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Memory of Troy	By : Carmela Category: Fairy Tales, Fables, Folklore, Legends, and Myth > Myths Views: 7430 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the book(s) that this fanfiction is written for, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Memory of Troy
- 1
Author: Carmela
Type: FPS
Pairing: Achilles/Paris. Performed by Mr. Pitt and Mr. Bloom, of
course.

Beta: Larien Elengasse. Thanks, Larien, you're so patient!!
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Is it really necessary to say they belong to Homer? Well,
anyway I think every one of us does own them a little bit, too...
Summary: This is a variation from the story. Paris, the young and
beautiful prince of Troy, kidnappes Hellen and takes her to Troy. Achilles,
best of the greek men, is bound to a prophecy that says he will havenlonnlong and miserable life, or a glorious, but short one. He is supposed
to be killed by an arrow that pierces his ankle (the only mortal part of
his body). Paris and him never met in a duel. But what if Achilles
would have had the chance to kill Paris, guilty of the war that has led his
best friend to death, and will also lead him to his end? Achilles POV.

Reviews: Please!! It's my first fic,and the first time I write
something in English (it's not my first language, as you can see).

Memory of Troy.

The evening was approaching its end, but the last rays of the sun still
burned up the Trojan ground, making the air impossible to breathe. A
thick cloud of dust, the smell of blood, and silence -this unsettling
silence that comes after a battle, when thrmoirmoil of swords and
shields dies out. Thus nobody stood there, except for me and him. In the very
moment we met, I realized he was godlike Paris, and certainly, he knew
the man in front of him was Peleus’ son, Achilles fleet of foot. In
those days, heroes could recognize one to each other: we were no common
men. Paris Alexandros was not a common man; I realized that, too. All of
us had also heard many stories: I did not ignore that of his childhood
as a shepherd, far away from the luxuries of palaces, hidden from his
father’s rage. In respect to me, no man in Hellad was unaware of the
prophecy which bound me to a choice: my life should be glorious but short,
or long but insignificant.

And there he was, in front of me, lying on the ground, looking at me.
Paris. So many dead men, so much destruction, because of just one man.
Was it fair? Has it been fair to my beloved Patroclus? Or to Hector the
brave? As I watched that tender man -almost a boy- trembling down at my
feet, I remembered both of them. Patroclus fell crying out my name,
asking for my help, breached by the sword of a man he would never know,
dead for a woman he would never see, fighting a city in which he could
never dwell. Maybe he shuddered like the son of Priam was shuddering
now, or gazed into his enemy’s eyes, looking for a little bit of pity in
them, as the lad was gazing into mine.

Never did I have pity of an enemy. I killed Hector tamer of horses
-such a man!- One who had a wife and a son -they would be slaves now that
he had been slain by Achilles, by me.

But did he really tremble, or it was my own sight blurring, locked up
in those eyes in which a fire burned me from head to toe? A fire much
worse and much more destructive than that of Trojan War. A fire that made
me shiver. He was unarmed, defenseless, his armour remained on his
chest, but it was broken -worth laughing at, but I did not laugh at all.
And in spite of that, he seemed to be all ease and lightness: his curls,
his silky skin, the soft line of those lips, even his build, strong but
slim and tender with some kind of delicacy that only adolescents or
gods may have. I understood; I suddenly understood my dullness, and his
brightness. There was no effort, no will in him. He just was, his
existence being a blessing and a curse, bitter and sweet like the presents
from the gods. Beautiful Paris, how true, evident thing! And how absurd!
He could not be but beautiful -never knowing, never caring. Beauty is
always irresponsible, and gods know Paris was.

Now, listen to me: How could Il wil with this? What could I do? I did
not know delight until I saw him, and how should I surrender -undone I
was, since I first saw him- not betraying Patroclus, nor even Hector, an
enemy who deserved my respect, nor those who still were fighting and,
finally, not betraying myself -my dullness, my own rage, my lack of such
a grace which placed me so far-off from him… How to come closer?

I thought of Apollo, protector god of Troy, whose love has always been
fast, sharp, dark and dangerous for nymphs, a violent rape -no words,
no kiss- in a mount’s slope. Are you going to invoke his help, sweet
Paris?, I asked silently -no words-, while I pointed at his throat with my
sword -no kiss at all- and took off his broken armour, throwing it far
away, my soul fulfilled with violence and wrath. Call Apollo, young
Paris, if you want to, but it will be useless, for he seems to by right by
my side, now. Yes, perhaps I was being blinded by Apollo, and if so,
who was I to deny a god’s will? No choice was left to me, in front of
that full of youth chest that could hardly breathe in agitation. He was
wearing a fine white cloth -woven by Helen?- Although it was dirty and
torn, I felt its smoothness and sumptuousness in my hands when I ripped
it off until only shreds covered his waist, and soon not even shreds. I
gripped the boy’s curls. Paris was almost the same age as me, but
graceful as I never had been, nor in my childhood of blonde girl among
the other girls (1). Jerking, I turned him over, on all fours like a
beast. His breath was rushing. I watched him like this, defeated and
vulnerable. Blind and insane, I went.

It was a sacred act, believe me or not. A hierogamy, a sacrifice. I
took the god, I tore him, dred red him. I got drunk on the god and felt a
part of him, myself.

Too much madness, even just to remember, but I will tell it as it
exactly was. I fell on him, as I had fallen on Troilus the first year of the
war -a long time, since that, it was. As I had been to Troilus, I was
to the young prince: fast, sharp, and painful, too. But love in such a
way was not new thing to Troilus, and to Paris it was. I still cannot
remember this without sighing for his unyoked flesh beneath mine,
thrilled and finally yoked for the first time, by me. Now that this evening is
gone far away and a long time has passed, I think I was even harsher
with Paris. My legs upon his legs, fiercely spreading them, my greaves
deeply plunged into his naked thighs trying to spread them wider. Yes, no
doubt, I was harsher with Paris. I have never loved anyone so
furiously, or been so desperate to find a way to become closer to, so enraged
and wild. And yet he held on, my brave boy, The effort of avoiding
falling onto the ground at my charges made him moan slightly, but he never
uttered a word of complaint, he never cried. Troilus, a young man used
to men’s love, could not resist me and died between my arms, having his
ribs broken by my embrace similar to bear’s. Last time I saw Troilus’
face before I left his corpse; it was livid pale, his smile frozen into
a horrid mocking of death. Nevertheless, young Paris, whose muscles
were accustomed to no weight but the weight of an apple, endured every
thrust without a single tear. His sealing body was an anvil for mine, so
docile and resistant, and his waist twisted, redden and bruised under my
hands’ grasp, but bore every outrage without losing the colour of his
face. While I rammed myself in him unmercifully, the cheeks of the
Prince of Troy were stained in a slight blush, half in shame, half in
effort, a soft flushing of pink-rose. You will say my memory betrays me, but
I saw it well, for I pulled once and again his curls, caught in the
desire to watch the _expression on his ravished mouth, in his infinite
eyes.
Will you believe me if I tell you there was a blaze rekindling in those
eyes?

I collapsed on his back, much more glorious than any prairie of
asphodels. Nor then did he weep, despite my weight oppressing him, and my
nails still dug in a side of his groin, as they has been since I felt the
proximity of completion. Sweat drops in his temples evidenced his
suffering. I had not yet left his body when I realized we were not alone now,
and perhaps this sinister shadow had been contemplating me -us- since
the beginning. Cassandra stared at me -at Paris and me, at us-, mouth
wide open, eyes even wider, not in fear, but in surprise. She, the maiden
for who surprise did hardly exist.

Nobody will believe you, Cassandra. Trojans need a terrific Achilles as
much as Achaeans do, and none of them will let you ruin their idols.
Tomorrow in the evening, no matter where I’ll be, no matter if I’m dead;
every warrior will swear I fought the whole day by his side, or against
him. Nor even poets will believe what you have seen tonight.

She disappeared without a word, and we stayed alone: a beautiful young
man aching in welts and blood, and me -his rapist. But my rage was not
sated, and I decided to go further. In this moment, my pride wanted to
be sure this was just a punishment, another proof of my strength and
cruelty. And further I went, but which sort of feeling moved my will, I
was very far from knowing.

When I began to tie up Paris’ wrists, I could have thought of Hector:
it was these reins, the ones I used to tie his wrists after I killed
him, to drag him as a price. But Hector was too similar to me, and Paris
looked so different! His hands almost in mine, his dark eyes almost
closed, the soft blush in his cheeks, he almost fainting. A god’s eternal
life would be not long enough to find a nicer bride.

I finished tying his hands up. My horse was pawing the ground, anxious
to start the ride. I mounted first, and then lifted him up, in front of
me. I was wearing my cuirass, he was completely naked. We drowned into
the darkness, riding a wild horse, in a race towards nowhere. Twice
Prince Paris was about falling down, and twice I gripped his hair,
avoiding it. He had fainted. As I realized this, I thought that I was free to
touch him, now -had I not touched him enough, just a moment before? I
felt embarrassed. The stroking of the horse’s bare rump was skinning his
already injured groin and legs, so I wanted to put him in a more
comfortable position. I am a Myrmidon, and son of a goddess, I never
hesitated in front of a begging enemy, I didn’t hesitate when I confronted
Agamemnon, an equal to me, a king. But just a moment ago the very thought
of holding Paris’ body caused a thrill to shock my heart. I was filled
with sudden doubts, and with shame, and I trembled, because I had never
seen such a burning evidence of beauty until I met him beside the
Trojan walls. They were very far, now, and the whole war se to to me a
vanishing memory of old things. The night was dark around us, my horse
running deeper in the darkness with every step. It was so dark I could not
see the trails of blood in Paris’ thighs, but I felt my tremulous
fingertips moistened when I finally managed to touch him.

My horse was reined in by a sudden jerk in its bridles. I could not
manage to say where we had ended our crazy ride. We were somewhere far
away from Troy. There was a river.

I took Paris in my arms, myself becoming as gentle as I was able. His
eyes were closed, his lips slightly parted, his breath I felt upon my
collarbone like a peaceful breeze. He was asleep, or unconscious. As
gently as I could, I lay down upon the ground, resting my back on a tree
and holding Paris tight to me. Paris, whose dreamy eyes were now open,
and fixed upon mine. I tried my best to keep breathing as I felt all over
me the caress of these eyes. A stab of pain went trough my lungs: how
many times had Paris’ eyes rested over Helen like that? I had seen
white-armed Helen, once. Beautiful she was, indeed, but silent and sad, as a
woman who has not an existence of her own, whose whole life had been
decided by fate so that one day men could tell about the war of Troy. Did
Paris miss Helen’s white breasts as he rested his head upon my wide,
tanned chest? I will never know. His dark curls almost touched my nose,
and I could feel his velvety heartbeat, which brought to my mind
thoughts
of living things, pulsing and fragile: a trembling bird in a man’s
fist, the warmness of a baby in my lap that never held any of my sons,
accustomed only to the bronze and the leather of my armour and shield.

Swallowing this delightful anguish, so new to me, in my throat, I
looked at Paris once again, and -filthy of dust and blood as he was-, I
certainly knew it was fair, and necessary, Troy to be destroyed -my own
people slaughtered at its gates- for such a man.

We rested like that for a moment, embraced as a couple just married
after lovemaking. Paris had fallen asleep again -he should be exhausted,
my love had been so hard. He had fallen asleep in my lap, fearing me
not, or not enough to avoid resting his lovely head on me, encircling my
waist between his arms, as he dozed off. It almost overwhelmed me. But
mine was the duty - terrible and delicious at the same time- of taking
care of Paris’ fainted frame, and of washing away the blood that our
first encounter had left on his thighs.

It is said that some rivers are divinities, old capricious gods, cruel
and arbitrary as only gods can be. I have heard they have lost almost
their power, and remain quiet and suppressed most of the time, until one
day their fury explodes -just to retuo sto stillness -the fluent
stillness of rivers-. I cannot say if it is truth, for truth and gods are
hard to know nowadays, when ancient order breaks step by step, and even
heroes wander hidden. But one thing I know: if there was a god in that
river, he was propitious to me, that night. I merged into his waters,
holding Paris in my arms, so slowly -never wanting him to be frightened of
the stream, or cold, or bothered, or even awaken. The river greedily
surrounded his limbs, and I thought I would like to be a simple tongue to
be able to lap against that astonishing young in just one wave.

He opened his eyes once more, and threw his arms around my neck. He
embraced me, believe me. I felt his warmness, and those devastating eyes,
burning my skin, despite the fact that we were sunk in the waters. My
shaking hands could not bear him much longer, and I went out the river
as slowly as I entered, but much more uneasy, because of that tight hold
of his arms and that stunning gaze setting fire in my eyes.

My enemy was carefully placed in the springy, fresh grass. He never
averted his eyes from mine. This time, it was my turn to kneel in front of
him, putting my arrogance behind me, happily yielding to humiliation. I
licked his raw wounds and searching in my body for some softness to
approach him, I caressed all his nudity with my lips and my eyelids,
hoping thouldould not be too rough for his skin. A long time I caressed his
arms; for a long time I did not dare to caress another part of his
body. After a long time, I shyly reached the warmness of his chest. An
eyelash rubbed a nipple, oh, so slightly, so very slightly, I swear I
hardly noticed that I had really touched him. But he did, Paris, and moaned,
this time not in effort, but in pure liquid pleasure. I swear: there
was pleasure in his groans, in his mewls, in his fingers shaving my hair,
in his feverish breath, in his fingers entwined in my hair, in the
crazy pulse of his neck’s vein, in his fingers pulling hard on my hair. The
journey to his groin was a torture of slowness and splendour. But he
was damaged by my horse, by my greaves and my nails, by the ferocity of
my love. Then I raised my gaze to meet his, asking for permission, and
my heart nearly melted when he smiled and allowed me to do that which I
had received so many times, by so many maidens of fair cheeks that
kneeled for me. The river heard my name in Paris’ voice, that night.

And thus we fell asleep, the sun rising, the earth being slowly left
empty of gods.

The rest is not worth telling: a little house, a garden. Now I live on
the ground as the hireling of another, with a landless man who had no
great livelihood. In the beginning, each time we quarreled, I remembered
we both were soldiers once, and wondered if he would kill me. He has
not, yet. We never do speak about Troy. In fact, some days, I almost do
not remember Troy at all. From time to time, a poet comes. Men’s eyes
glitter as he describes white-armed Helen, fair among women, sprung of
Zeus -her breasts, her ... Helen! The noun sounds to me like a prayer
from old ages. Was it a woman, or a port? Was it the name of an entire
civilization -buried, now and forever, in the ashes of time? Then, the
poet finishes his story -and goes. An ancient sadness remains for a while
in our hearts. But soon it goes.

It has been a long time since I stopped been young, and now I know I am
not beautiful anymore. I feel old, and tired, and my body is a heavy
burden. Maybe soon I won’t be able to taste the figs of our fig-tree -for
I have been lucky, keeping almost all my teeth safe until now, but it
won’t last much longer.

No, I am not young anymore. Neither is Paris. Will I dare to say his
arms have become skinny? Will I dare to caress his thighs and tell him
how I painfully miss his past smoothness, definitely lost, today? I would
never, never dare, although both of us know he is old -and so am I.

Yet sometimes I look at him -not at his arms, not at the dry skin of
his legs, but at the very depth of his eyes-. And there I see the embers
of that flames I found then -so long ago-, ready to burn again No more
fire of youth in his limbs, he has lost it forever. But a spark remains
in his dark ardent eyes, and it is enough to burn up my stone-like
warrior’s heart. When I watch him working in our garden, kneeling on the
ground, as I saw him for the first time that doom-flavoured evening,
under the walls of Troy, I stare at those incandescent eyes of Paris. And
even now, after all these years, I feel I could fight a thousand wars,
ravage a thousand Troys - for him.

FIN

(1) It is said that Achilles’ mother, fearing the prophecy about his
premature death in Troy, hide him in a king’s court, dressing him as a
girl. So, he was grown as a girl, and being his hair blond, they called
him Pirra (which means blonde girl), until Ulysses discovered the trick.
- 1
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Memory of Troy