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05 June 2004 @ 10:27 pm
FIC: 'Sparta', 2/(6?), R, various  
Title: "Sparta"
Part: 2/(6?)
Author: Osiris Brackhaus
Pairings: Achilles/Hector, Agamemnon/Paris, Menelaos/Paris
Rating: R
Warning: AU, humor, romance, torture hinted, non-con hinted
Summary: King Menelaos of Sparta has abducted Prince Paris of Troy, and while he and his power-hungry brother Agamemnon of Mycenae spend quality time with their, err, guest, the Trojans and their allies gather to besiege the city of Sparta despite the odds against them...
Site: Fafnir's Lair http://www.morningchilde.com
Credits: To Beryll, for coming up with the most epic plot bunnies while lying on my stomach and then tying them to my leg. To Mayetra, for betaing this although we currently swamp her with requests.

Chapter 2

Sparta, somewhere below the palace

"To Sparta!", King Agamemnon exclaimed appraisingly, raising his goblet. "And to the Gods!"

"To the Gods!", his brother added much less calmer, and just as cheerful himself.

Pouring a few sips of wine onto the ground as an offering to the gods, the two brothers then nodded to each other, emptying their cup in a single draught. In the dimly lit room, the air was heavy with sweat and the acrid smoke of cheap lamp-oil.
Wiping his mouth, Menelaos grinned at his brother, and with a voice that spoke of just a little too much good wine, he said:

"Now who's been a brilliant mind for bringing that Prince with him? Huh? Who?"

Sketching a discarding gesture into the air with jerky hands, King Agamemnon replied equally intoxicated:

"We've had that often enough tonight, brother. You should really know by now." Despite his best efforts to keep up his usual, stern façade, Agamemnon couldn't help but display the same dirty grin he'd been sporting most of the evening already. "Or are you growing old to have your memory falter this pathetically?"

"You know I haven't forgotten what you said", his younger brother replied, all but pouting. Rubbing his naked, sweating belly, Menelaos added: "But it's such a rare thing to hear you say something like that."

"Well, yes. True." The King of Mycenae looked around at nothing specific, his eyes stopping at one of the numerous amphorae on the ground. Grunting, he stood up from the low stool he had been sitting in and checked the earthen container. "Hrmp. Empty", he stated, scratching his lower back, searching for another one that had survived the brothers' attempts at emptying the palace's cellars until now. "Is there nothing left?", Agamemnon asked as he found the third amphora in a row containing nothing more but sad remnants.

Grinning widely, Menelaos pointed at one standing right next to the stool he was sitting on. "Here's still some wine left."

Yet, despite his claim, he didn't move one inch.
In his wine-clouded mind, it took Agamemnon quite a while to get behind his brother's pathetic motives, but when he did, a dark frown clouded his face.

This arrogant little shit had done something unexpectedly splendid once in his life, and he expected to be congratulated on the fact at least once each hour, he thought grimly. But, on the other hand, the King of Kings added in his mind, my witless little brother had truly performed a great service by bringing that pretty Trojan Prince to Sparta. Not only will he deliver Troy into my craving hands this way, no, dear Menelaos is also kind enough to share his latest treasure with me, his loving brother.

No wonder I feel so generous tonight. How utterly unheard of me, Agamemnon mused with a mental shake of his head.

"Dear brother," he finally said with more honey in his voice than there had been in the baklava they had had for dessert. "How will I be able to drink to your brilliance if there is no wine for me left? How I am to praise your courage to the Gods if there is nothing I could offer them?"

Giving a silly snicker, Menelaos nodded and started opening the amphora's wax seal. Which prove harder than first expected, due to his already sufficient consumption of wine and to his rather greasy fingers. Fed up with the unwilling container, the King of Sparta finally grabbed his sword leaning to his stool and chopped off the amphora's neck.

"Here, brother", he said as he sloppily poured the pungent drink into Agamemnon's goblet. "Sapped wine from Ithaca, sweet and strong, the best there is." Looking up, Menelaos added with a beaming smile: "Only the best of the best for the King of Kings."

"True." Agamemnon nodded, thoughtfully tasting the wine. "Sparta's hospitality knows no equal." Slowly, a wicked grin crept up his face, and he asked: "And I bet the young Prince of Troy thinks just about the same...."

Both men turned around, looking at Prince Paris who had until now followed their conversation without a word. Not that he could have said a word, tightly gagged as he was. But his eyes, wide and full of disbelief and fear, of pain and spite, were all the answer the two old men were looking for.

Bursting into uproarious laughter, the two kings hugged, their sweaty bodies smacking against each other's like they were wrestlers in the gymnasium. Paris flinched at the sight.

Still holding an arm slung around his younger brother's neck, the King of Mycenae proclaimed stately: "Brother, this truly is a treasure people will sing songs about in thousands of years to come!"

"Yes...", Menelaos nodded with an obscenely wide grin. "And he's all mine."

"Ours." Suddenly, there was no warmth what so ever left in Agamemnon's voice. "He's ours."

"Oh of course." Again nodding vigorously, the completely unclad King of Sparta separated from his brother and stalked across the room towards the bound and gagged Prince of Troy. "He's all ours, and we love his company, don't we?"

"Yes, indeed." Taking another sip out of his golden goblet, the equally unclad Agamemnon walked next to his brother. Gently stroking Paris' arm, slender and tense as it was bound to the wall up above the Prince's head, he asked: "Ready for another round, dear brother?"

Menelaos, a manic glint in his eyes, broke into sweat at the thought alone. "You think - ", he began, but his voice was choked by his overwhelming craving. A deep shudder running through his pale, chubby body, the King of Sparta regained some of his speech, asking: "You think he can bear another time tonight? We don't want to break him, do we, brother?"

"Not yet." Agamemnon's voice was much more controlled than his brother's, but there was a desire so dark it made Paris fear that the worst part of his captivity was still to come, as unbelievable as if might have sounded. "Not yet. But I wouldn't worry, dear brother, this boy might not be strong, but he's tough."

Taking his gilded scepter to raise Paris' chin, the King of Kings looked at the young Prince, smiling at his bloodied, soiled face.

"Whatever Gods might have blessed you with this immaculate face and body of yours, young Prince Paris", he said, his voice just a whisper and yet as cold as Hades itself, "they have all abandoned you now."

Smiling fiendishly, he bent forward, licking along the bound youngster's throat and chin up to his ear. Still grinning, Agamemnon stepped back and handed his scepter over to his younger brother.

"Here, dear Menelaos", he said in a most unheard of gesture of indulgence. "Your turn first."


On the dunes at the bay of Sparta

"To left! All men to the left!"

Shouting on the top of his lungs, Prince Hector led the assault that should give them the anchor-head at the bay of Sparta they would need for their campaign. The sun was bright and stinging despite the early hour, and the air was filled with the smell and clamor of war.

"To the left!", he repeated, reining in his horse to see if anybody was falling back.

And what he saw was just the very one thing he could have done perfectly without today.

Despite the unexpectedly light resistance they had encountered, battle was a bloody mess, as always, blood and entrails flying, men on each side yelling, screaming, dying.

Even though the Trojans hadn't come with many ships, they had brought an army that still numbered several thousand heads. And in opposite to their Spartan counterparts, each of them was a well-trained warrior, fighting precise, efficient and as their commander had ordered.

Which, of course, didn't count for Achilles and his Myrmidons. Not at all.

Grinding his teeth in seething anger, Hector watched the black-armored cluster of elite warriors drift away even further from the army they were supposed to fight with. He spurred up his horse, hoping he would reach them in time before they had left his own men's right flank completely uncovered, though he knew that even if he managed to, getting them back into the fold would prove much harder a task than merely conquering the Spartan bay.

At the head of the charging Myrmidons, Achilles looked across his shoulder and saw the Trojan Prince approaching. And he grinned, blood dripping off his face and armor, none of it being his own.

This battle was leisurely, and the Greek and his warriors knew all to well.
Achilles was rather sure that Agamemnon thought they would take their time to build their camp before their first attack, if he gave them the beach without too much trouble. Which would grant the Spartan allies precious time to arrive and set up their men.
Or the King of Mycenae planned on making them overconfident, rushing forward to the city walls only to be slaughtered by the waiting archers. And there had been warningly few archers among the defending Spartans today.

Either way, Achilles thought, today there is enough time in battle for some treat. Wiping some blood off his brow, he shouted:

"Forward, Myrmidons, forward!"

He was fully aware that he abandoned the Trojan right flank Hector thought he would cover. But then again, Achilles mused with a smile that just hinted at his splendid mood, who cared about what Hector thought?

Despite the ongoing fight, the blond warrior kept an eye on the tall Prince, leading his Myrmidons further off the main charge all the time.

"All men to the left!", Hector yelled as soon as he was close enough to be overheard, yet he didn't slow his approach at all. "To the left!"

With a searing flare of anger, Achilles noted quite a share of his men seriously turning their heads, fighting the urge to obey the Trojan's command. Bile rose in the warrior's throat, both at seeing his men doubting his absolute command and at the ease this arrogant Prince could challenge his position. This was not at all the way he had thought this game would be played.

"Forward, Myrmidons, forward!"

Deeply satisfied, Achilles watched as his men immediately lost all thought of listening to a certain dark-haired prince and followed his lead.

"Achilles!" Hector's furious shout made the Greek smirk even more, while the prince spurred up his horse to run alongside the warrior. "Achilles, what by Hades do you think you are doing here?"

Turning around to face the dark-haired Trojan, the son of Peleus gave him his best, blood-drenched feral smile.

"Shouldn't you be with your men, young Prince, watching them die?", Achilles hurled at him like a spear, and yet despite his usually infallible aim, this time he seemed to have missed his target.

For Hector didn't even blink at the Greek's scathing remark, instead he gave Achilles a long, disdainful stare. Then, with an expression as if he didn't like what he was about to do, Hector took a deep breath, shouting:

"Myrmidons!" Pointing with his sword to the bulk of the Trojan army, he continued: "There is the fight you came here for, there is the glory! There are the men who will tell the tales of your deeds!"

"Hector", Achilles growled menacingly low, slowly sinking into a fighting stance, "keep my men out of this..."

Up on his horse, Hector only gave Achilles a spiteful glance, not needing a single word to express that it had been the blond warrior himself who had first used the Myrmidons in the game that had been just between the two of them before.

"Myrmidons, there are men dying over there, men like you, and - ", Hector continued his speech, but was cut short by a many-voiced outcry of protest.

"Not men like us." Eodorus, first among the Myrmidons, stepped up to stand next to Achilles. "We're no men, we're lions!" Behind him, the Myrmidons cheered loudly, rattling their remaining spears against their shields. "We're lions!"

Achilles grinned, well aware of the effect his bloodied teeth had on other men. Taking off his helmet, he said to the prince:

"See? There are no men here to follow your command."

Yet unimpressed again, Hector only cocked a disdainful eyebrow.

"Funny, they look like men to me." Looking down on Achilles, he added with a voice that was cold enough to chill even under the blazing sun: "And I doubt we have any use for men who can't see the difference between men and beasts."

And without another word, he turned his horse and left, heading straight for the thickest cluster of fighting Trojans.

This once more wasn't quite what Achilles had hoped for or expected. Not that he could have put a finger to what he actually had expected.

"Master?", Eodorus' voice nudged him out of his circling thoughts. "Master, where to now?"

Looking at his trusted captain, Achilles nodded. "You're right. Forward, I say, and behind the dunes we fall right and back to the beach, securing our camp."

Swiftly, Eodorus rushed to implement his master's orders, but one rather slender Myrmidon remained next to the thoughtful Achilles.

"What is it, Patroclus?", the blond warrior asked without looking. "What do you want?"

"Prince Hector."

"What?" Turning around with in a torrent of emotions, Achilles stared at his cousin, not sure if he was to slap or stab the youngster. "What did you say?"

"Prince Hector. I want to kill him." Despite his helmet, Achilles could see the proud and overly self-confident set to the young warrior's face. "I want to kill him for you."

Laughing with relief, Achilles turned away from his cousin, wondering fiercely what it was that he felt so relieved of.

"What is it, Achilles?", Patroclus asked petulantly, following his teacher. "Don't you think I can take him?"

"Patroclus, dear." Achilles said, trying to calm his over-eager relative. "Do you truly think I cannot kill him myself?"

"No, of course you can! You're a hundred times his better."

Inwardly shaking his head at his student's blind adoration, Achilles asked on:

"If so, dear cousin, why didn't I?"

"Good question. So why didn't you?" Patroclus' voice sounded far angrier than anything else, and even more petulant than usual, making the blond Greek wonder once again what was going on in the youngster's pretty head.

"Dear," Achilles replied calmly as he put his helmet back on, about to rejoin the battle, "you still got a tremendous lot of growing up to do."


Sparta, somewhere below the palace

In the tepid dark of the wine cellar that had turned into his makeshift prison, the home of his living nightmare, Prince Paris lay on the damp and stinking ground, still bound and gagged, fighting hard to suppress tears of despair.

When the brothers had been through with him, they had had the mercy of taking him off the hook on the wall they had tied his wrists to. Tossing him to the ground like a discarded toy, they had nonetheless seized the occasion for 'kissing him goodnight' before they finally left.

With a shudder of repulsion, Paris thought of how his tears had started flowing freely once he heard the cellar's heavy bolt close and the last glimmer of light had disappeared beneath the door. Finally, he had felt remotely safe, alone in the dark, and all the tension, all his fierceness that had seen him through the ordeal finally left him, together with what little self-esteem he might have had kept until that point.

But when his first tears had run dry, another, darker terror had crept up in his heart. 'Whatever Gods have blessed you', King Agamemnon had said, 'they have all abandoned you now.'

Had they truly abandoned him? In the unfathomable darkness of his prison, that thought was eating at Paris' mind like a scavenger devouring a beast not yet dead but already too weak to fight. Had the Gods left him to be prey to these monsters in human hide?

But gagged as he was, helpless on the ground, the young Trojan Prince couldn't pray, but in his thoughts, his heart, he called for his goddess.

Aphrodite, he called in his mind, Goddess of Love, is that what your blessing means? Can your love truly be that vile? Have you truly abandoned me?!

But in the soundless dark of his prison, no one answered.

Slowly, hour-by-hour, despair gnawed at his heart and mind. He would die here in this room, Prince Paris was sure of that. There could be no hope, no rescue, only the deliverance of a swift death. He prayed to the silent Gods that his brother and father would not risk the folly of attempting to rescue him, he prayed for hope, for death, for anything.

But once again, no answer came.

Slowly, his mutilated and exhausted body forced the young prince into a fitful sleep, his dreams filled with the faces of the two men that had suddenly become the cruel masters of his world.

When suddenly, the cellar's door was opened and light fell into the small room, Paris only thought is was another of his chaotic nightmares. That the terror only was to begin anew.

But nightmares rarely kneel next to you, and most surely do not smell of fresh air and flowers.

Looking up from his swollen eyes, the first thing Prince Paris saw was the face of a woman, framed by a halo of golden curls. There was such sadness in her eyes, such radiant, lovely beauty about her that there only was one thought in Paris' mind.

Gently, the beautiful apparition loosened his gag, her fingers cool and silken, her touch as delicate as a butterfly's. Finally, when the young Prince felt his mouth free, he croaked with all the hope that had suddenly sprung to life in his heart:

"My Goddess, have you finally come?"

But the apparition only shook her beautiful head, whispering full of sadness:

"I am no Goddess."

"But- Who are you then?"

"I am Helen, wife to King Menelaos."

Still, Prince Paris stared at his unexpected visitor with unabashed awe. When Queen Helen produced a jug of water from the basket she had been carrying, he whispered:

"Maybe you claim not to be Aphrodite herself, having come to her loyal servant in his darkest hour, but you still look like I have always seen her in my dreams."

A tiny, shy smile crept up the face of the young Spartan Queen, and almost simultaneously, was swallowed by a deep blush.

"You mustn't say that, young Prince", she chided him gently, helping Paris to drink form the water she had brought. "Please."

Looking at the miserable state the young Trojan was in, her features were suddenly filled with deep sorrow, and retracing a deep gash along Paris' cheekbone with her fair fingers, she asked:

"You are beautiful, too, young Prince." Her voice was so filled with remorse it sounded to Paris she thought herself responsible for what had happened. "It was my husband who has done that to you, wasn't it?"

The Trojan Prince only nodded, his eyes and thoughts still like spellbound on the Queen of Sparta.

"I - ", Helen started with a strangled voice but was choked by a sob in her throat. "I am so sorry. I know how the King treats those he claims to love."

"Don't be sorry, my Queen", Paris whispered, inwardly cursing the fact that he was still bound at wrists and ankles. "Nothing of this is your fault. You have come to help me."

"Yes." Again, a reluctant smile blossomed on her fine features as she nodded vigorously. "I have come to bring you water, and there is some food as well." Her eyes trailing along the Trojan's mangled body with a little more than just the interest to help, she added: "I could wash the filth off you, if you don't mind."

"You... ", Paris wondered aloud, already dreading the answer, "You have come to set me free, have you?"

The way Helen averted her gaze in shame was all the answer Paris needed, and giving way to the defeated, sinking feeling in his heart, he slumped back to the ground, closing his eyes.

"I can't do that." Queen Helen's voice was hardly more than a breath, but still the deep fear in it struck a side in Paris he had though long dead under the 'loving' ministrations of her husband. "You don't know the King as well as I do. He would kill me. He would just kill me."

"Helen," the young Prince whispered with all the burning urge he could come up with for one last attempt of persuasion. "You sound as if you're a prisoner as much as I am. If you cut my bonds now, we could flee together."

Giving a disbelieving, mirthless laugh, she asked:

"And where should we go to?"

"We could go to Troy, my father would protect us."

"Through the city filled with guards, down the coast where one can spot us a league away, onto a boat we don't have?"

"We will find a way, Helen, please! I will protect you!"

Tears brimming in her eyes, the young queen shook her head.

"It's always so easy for you men, always so simple. But I don't want to die, neither by my husband's hands in one of his rages nor by attempting to flee with a beautiful foreign Prince, as charming as he might be." Sniffing delicately, she took some bread and cheese out of her basket. "I am just a woman. All help I can offer is food and sympathy."

Helen's stance clearly indicated that she expected Paris to either accept or reject what little she could offer as she held out the bread towards him.

"I think food sounds great", Paris replied after a rather long, thoughtful moment, trying an encouraging smile. "And your sympathy is a gift already greater than I had ever dared to think of I would get for the rest of my life."


Camp of the Trojan army, tent of Achilles

It was only late afternoon, but it felt to Achilles that he had spent the whole night awake and fighting. He was exhausted, annoyed, and felt the strong urge to kill something or someone. Nothing personal.

Entering the little tent his Myrmidons had erected for him on the beach, the blond warrior started to take off his armor, though it definitely had not been of much use in the fights he had faced this afternoon.

For Achilles and the leaders of the Trojan Army had held council on how to tackle the city of Sparta who sat behind her walls, safe and lazy as a lizard in a crack of stone. Of course, the blond warrior told himself probably the hundredth time today, besides himself that council only consisted of a tottering old man, his oh-so-valiant son and a woman.

But facing King Priam and Lady Penelope in an argument had proven a battle far beyond his skills. Several times, he had been close to just leaving this whole damned place to seek some worthier war elsewhere. Once, he had even come to the point where he was so enraged he just wanted to chop off that blasted Prince Hector's head.

And Achilles swore to the Gods, if he ever again heard Hector talk of 'duty', he would do so.

But he couldn't leave, and he couldn't change sides. And it was all Penelope's fault. She had insisted on coming here, well knowing Achilles would have to stay at her side if he ever wanted to face Odysseus again. He even couldn't bring himself to simply knock her out, wrap her into a carpet and send her back home, as he should have had from the very beginning.

And yet, such treatment wouldn't change her plans at all, she would just come back on her own again and probably get herself killed in the process. Or worse.

Achilles felt like howling in helpless fury. King Priam was an unpleasantly cunning old man already, but together with the Queen of Ithaca, they were simply unbearable.

The Greek warrior was just beginning to wash himself, trying to get rid of the imaginary filth that had gathered on his skin while discussing with those schemers as he noted he wasn't alone in his tent any longer.

Looking up, he saw a lean figure in the open entrance of his tent, wearing the dark leathers of the Myrmidons and a blond mane so very much like his own, a sultry smile on his lips.

"Now what do you want, Patroclus?", Achilles asked briskly, turning his attention fully back to his washstand and his dire urge of cleaning himself.

Unfortunately, that made him miss how his young cousin's smile dissolved into a disappointed pout, which then condensed into an expression that was only partially able to hide how rejected Patroclus felt.

"I thought, after all these nights alone", the young warrior said with surprising control to his voice, "you'd welcome my company."

"Huh?" Looking up from the washstand, Achilles blinked at the youngster. Then as he finally got what the boy had come looking for, he smiled and shook his head. "That is nice of you, Patroclus. But there really is no need to."

As the young warrior still did neither move nor blink, only stared at Achilles with an unreadable expression, the Greek added:

"Thank you for the offer, Patroclus. But I think I should stay on my own tonight."

Honestly, Achilles had not really a reason for the fact that his interest in his younger cousin had so significantly declined during the course of this campaign. Probably, he thought, it's true that if you have no one to vent your anger on, it will eat away your appetite. Silently, Achilles shrugged mostly to himself, only then noticing that Patroclus was still standing in the entrance, his face an unreadable mask.

"Yes...?", the Greek warrior asked pointedly, noticing with a certain anger how much the youngster's petulant manner annoyed him recently.

"It's only...", Patroclus began, stepping further into the tent, "What is there going on between you and Hector?"

"Between me and - ." Stunned by the bluntness of the question as much as his surprise of not being able to outright reject the implication, Achilles' mouth worked soundlessly for a few heartbeats. "By the Gods, Patroclus, haven't you heard anything that's been going on between that snotty prince and me?"

"Yes, I have. And I still wonder why you don't kill him."

"Dear, if it wasn't for Odysseus' terrible wife, I'd be long gone fighting on the side of Agamemnon. What are you so mad at?"

"It's just - ", Patroclus began, pulling up his nose like a five-year-old. "You and Hector, you fight with words each time you meet, and yet otherwise you act as if he was your best friend. You even went training with him this morning."

"Now what's suddenly wrong with training?" Slowly, Achilles felt seriously annoyed by this little, complicated shit. As if he hadn't had enough real problems already.

"Nothing's wrong with training." Patroclus' voice by now was seething with fury. "But you promised to go training with me! With me, your beloved cousin! Me, not that haughty Prince Hector, cursed be his name!"

Again taken aback by his cousin's utterly unexpected outbreak, Achilles only blinked for a moment. Then, as if one of Zeus' lightning bolts had struck home, the blond warrior exclaimed incredulously:

"Gods, Patroclus, you aren't jealous, are you?"

The young man's brave, defiant pout was all the answer Achilles had feared to get.

"Cousin, you really have no reason to be jealous." The Greek warrior's firm statement apparently wasn't enough to soothe Patroclus' troubled heart, so he continued: "Look, if I forgot our training today, I am sorry. But you could just have come over and reminded me."

"It's not only about the training", Patroclus all but whined, though he seemed a little less high-strung by now. "It's everything. When you don't look, he stares over his strong shoulders at your back with those huge, smoldering black eyes of his, and you do the same when you think no one's looking. And suddenly, you just don't care about me any longer, and I just ask myself - "

"Patroclus", the elder cousin interrupted him sharply. "Don't you notice that you're talking as if I was cheating on you?"

Again, the youngster only gave him that defiant, petulant pout that made Achilles' already sparse temper snap.

"Listen, boy!", he barked sharply, not making any effort at mellowing his anger. "I don't know what made you think there was anything between us, anything that gave you any right to judge about who I look at and who I don't."

His blue eyes dark and wide with fury, Patroclus snapped back:

"But you said you - "

"I said nothing." Cutting off his cousin with that cold remark, Achilles stared at the youngster as if he faced him in combat. "I said nothing at all that would give you any other status than a cousin of mine."

"Achilles", the young warrior now whispered pleadingly, tears welling up in his eyes. "But what we shared, I thought we - "

"What we shared means shit." Still anger burning white and hot inside his heart, Achilles added coldly: "I do not love you one feather more than it would suit a cousin. And just to have this sorted out once and for all: Before I fall in love with a petulant, useless little shit like you, I'd rather marry Prince Hector!" Staring at his shocked cousin, he asked harshly: "Have I made that clear?"

"Yes, cousin", Patroclus replied flatly, his voice as cold and deadly as the waters of the river Styx, before he abruptly walked out of the tent. "I understand. I understand perfectly."


End of CH2
Current Mood: productive
Nyaartemicion on June 5th, 2004 02:12 pm (UTC)
::Dances around happily:: Yes! An update! I LOVE YOU!!

Er...I mean, that was a wonderful chapter. The scene between Paris and Helen was very nicely done. I had a feeling they'd meet seeing as their both prisoners in their own ways. Patroclus is kept in character, I see. I don't know why people love him in the movie so much when all I kept seeing was a whiny, bloodthirsty kid. I like how you've incorporated AU elements with Illiad canon and Troy.

Awesome stuff. Can't wait to see more. :)
osirisbrackhausosirisbrackhaus on June 6th, 2004 11:23 am (UTC)
Re: Nice
Yep, Patty's a bloodthirsty kid. Right my words. And believe me, he'll get a rather major role in this story, but I won't be telling. ;-)

Really glad you liked the story so far, CH3 is already done and out for beta. Thanks for the FB!
jianujianu on June 5th, 2004 11:54 pm (UTC)
"Funny, they look like men to me."

*can't stop chuckling*

I love how you show the driving force between the actions of each of your charaters. I especially love the exchange between Hector and Achilles!

Can't wait for the next chapter!
osirisbrackhausosirisbrackhaus on June 6th, 2004 11:26 am (UTC)
And just to give you one more reason to wait for the next chapter: We'll have the first indecent encounter of Hector and Achilles in CH3!
It won't really calm them down, but at least the lines will be drawn a little more clearly. Thanks for the feedback!
not_sally on June 6th, 2004 02:28 am (UTC)
trojanfightclubtrojanfightclub on June 6th, 2004 11:25 pm (UTC)

I loved how Thetis saw things in the future and she was filled with joys. It's all so cute to think Achilles would find the 'one true love'. The words feel giggly to me, but in your story it sounded very...promising :)

I loved the powerplay between Hector and Achilles, and Achilles' smirks. The sexual tension between them was delicious, and you made it palpable in Chapter 2. If Patroclus picked that up, soon, ahaha, others might, too. It's so true that the last persons who would see that are themselves, eh.

With Hector's threat to Achilles in Chapter 1, I wonder who's gonna be on top ::blushes::

Can't wait to read the next!

osirisbrackhausosirisbrackhaus on June 9th, 2004 10:28 pm (UTC)
Dear Ilya,

thanks so much for the lovely FB. The scene with Thetis is also one of my favorites, and I am somewhat sorry she hasn't more to do int the story. But, then again, it's my story, after all, and so we'll see.

And yes, I think both of the big boys still wonder who's gonna be on top. :D CH3 will tell more of it.

Thanks again,
take care,

cocainemusic on June 9th, 2004 03:04 pm (UTC)
uh-oh, hell hath no fury like a stroppy teenager, (or something like that), I kept thinking of Achilles and Hector having this power struggle on who would be bottom ¬_¬. Huge smoldering black eyes eh? Eagerly awaiting the next chapter.
Warm and Fuzzy feelings!
osirisbrackhausosirisbrackhaus on June 9th, 2004 10:39 pm (UTC)
Dear Fade to Grey,

that struggle has kept me wondering as well for quite some time. But I think I have found a good way to sort things out.

And about the stroppy teenager - It'll get worse, much worse. I promise. *eg*

warm and fuzzy feelings back,