Troy/Iliad fanfiction

Hector/Paris, NC-17

Summary: Once upon a time, on the slopes of Mount Ida…

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Among the darkened shrubs on the ancient slopes of Mount Ida, Hector spied the fat little sheep of the shepherd boy bleating their way around, heralding the presence of their master.

The flat, endless plains around the foot of the mountain were lit brightly by a half-moon in a starless sky, and the flickering of torches could be seen at intervals all the way to the fabled city of Troy in the far distance. There, the number of lights increased a hundred fold.

Simply from watching the lazy, happy waddling of the sheep, which looked like small squares of wool from where he stood, it was clear that they basked in the love of their shepherd. Their tiny ears would flick in response to his calls, and they would hurry in his direction.

From his habitual nighttime spying place at the edge of the trees, Hector watched as the sheep followed the youth, who made soft noises at them and playfully tapped them with his staff.

Even from this distance Hector could see that he was tall, long-limbed and slender, and that his hair curled wildly down his back. And though his heart tried to claim otherwise, that was all Hector knew of him.

He had never gone closer to him, had always watched from the comfort of the trees before making his way farther up the slopes to set out his camp.

But each night as he watched him move among his flock, his body moving like a wave on an ocean, he wished for nothing more than to know for certain that the color of his eyes were blue, or brown. That the shape of his mouth was curved, or straight.

He sighed and turned his back to the figure in the distance, done watching for the night. He walked through the trees to his clearing and dropped his leather bag in the sparse grass.

For Hector, love had began on a balmy night very much like this one.

That night, he had followed the rising moon over the mountain until he’d found this good place to camp. His work done for the day, he’d made himself leave behind in his house all his carving instruments no matter how small, and no matter that his wealthy patrons had been pressing all day for the completion of their jewelry, and statues, and whatever else he had been commissioned to do.

Presents for wives, daughters, decorations for homes. All could wait until morning.

All he had taken with him was his flute and some food, and all he had wanted was to lie on his back and watch the night sky, and think of nothing.

As lost in his thoughts as he’d been, it had taken him a while before hearing the soft singing coming from down the slopes. Upon hearing that voice, his heart had settled deeper in his chest and, for one moment, stopped beating entirely.

He thought he had heard his name in that song. Impossible.

The bleating of sheep had then reached his ears. Nighttime was ideal for shepherds, but he seldom encountered them himself, and when he did, he rarely spoke with them. So it was with surprise that on that night he had found himself leaving his fireside to walk to the edge of the trees and look down the slope.

In the distance he had seen the long-limbed youth for the first time, contentedly alone on the moonlit plains, leaning on a staff and singing to his sheep.

Hector’s heart had started, and hadn’t stopped beating out of step ever since. He had stared, afraid, and yet not, too many thoughts going through his mind. It seemed even the breeze stopped blowing, and the ground rolled gently like driftwood on water.

He had wanted to move closer, but in the end had stayed in the trees listening to the singing, unwilling to be seen. For what could he possibly have to say to the shepherd.

That night he had not slept at all, unable to understand what was happening in his heart.

And so ever since, Hector had come to this place to look at the sky, and to think, yes, but mostly to wait and hear his shepherd boy sing.

And tonight as he pulled his blanket from his leather bag and gathered branches to start his fire, he promised himself that one day he would simply walk over to the shepherd, stand before him, and say…

But that was as far as he could imagine.

He laid on his back and looked at the clear light in the heavens. Much like that first night, tonight the stars had not risen out of the ocean either, and the only light came brightly from the moon.

Tonight he felt… different. His flute sat forgotten in his bag. Maybe he was worried that he was working too hard, maybe he wasn’t taking enough time to…

Or maybe he felt restless because, having left him at the foot of the mountain, he hadn’t heard the shepherd sing yet.

A twig snapped inside the clearing, and Hector turned his head to see the object of his thoughts standing there.

He sat up slowly and stared.

The shepherd stood not ten feet away from him, clothed in a pale, faded wrap that sat low on his hips and ended just above his knees. Across his back was slung a bow and a quiver for his arrows.

From the planes of his face to the tops of his feet, he was marred at intervals with scars. Long ones, faded ones, and simple nicks. But all they did was increase his loveliness.

And the color of his eyes was a clear, soothing brown, the shape of his mouth straight, not curved.

He was staring at Hector, bemused.

Hector sat as still as he could, breathing softly, feeling big and awkward, afraid he would frighten him away if he moved. Yet he knew shepherds were not fragile, they fended off wild animal attacks to protect their sheep. And this one had a bow, while he himself didn’t know how to wield anything bigger than a carving knife, much less a weapon.

“What is your name,” he asked softly, realizing that was what he had always wanted to say, to start.

“Alexandros,” the shepherd boy replied in a deep, soothing voice, then smiled self-consciously.

Hector felt his heart contract at the sound of the voice so close, but he managed to say, “‘Defender’?”

Alexandros inclined his head in the direction of the sheep. “They may not look it,” he said wryly, “but they do need taking care of.”

At last Hector was able to smile back at him. “I am called Hector.” Which was the next thing he had always wanted to say.

Alexandros smiled slowly at him. “May I join you for a little while, Hector?”

Hector sat up straighter, not questioning why a shepherd would leave his sheep to sit with a stranger, even for a little while.

He quickly nodded, and when Alexandros began to move towards him he held his breath because his heart beat suddenly, or perhaps not suddenly, and flooded his face with warmth. So that by the time Alexandros sat down very close beside him, Hector had silently pledged his eternal love.

Alexandros stayed with him all that night and shared his dates and talked to him about things Hector previously had no interest in. Sheep and shepherding, the skills involved in using a bow and arrow, how to properly hold a dagger for throwing. Hector didn’t care what they talked about. He just wanted to remain close to his warm body and bask.

And so night after night they met, and while they talked about everyday things, Hector could see from the corner of his eyes the way Alexandros looked at him, as if thinking of the perfect way to touch him, the perfect place to touch him.

Every night he sat quivering as Alexandros spoke and dropped words from his sentences, left others unfinished, and still others completely unspoken.

His heart beat with the knowledge that he was being seduced.

So on the twelfth night, Hector built up his courage and kissed him.

It was a chaste kiss, on his left cheek, and Alexandros quietly laughed at him for it. He leaned across again, this time more resolutely, and held the shepherd's long face in his hands and kissed his mouth.

Alexandros opened his warm mouth slightly, and while every part of Hector’s being thought of nothing except touching their tongues together, Alexandros pushed the skirt of his tunic up over his thighs and touched him in the right place.

He cried softly into Alexandros’ mouth when he felt heated oil poured on his arousal, rubbed into it. They shifted and faced each other, knees bent and spread, Alexandros’ legs draped over his. Both his hot hands stroked and pulled on Hector’s erection.

Hector whined softly, unused to such sensations. He thought fleetingly of the few times he had done such things, and how they could not even compare, for now his heart was the part of him that ached the most.

He pulled Alexandros into his arms and lowered them both to his blanket. He laid behind him and inhaled the grassy smell of his long curls, shifted and meticulously licked the taste of earth from the faded scars on his warm brown neck, until Alexandros was groaning endlessly and gripping his arms hard enough to make them hurt.

He shifted and positioned himself at his entrance, and pushed carefully, in silence because he was concentrating. Alexandros bent his leg at the knee and surprised Hector when he began to keen softly. The sound pierced his heart, for it seemed unlike the sound a rough shepherd boy would make, and except for the feeling of melting into him, it was all Hector remembered for a long while.

When they both lay still, spent for the time being, Alexandros began to tell him of a dream he had had a few nights ago in which Iris pursued him across the plains, determined to catch him and deliver a message from the gods. She never did.

Hector listened, his eyelids drooping as he faded into sleep.

But he was still awake when he started thinking that he was dreaming. That he had been dreaming all this time.

But how…?

His thoughts fled his head faster than he could examine them, and the harder he tried to hold onto being where he was, lying under the open night sky with Alexandros in his arms, the less he found he could do so.

But now…he was awaking again?

Hector opened his eyes.

It was daylight and the sun was just rising.

He lay still on his back and let his eyes roam around the inside of his tent while he waited to become fully awake and oriented again.

It always took him a few moments to get his bearings when he woke up, but the familiar sounds of his world, of clanging metal, of yelling men, of neighing horses, all waking up to once again occupy a field long bereft of its natural purpose, always did it.

In a passing thought he wondered what it was he dreamt of that always left him waking up so disoriented, even when he slept in his own tent. He shifted and shook the arm wrapped around his chest.

“Alexandros.”

Paris slowly opened his eyes and frowned at him.

“It is morning. It is time for you to leave.”

Paris groaned and rolled over.

Hector stood up and walked to the basin of cold water sitting in the back of his tent to wash and prepare to go into battle for the day.

~*~