Before the Trojan War, there was the calm before the storm. King Priam of Troy and King Menalus of Sparta had begun speaking of peace. King Priam, old in his age wanted nothing more than to see his beloved city prosper till the end of his days. When King Cyril of Byzantium, a neutral kingdom neither favoring Troy nor Greece, hosted games in honor of their late fallen general, the King of Troy had sent his heir, Prince Hector to attend and compete for his kingdom's honor.
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Byzantium
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Soft breezes carried through the Golden Horn soothed the dark haired prince; finding the stressful burden on his shoulders lifted. Sailing had a way of making the prince tense, for little trust was placed in the Gods, especially Poseidon who had recently taken a liking to cruelly sinking Trojan ships with storms off the coast for reasons unknown.
The Gods had a way with blessing and cursing mans fate; acting as if it was some sort of game to be played with. And while Hector did his piece to please the Gods in the request of his father… it was more of a burdening display of false piety then actual devotion. But Hector did not dare spit on the Gods now. After all Poseidon had granted him safe passage and the winds had been favorable. Thankful yet to have arrived at King Cyril's city, he couldn't help but feel the longing to be with his new born child. Hector had sworn to be a devoted father and his child was the love of his heart since his birth only a month ago.
He'd been reluctant to marry and settle, but his country and his father needed the future king to have a queen and more importantly, a healthy heir. Born with a sense of gentle righteousness, he'd never done anything to displease his father, and when old King Priam had told Hector that it had reached the time where he needed to be wed, Prince Hector had allowed himself to agree wholeheartedly to the arranged marriage. The union between the two had brought King Priam and his city great joy.
With the sacred vows and the symbolic union, I have sworn to love her and I do. I promised to place no other women before her, and I shall not. It is one thing to serve your kingdom; it is another thing to live for it.
It was true that his love for Andromache was not one shared between passionate lovers; rather his love for his wife was purely platonic. There were different ways to love, and none of them were wrong in Hector's eyes. Andromache's love for her husband was not unrequited, and while Hector had never found their marriage to be blissful, he was content, and to Hector, serving his country and his father had always been top priority.
Duty had always called, and it called him now. Even amidst the birth of his newly gained son, duty for Troy had ended up making this journey necessary. From Troy to Byzantium, Hector had made the voyage in a relatively anxious state. His beloved kingdom was on the edge of lasting peace, and Hector wanted nothing more than to ease every last burden of his father before his passing.
The series of games lasting for fourteen days had been the perfect time to parley terms of peace with King Menalus on neutral ground. Hector was expected to succeed and the pressure on his shoulders had been immense.
The sound of his men uncoiling thick docking ropes had drawn out the dark haired Prince from his thoughts, bringing out the coffee brown hues from behind close lids. Instinctively looking about to help in the process, Hector found that there was nothing that needed his direction. These men had long accompanied the Prince on his journeys, and his father before that. Sailing was second nature.
"Prince, we've docked at Byzantium harbor. There's an escort of five Byzantium guards and an emissary waiting to greet you out on the dock."
"Thank you Alexandros, have your men secure ship and unload, I shall go and speak with the emissary."
With the end of his words, Hector managed to briefly wipe the weary expression off his face and forced himself to adopt a warm comforting smile. While his goals may have been different, Hector was supposed to be here on behalf of Troy to compete in the funeral games. The 14 days were expected to be well spent in fun and friendly competition but Hector's unusually worried state had discouraged his men. A small laugh here and there followed by confident looks would cure his men of anxiety and it was because of that, that Hector forced himself to change expression.
I can't even feel the way I feel. Troy needs me, it always has, and the men rely on me. They look to me for security, I am their shield in time of peril and in peace.
With a curt nod for a reply to his orders, Alexandros—dressed in the full standard armor of Troy—headed off to pass the directions down to the others for the unloading to begin.
Having been forced to abandon the far more comfortable sailor's tunic, he'd changed into his the more familiar battle garments and a green cloak. Sword in sheath and determination burning in his brown eyes; Hector readied himself. He was here to send a message, and Troy would be heard, the prince would make sure of it.
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"Prince Hector of Troy, son of old King Priam, we are honored to have you with us."
Softly accented speech slurred from the smiling emissary emitted a welcoming glow, and for that Hector had been grateful. The Byzantine port controlled by King Cyril had been formidable and prosperous due to trade from the northern kingdoms around the Black Sea. Historically, Byzantium's vast navy had submitted itself to the use of Troy bound by an ancient pact made between the Thracians and the Trojans.
Outstretching Greek treachery by Agammenon had granted Byzantium the courage and ability to safely denounce the contracts of submission and had recently become independent of Troy. Hector had been worried that his arrival here would have been unwanted and unwelcome. It seemed at least this wasn't the case.
"King Cyril is an old time friend and ally of my father and our kingdom; I am honored to have been invited."
With the offered compliments from Hector the emissary expressed his thanks in a sweeping bow as was the city's custom and Hector mirrored the motion. Both men briefly clasped arms in a sign of friendship before the diplomatic exchange of uneasy compliments continued.
"Come now, you must be weary. I shall show you your temporary quarters in our king's estate. The games start tomorrow and I am guessing that the Tamer of Horses would like to be rested for the events."
Relieved of the offer, Hector would have gladly accepted the invitation to rest but curiosity drove him on the whereabouts of King Menalus of Sparta and the other Greek city states.
"Have any of the Greek emissaries and warriors arrived yet to take part in the games?"
The emissary, whose name was Erastus, shook his head and continued to speak in that slurred, thickly accented Greek.
"The day is still young my lord and only one other champion of Greece has arrived before you. King Odysseus of Ithaca has sent a man by the name of Achilles, son of Peleus."
The name had struck a bell. He'd heard legends of a Greek hero supposedly greater than the rest. Perhaps this was the one that they all feared, unless this man was another by the same name.
It had struck him odd that this man came on behalf of the Ithacan king. The warrior supposedly fought for Agamemnon and Hector had thought the Greek would have fought on the man's behalf.
"So the best of Greece fights for Ithaca…"
Hector had mumbled softly under his breath, curious as to how some one like Agamemnon would have allowed this to happen. Briefly lost in his thought, the last thing Hector had expected was a response to his question. Not by the emissary, but by different husky tenor voice.
"The best of Greece fights for no one; he simply needed a name to enter the contests."
Turning around to face the voice from behind, coffee colored orbs rested first upon the hues of intense oceanic blue and then the thick mane of golden locks that framed the chiseled features of the Greek man before him.
A smug look and estimating eyes scanned over Hector causing the Trojan prince to firm up his expression in defiance. Underneath though, Hector felt as if he'd been cornered by a glorious lion, being sized up before the inevitable pounce. There was a sense of understanding as to why he had the respect of all the Greeks, why he was unquestioned as the champion of the west.
There was a certain feel about the man that made even Hector the brave become meek and nervous.
"You must be the Trojan, Prince Hector."
Achilles spoke even the simplistic phrases with command, and Hectors dominance seemed to falter and fade. Even now the Trojan Prince struggled to regain his composure.
"… and you, the famed Achilles."
That seemed to have pleased the gilded lion, for that smug look seemed to bloom into a small grin. A firm nod confirmed that he was indeed Achilles, but upon first sight, Hector had not doubted this to be false. There was a certain narcissistic and proud nature to the man, liking the feel and sound of his fame preceding him.
While most men like that annoyed Hector, there wasn't any doubt that this man, had reason to be prideful.
"They speak of you as if you were a God. But clearly you are just as mortal as I am."
At that hostile comment, Achilles only laughed, which served to only further irate the Trojan Prince. Everything that Achilles did was at his own leisure. Even now as they spoke, if something else caught Achilles' interest, he'd stop in the middle of his sentence to address some of his attention to the matter at hand.
"You can be the judge of that when we compete."
Compete. He'd have to compete against this so called lion for the next 14 days. With the name of Troy at stake, Hector suddenly found himself wishing for easier competition. He couldn't afford to lose, especially not in front of Greeks and Thracians where Troy needed to shine strongest.
"I'll look forward to meeting you in the Arena, Prince. We'll see if the Tamer of Horses can tame lions."
Achilles chuckled, offering Hector his hand. The Prince took the gesture, and both men clasped arms against one another, one sword calloused hand grasping the other. They stood testing the strength of the opposing man, a silent exchange of analytical thinking between the two of them. For the emissary watching the two, it seemed like a deadly dance between two giants.
When the grasp was released, Hector felt oddly drained as he watched the blonde haired man walk away. Turning towards the Emissary, he offered him a wary smile.
"If you'd show me to my chamber I'd be indebted to you."
Motioning the way with his hand, the Emissary returned the smile radiantly.
"My pleasure, this way Prince."
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City of Troy
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Feathery soft fingers traced the spine of his lovers toned back, stopping to outline the scars he found oddly fascinating. The second time the wave of mixed pain and pleasure hit his senses; Paris tossed back his head and released a guttural moan, digging those nails hard into his lover's back.
If being naïve was a sin, Paris was a sinner. Though he liked to refer to Leandre as his lover, Paris had yet to learn the true definition of what love was. Leandre had always served Paris with fierce loyalty, and when Paris had approached him the night before, he'd eagerly complied.
Paris was beautiful. The lithe and svelte body writhed against Leander's frame with each thrust the larger Trojan made into the shorter Prince. Lips parted, and chest rising with each heavy breath, the son of Priam was a sight to behold. The fragrance of incense lit in the corner of the room combined with the scents of honey given off from the Prince's skin was a heightening and maddening combination.
Calloused hands seized the Prince's chin, Leandre's lips capturing Paris own. It stifled the shorter man's soft groaning, and placed the sleek form pinned completely underneath his frame. When the kiss broke, it left Paris gasping, both forms slick with sweat, and grinding against one another.
Each time Leandre drove deep into Paris, the Trojan Prince was brought closer to the edge, the shorter man crying out for his release. In the end, Paris was granted finality, his lover embedded within the Prince as both men cried out in unison. Paris' eyes flickered closed as his hands grasped locks of Leandre's dark unruly ebony hair, his toes curling at the sense of unbearable pleasure.
Both the Prince and his guard were left panting, Leandre having rolled off of Paris to save the smaller man from his weight. Folding his arms behind his head, Leandre rested his own weight on his arms, comfortably sprawled on Paris bed, still recovering from their night's routine.
Paris pulled his form as close as he could to Leandre's side, wrapping his arms around the guard's waist. There was a degree of happiness in Paris' eyes that Leandre swore to protect.
Within the hour, Paris was asleep soundly against his frame, using his arm as a pillow. And with a careful adjustment, he managed to move Paris' head to a cushion without awaking him. As much as he longed to sleep next to Paris, this relationship would not be permitted by the King.