He pushed it away, irritated. This was certainly not a time to be thinking of that sort of thing. Not here, not now…not him.
Achilles tossed away the washcloth callously and retrieved his long, black tunic.
"I put that food there for a reason, young prince," he muttered whilst tying the waist cord. He turned. The prince was staring intently at the food, but it was obvious he wasn't seeing it. A blush still mantled his delicate cheeks and the stiffness of his shoulders suggested he really was lost in his own confused and combating emotions. Achilles chuckled inwardly once again.
The tall warrior picked up his goblet of wine and walked forward, moving to stand directly in front of the prince, finally forcing him to look up. Achilles could see Paris was struggling to keep his breathing under control. There was still fear in his eyes, deepening them, giving them the air of an unsettled night sky.
"Relax, Prince," Achilles said at length. "I am not an animal. I give you my word, I shall not touch you against your will. Now eat."
Achilles sat on the furs beside the Trojan youth, a significant distance away. He took another sip of his wine and watched the boy out of the corner of his eye. Paris now did actually see the food. He took a stalk of rich, purple grapes and appeared to relax somewhat though refused to turn to face his involuntary host.
Achilles watched silently as Paris's slender fingers plucked a grape and brought it to his lips. The manner of the prince's blinking suggested he knew perfectly well he was being watched. He bit into the grape anyway, still staring fixedly ahead. Achilles looked away. He hated the way the sight of Paris's throat swallowing effected him. He scowled to himself and drank more wine.
"They say you're the greatest fighter the world has ever known," Paris said quietly. "They say you cannot be defeated," Paris finally looked at him. "You believe Troy will fall to you?"
Achilles just looked back at him. That face was far too young, far too innocent to be wearing that sort of serious, melancholy expression.
Paris's eyes roamed his face for a while before leaving him to stare at the wall again. He ate another grape. "My brother is the best warrior Troy has ever born," he said strongly. "He is a good man and an honourable warrior. The gods will favour him in this battle."
Achilles refilled his wine goblet from the carafe beside his bed and watched the light of the oil lamp dance on it's bloody surface.
Paris continued. "They will favour him because he is an honourable man," once more Paris seemed to find the courage to look at him, but Achilles did not meet his eyes. "He only kills for the sake of others, he only kills to protect his people," Paris's voice was getting steadily more heated. "You kill for yourself. You kill for glory, for the feel of blood on your hands. You said yourself, you don't serve any king, you're not here for Meneleaus or Agamemnon. You're here to kill for yourself. And that makes you nothing more than a murderer."
Achilles slid his right hand smoothly under a rolled up fur and drew forth a sturdy, bronze dagger. He brought it into the light and idly turned it in the fingers of his left hand, watching the fiery light bounce and dance on its surface. Paris fell silent.
Smoothly, calmly, Achilles turned slightly. He reached across and rested the point of the dagger on Paris's shoulder, allowing the flat of the blade to press firmly across the smooth skin of his exposed throat. Achilles was pleased to see that whilst a blackening of fear had returned to his eyes, he did not move away from the coldness of the blade.
"Have you ever killed a man, Prince of Troy?" Achilles asked quietly. "Forced that breath to be his last one, watch as his soul flees, see how you've reduced a man to a lump of meaningless flesh?"
Paris swallowed carefully.
Achilles nodded slowly. "Then I can hardly see how your in a position to judge." Achilles kept the blade steady and watched his eyes.
"Why?" Paris said at last, his voice barely above a whisper. "Why do you do it?"
Achilles sighed. He brought the dagger away and threw it into the sand. He watched it where it had landed. It looked so pointless an insignificant, just a shard of metal. It shouldn't be as important as it was.
Achilles took another fortifying draught of wine, savouring it's sour sweetness. "This is all we're given, young prince of Troy," he murmured quietly. "This is it. This one body, this one life," he looked back. Paris was listening intently. "All you can do is use the time you have to try and achieve something lasting, something that won't erode. Even if your name is written in stone, the stone will eventually succumb to the wind and the rain. You have to be remembered by people, not by stones. Your name should be on people's tongues, your deeds forever in their minds." He turned slowly, looking directly into the open, dark and expressive depths of Paris's eyes. "When you are condemned to forever in the underworld, to know your life is being related above you amongst the people for thousands of years has got to be the closest you can come to being a god. It is immortality."
Paris's eyes didn't flicker. "What is the point of gaining immortality if you are not around to enjoy it? I would rather spend eternity in Hades thinking upon the life I've had with the love of a wonderful family and a beautiful woman than by the fact that people remember me for people I've killed."
Achilles snorted. "You really are a very young prince of troy," he stated, watching Paris's now controlled expression.
With a mischievous turn of thought, he leant across Paris's body, reaching for an orange on the food platter. He felt an ever so slight tremor in the Prince's treacherous body as flesh grazed flesh. He straightened and started to casually peel the orange. Stealing a glance at the Prince he saw that he'd shut his eyes and seemed to be struggling with some inner conflict.
"So, this Helen of Sparta," Achilles asked, throwing away the peel. "Is she as beautiful as they say?"
Paris blinked, looking up, appearing to have mastered himself for now. "More," he said. "Words are too crude a vehicle to describe her."
Achilles nodded nonchalantly and tore off a segment of the orange. He brought it to his lips. "You must be quite a lucky man, then," Achilles looked at him. It appeared to take quite a lot of effort for Paris to being his gaze away from the orange at his mouth. Achilles smiled devilishly. He tried to disregard the heat that he was beginning to feel grow in his belly.
"I am," he said, promptly looking away once again. His cheeks grew even redder.
"Are you hot, Prince?" Achilles asked, trying to keep the smile out of his voice. He reached forward and rested the back of his hand against the Prince's face.
"No," Paris said, rather forcefully.
"Here," Achilles offered him the goblet of wine. He took it rather feverishly and, shutting his eyes, brought it to his lips and drank as though he were dying in the desert. Achilles ate one more section of orange and laid the rest of the fruit aside. He watched once again with fascination as the slender throat swallowed the liquor eagerly.
Achilles watched his hand reach forward slowly as though it were someone elses. Paris paused in his drinking as he felt Achilles's rough knuckles run across his jaw line. He looked around. Achilles felt drawn uncontrollably to the fire that was burning deep in the Prince's eyes. He dragged his thumb across the boy's trembling lips. They were moist with the wine, looking so sweet and inviting.
Achilles found himself powerless to resist. He took a gently hold of Paris's jaw and shifted forward daringly. He closed his eyes and captured the youth's lips insistently in his own. He heard the soft thud as the wine goblet was dropped into the sand at their feet. He felt the Prince melt against him.
His veins were suddenly aflame. The Prince's lips tasted like fruit and wine. He boldly deepened the kiss, pushing his tongue forward through his parted lips, longing for the taste of more.
Paris gasped and pulled back suddenly. Achilles opened his eyes. Their faces were only inches apart, Paris's breathing was laboured and his eyes heavy. He muttered something nonsensical and shook his head. He turned his face away.
"No," he said. "You swore you wouldn't touch me."
Achilles move up closer, pressing his body against the slender frame of the young prince, feeling his pulse through the pathetic fabric of their tunics and Paris's cloak. "I swore I wouldn't touch you against your will," he stroked the secret skin at the back of Paris's neck and laid his other hand on the prince's leg. He put his lips close to the boy's ear. "Come, my Prince," he whispered, burning at the sensation of being so close. "Unfold for me, let me show you want you want to be shown."
Achilles tossed away the washcloth callously and retrieved his long, black tunic.
"I put that food there for a reason, young prince," he muttered whilst tying the waist cord. He turned. The prince was staring intently at the food, but it was obvious he wasn't seeing it. A blush still mantled his delicate cheeks and the stiffness of his shoulders suggested he really was lost in his own confused and combating emotions. Achilles chuckled inwardly once again.
The tall warrior picked up his goblet of wine and walked forward, moving to stand directly in front of the prince, finally forcing him to look up. Achilles could see Paris was struggling to keep his breathing under control. There was still fear in his eyes, deepening them, giving them the air of an unsettled night sky.
"Relax, Prince," Achilles said at length. "I am not an animal. I give you my word, I shall not touch you against your will. Now eat."
Achilles sat on the furs beside the Trojan youth, a significant distance away. He took another sip of his wine and watched the boy out of the corner of his eye. Paris now did actually see the food. He took a stalk of rich, purple grapes and appeared to relax somewhat though refused to turn to face his involuntary host.
Achilles watched silently as Paris's slender fingers plucked a grape and brought it to his lips. The manner of the prince's blinking suggested he knew perfectly well he was being watched. He bit into the grape anyway, still staring fixedly ahead. Achilles looked away. He hated the way the sight of Paris's throat swallowing effected him. He scowled to himself and drank more wine.
"They say you're the greatest fighter the world has ever known," Paris said quietly. "They say you cannot be defeated," Paris finally looked at him. "You believe Troy will fall to you?"
Achilles just looked back at him. That face was far too young, far too innocent to be wearing that sort of serious, melancholy expression.
Paris's eyes roamed his face for a while before leaving him to stare at the wall again. He ate another grape. "My brother is the best warrior Troy has ever born," he said strongly. "He is a good man and an honourable warrior. The gods will favour him in this battle."
Achilles refilled his wine goblet from the carafe beside his bed and watched the light of the oil lamp dance on it's bloody surface.
Paris continued. "They will favour him because he is an honourable man," once more Paris seemed to find the courage to look at him, but Achilles did not meet his eyes. "He only kills for the sake of others, he only kills to protect his people," Paris's voice was getting steadily more heated. "You kill for yourself. You kill for glory, for the feel of blood on your hands. You said yourself, you don't serve any king, you're not here for Meneleaus or Agamemnon. You're here to kill for yourself. And that makes you nothing more than a murderer."
Achilles slid his right hand smoothly under a rolled up fur and drew forth a sturdy, bronze dagger. He brought it into the light and idly turned it in the fingers of his left hand, watching the fiery light bounce and dance on its surface. Paris fell silent.
Smoothly, calmly, Achilles turned slightly. He reached across and rested the point of the dagger on Paris's shoulder, allowing the flat of the blade to press firmly across the smooth skin of his exposed throat. Achilles was pleased to see that whilst a blackening of fear had returned to his eyes, he did not move away from the coldness of the blade.
"Have you ever killed a man, Prince of Troy?" Achilles asked quietly. "Forced that breath to be his last one, watch as his soul flees, see how you've reduced a man to a lump of meaningless flesh?"
Paris swallowed carefully.
Achilles nodded slowly. "Then I can hardly see how your in a position to judge." Achilles kept the blade steady and watched his eyes.
"Why?" Paris said at last, his voice barely above a whisper. "Why do you do it?"
Achilles sighed. He brought the dagger away and threw it into the sand. He watched it where it had landed. It looked so pointless an insignificant, just a shard of metal. It shouldn't be as important as it was.
Achilles took another fortifying draught of wine, savouring it's sour sweetness. "This is all we're given, young prince of Troy," he murmured quietly. "This is it. This one body, this one life," he looked back. Paris was listening intently. "All you can do is use the time you have to try and achieve something lasting, something that won't erode. Even if your name is written in stone, the stone will eventually succumb to the wind and the rain. You have to be remembered by people, not by stones. Your name should be on people's tongues, your deeds forever in their minds." He turned slowly, looking directly into the open, dark and expressive depths of Paris's eyes. "When you are condemned to forever in the underworld, to know your life is being related above you amongst the people for thousands of years has got to be the closest you can come to being a god. It is immortality."
Paris's eyes didn't flicker. "What is the point of gaining immortality if you are not around to enjoy it? I would rather spend eternity in Hades thinking upon the life I've had with the love of a wonderful family and a beautiful woman than by the fact that people remember me for people I've killed."
Achilles snorted. "You really are a very young prince of troy," he stated, watching Paris's now controlled expression.
With a mischievous turn of thought, he leant across Paris's body, reaching for an orange on the food platter. He felt an ever so slight tremor in the Prince's treacherous body as flesh grazed flesh. He straightened and started to casually peel the orange. Stealing a glance at the Prince he saw that he'd shut his eyes and seemed to be struggling with some inner conflict.
"So, this Helen of Sparta," Achilles asked, throwing away the peel. "Is she as beautiful as they say?"
Paris blinked, looking up, appearing to have mastered himself for now. "More," he said. "Words are too crude a vehicle to describe her."
Achilles nodded nonchalantly and tore off a segment of the orange. He brought it to his lips. "You must be quite a lucky man, then," Achilles looked at him. It appeared to take quite a lot of effort for Paris to being his gaze away from the orange at his mouth. Achilles smiled devilishly. He tried to disregard the heat that he was beginning to feel grow in his belly.
"I am," he said, promptly looking away once again. His cheeks grew even redder.
"Are you hot, Prince?" Achilles asked, trying to keep the smile out of his voice. He reached forward and rested the back of his hand against the Prince's face.
"No," Paris said, rather forcefully.
"Here," Achilles offered him the goblet of wine. He took it rather feverishly and, shutting his eyes, brought it to his lips and drank as though he were dying in the desert. Achilles ate one more section of orange and laid the rest of the fruit aside. He watched once again with fascination as the slender throat swallowed the liquor eagerly.
Achilles watched his hand reach forward slowly as though it were someone elses. Paris paused in his drinking as he felt Achilles's rough knuckles run across his jaw line. He looked around. Achilles felt drawn uncontrollably to the fire that was burning deep in the Prince's eyes. He dragged his thumb across the boy's trembling lips. They were moist with the wine, looking so sweet and inviting.
Achilles found himself powerless to resist. He took a gently hold of Paris's jaw and shifted forward daringly. He closed his eyes and captured the youth's lips insistently in his own. He heard the soft thud as the wine goblet was dropped into the sand at their feet. He felt the Prince melt against him.
His veins were suddenly aflame. The Prince's lips tasted like fruit and wine. He boldly deepened the kiss, pushing his tongue forward through his parted lips, longing for the taste of more.
Paris gasped and pulled back suddenly. Achilles opened his eyes. Their faces were only inches apart, Paris's breathing was laboured and his eyes heavy. He muttered something nonsensical and shook his head. He turned his face away.
"No," he said. "You swore you wouldn't touch me."
Achilles move up closer, pressing his body against the slender frame of the young prince, feeling his pulse through the pathetic fabric of their tunics and Paris's cloak. "I swore I wouldn't touch you against your will," he stroked the secret skin at the back of Paris's neck and laid his other hand on the prince's leg. He put his lips close to the boy's ear. "Come, my Prince," he whispered, burning at the sensation of being so close. "Unfold for me, let me show you want you want to be shown."
