What Hector Must Do

The sky was littered with innumerable pinpoints of light, from which the gods laughed at him. Hector refused to lower his gaze. He was searching for answers. Should they not simply come to him from the stars? Was that not how the wise men divined the answers to all life’s problems?

Finally he dropped his gaze, giving up. The gods had never liked him. It was his brother who was their beloved. Paris who could ignite a decade long war and still live in oblivious peace with his mistress.

Yet today Paris’s cowardice had gone too far. His shocking flight from his duel with Menelaus was being talked about by every warrior on both sides, and at first Hector’s rage was such that he thought he would kill Paris. And Paris, ever skilled in protecting his skin, had fled into the walled city and hidden from his brother.

The morning was long gone, and it was now dead of night, and Hector’s rage had altered. Now his mind strained under an immense anguish. For what should he do about Paris? Paris was Hector’s burden and Hector must carry out fitting retribution against him, for the people of Troy… and for Hector’s own peace of mind.

He lowered his head in resignation and made his way back to his tent. Saluting the sentry, he pushed open the flap, and froze.

Inside, Paris stood.

Hector stared at him, but Paris was standing at a narrow wooden table next to one of the tent poles, toying with the leather straps binding Hector’s sword sheath. He was aware of Hector’s presence, but he did not look up.

Hector’s jaw clenched until he had to force himself to relax his muscles. He pulled his head back out and turned to the obviously nervous sentry standing outside.

The man immediately stammered, “H- he could not be dissuaded from going inside to wait, even though—”

Hector wanted to force a smile and reassure the soldier he had not done anything wrong, but he found he was too tense. Instead he warned, “No one is to come inside. No matter what is heard.”

Without waiting for a reply he stepped inside and let the flap fall back in place behind him, and did not bother tying it down.

“What are you doing here,” Hector began guardedly, staying where he was. He still did not trust himself to go near Paris.

“I came to see you.”

Paris was stalling. Hector knew him too well. He was stalling for time for Hector to get used to his presence and cool off.

“You want to… talk… to me, don’t you?” Paris finally looked up from fiddling with the sheath. His eyes were almost black and without warning Hector’s heart slammed in his chest, for he knew that look well. And then his own desire was upon him like a swift messenger from the goddess.

As he stood gripped withungeunger he could barely withstand, Hector could not remember another moment since this war began when he had been so conscious of his brother’s cowardice. His hands clenched into fists at his sides and he tried to remain calm and controlled.

But, for that it was much too late. He approached Paris, until he stood as close to him as he could without their bodies touching.

“Why do you look at me that way, Xandros” he had intended to spit out the words, but even to his ears they sounded like an appeal, “when you know very well that you have acted unforgivably today.”

Hector’s gaze dropped to Paris’s hand gripping the sheath. Slowly, as if inevitably, Hector pulled the sheath from his brother’s grasp.

“My… desire was to make you proud, brother,” Paris whispered. Hector’s movements stilled for a moment. Then he reached for the knot at the top of the sheath and with one hard tug, unraveled the length of leather. He dropped the sheath to the dust.

Silently, he encircled one of Paris’s wrists with his massive hand, and then dragged it across the table and grabbed the other hand. Paris let out a tiny gasp, but made no move to pull away. For that at least Hector applauded his common sense. For he was ready to pin Paris to the ground if it came down to that.

Lifting both of Paris’s hands, he wrapped the leather strip around his wrists several times. Then he secured the rest of the strip around the tent pole, directly in front of Paris’s face. Paris let his head drop against his bound wrists.

Hector tugged on the rope around Paris’s waist and sent it pooling to the ground. Next he pulled both sides of Paris’s tunic off his shoulders, cul nul not to touch the warm flesh beneath. He pushed the sides of the tunic down over Paris’s long, leanly muscled arms, and let the halves follow the rope to the ground.

Naked, Paris turned his head to look at Hector, but Hector stepped direcbehibehind him.

“Do not look at me,” Hector warned in low voice.

Paris silently faced forward again. Hector set the narrow wooden table in front of Paris and positioning himself behind. He looked down at the golden skin before him, already breathless from its heat.

Hector gripped either sides of the table as though it was the only anchor that could hold him. Because not for all the world would he place his hands on Paris. Instead, he leaned forward so that Paris was forced to bend further. Paris gasped quietly as the side of their faces brushed, but Hector turned his face away.

He pressed himself against Paris, already leaking profusely, and massaged himself against the back of Paris’s thighs. He shivered as he slicked over the tight flesh, and tried to control the noises that were coming out of him. It was pain he was feeling. All the gods of Olympus were his witness that he did not want to do this. Paris was not worth…

Yet, breathing shakily, and without aid of his hands, he guided himself to Paris’s entrance and pushed into him in one long thrust.

Paris opened his mouth and moaned until Hector was completely buried inside him. He turned his hand and grabbed the leather strip binding his wrists together, and arched deeply into Hector.

Hector hissed and pulled his upper body back to avoid contact. “Do not touch me, Xandros,” he warned hoarsely, spreading his arms even wider along the table’s edge, ignoring the contradiction that his groin was fused to Paris, and from there nothing could have pried him.

Hector dug his nails into the wooden surface. “I do not want to be tainted by your cowardice,” he grated. Then, with burning eyes, he watched himself slowly pull out of his brother, before pushing back in again.
h, gh, gods above, he should not watch. He tore his eyes away, sliding them up Paris’s beautiful arched back and coming to rest on his hair. A moment later he squeezed shut his eyes, fighting the urge to bury his face into Paris’s thick brown curls, to inhale deeply and surrender himself over to his brother’s power.

Positioning his legs between Paris’s, he spread his brother’s legs wider apart, and Paris moaned heatedly. The sound vibrated deep into Hector, nearly overwhelming him, and his knees trembled slightly.

Hector wanted to be master to no man, but with all his being he prayed for the day he would at least be master to himself. He would win this fight.

With his grip on the table absolute, so that even as he struggled inside Paris it did not scrape forward an inch, he began to ride Paris hard. His brother was immobile, bound, and trapped with the wooden table in front of him, and Hector behind.

Hector would exact retribution on Paris. Because it was what Paris deserved for instigating so much unspeakable misery.

“It is so wrong,” Hector almost wailed, fighting his unraveling mind to get his words out. “Why should…” he drove himself into Paris, and with each thrust told himself he was conquering, “Why should… the city… suffer… because of you?”

Feverishly, he encircled his hand around the leather binding Paris’s wrists, stroking it with his thumb, and gasping at the hot friction. “Who is so loved that… the very… lives of men…”

Paris twisted his hands, trying to touch Hector’s, but Hector jerked his hand from reach. “...the pand snd suffering… ” he babbled incoherently, “…the devastation you… have caused to my hea— to the heart of Troy itself…”

It was difficult to think. His relentless rhythm inside Paris was robbing him of his senses, and Paris’s heat was scorching him. He was losing this battle, he confessed helplessly to himself, struggling to suppress his moan of subjugat not not wanting Paris to hear. He only wanted Paris to hear his flagellations. “Yours is a life… without use… without purpose,” he rasped. “You… are worthless to—”

“Deeper, Hector…” Paris moaned softly.

Hector’s heart slammed to a stop. Then Paris turned his head, and Hector realized their faces were fused side by side, but he was too far gone and too powerless to pull away.

Paris leaned in and tenderly kissed his jaw.

It was worse than a sword cutting him. Hector felt the muscles of his knees weaken a moment before he lost his balance and they both fell forward against the pole. Paris gasped and began convulsing in ecstasy under him, and there Hector’s control finally broke.

An eternity later, still bent over Paris, Hector slowly pulled out of him. Paris turned his upper body and stroked Hector’s dark, wet curls from his forehead. “Should I not have done that?” he whispered gently, sliding his fingers down to Hector’s jaw. “Maybe next time you can… correct me.”

Hector kept his face turned away. In the midst of his humiliation he could not help but wonder when Paris had freed his hands, and silently dreaded thinking of what it meant if his brother had been able to do so all along.

Gently pushing back against Hector’s chest, Paris turned around completely, then slowly dropped to his knees, picked up his discarded tunic, and began to wipe his brother clean.