to a slope which disappeared between to rocky tops which jutted out from the snow masses. As Paris wriggled, the sleigh began to move. Waxed with animal fat, the sleigh gained speed rather fast, and by then it was too late. Hearing the dog scream, Broethevs spun just in time to see the sleigh advancing between the two jutting rocks. He leapt forward, setting all strength in on reaching the sleigh and he made it just in time. Still there was no stopping it, and it dragged Broethevs with it. Clinging on as best as he could, he relied on his muscular arms to drag himself onto the sleigh just as it went over the ledge. For a brief second, the sleigh dropped in mid air. They both screamed, and then they connected with the snowy hillside again. Onwards and downwards it went, the white world around them whizzed by, and Broethevs steered them away from rocks and slopes as best as he could. Paris was feeling sick. This speed was new to him, and it was going faster than he'd ever sailed or ridden on horseback before. He closed his eyes and prayed that Broethevs would keep him safe. From time to time they reached plateaus which softened the pace.

Coming into shadowy places where the sun disappeared behind the mountain tops, reminded Broethevs of the temperatures which expected them come sundown. The sun was no longer high in the sky. The shadows were growing longer, and it troubled him greatly. He stopped the sleigh one time, gazing at the landscape which unfolded below them. Squinting, Broethevs thought he saw wispy streaks of smoke rising. Then something tugged at his belt, and looking down, he saw that the dog wanted his attention. He had taken the end of the leather strap and twined it around his wrist. Looking pleadingly at Broethevs, Paris did his best to be persistent yet humble.

“You want me to tie you up?”

Paris nodded.

“In case you fall off the sleigh?”

Paris nodded again, thrilled that he actually succeeded in communicating with the brute. His hands were shaking from holding on to the sleigh on the bumpy ride. Broethevs tied his hands loosely to the handles carved through the sides of the board. It would do. Broethevs pushed the sleigh, aiming for the distant image of smoke in the valley below. They so desperately needed to get there before nightfall. They had no torches, no way of seeing where they were going, and down there where it was warmer, there would be wild animals on the hunt for a snack. It was like wearing a blindfold and sticking your hand into a bucket with unknown contents.

*= "Father" (Turkish, since Troy today is a part of modern day Turkey. Correct me if I'm wrong.)