Return to Life - Chapter 15
Title: Return to Life Chapter 15
Author: goldarrow
Fandom: Troy
Pairing: Odysseus/Paris
Warning for this chapter: None
Rating: Adult
Disclaimer: I own nothing, and mean no harm. I make no money from this, my only reward is enjoyment.
Story summary: Paris is captured and taken to Mycenae, where Odysseus finds him.
This chapter: Odysseus makes a decision.
Notes: Movieverse, and AU in that 1. neither Menelaus nor Agamemnon died from their wounds, and 2. Odysseus only took 6 months to make it back to Greece.


Chapter 15

Odysseus allowed his firm tread to slow to a saunter as he exited Agamemnon’s appropriated ‘temporary palace’. Rethinking his meeting with the high king was leaving him with an uneasy feeling at the base of his skull – an atavistic reflex that had saved his life more than once over the course of a long and hazardous career. The formerly open field - now filled with canopies, small tents and cooking fires - at the side of the huge building called to him; he had no problem heeding the siren pull. When his subconscious sent him such strong signals, he knew he should obey; he sent his men ahead to prepare for their return to the coast, and walked around the side of the sprawling edifice.

Wandering along the paths, he nodded at anyone who greeted him, not speaking, simply taking in the ambiance, wondering how many of the soldiers were fully committed to Agamemnon’s cause, and how many were simply trapped, as he was, in a course that seemed to be leading straight to disaster. Having reached the end of the path he was on, he hesitated, looking left and right for a clue as to which course would be best. As he glanced right, he suddenly saw Agamemnon’s wife, Clytemnestra, when she stepped out of the shadows of a tent next to the main path. She looked unhappy; in fact, she looked drawn and tired – her beauty faded, withered like the leaves of the trees that overhung the smoke and heat of the cooking fires. Seeing her now, no one would ever know that she was the sister of the beauteous Helen, she who was queen of Sparta and had been princess of Troy, cause of a war that destroyed a nation. Though never a rival of Helen in absolute beauty, Clytemnestra had always had a fire and a freshness that drew men to her like ants to honey. No more – at least not right now. Odysseus was about to greet her when he saw her speak to someone he couldn’t see. Then the man moved out of the shadows to stand beside Clytemnestra, run his hand down her arm, and grip her hand hard enough to make her wince. Odysseus stepped back for a second as he recognized Aegisthus, kinsman and sometime enemy of Agamemnon.

Now this was very interesting. What would Agamemnon’s wife and Agamemnon’s non-friend have to say to each other? Determined to find out, Odysseus walked casually down the path until he was within earshot of the pair. They immediately went silent; Clytemnestra staring into the distance, and Aegisthus staring at him challengingly. Odysseus refused the implicit dare, simply smiling and giving a quick nod and a, “My lady,” as he passed.

Clytemnestra bit her lip. “Odysseus.”

The king of Ithaca kept a steady pace until he reached the next turning, feeling their eyes on him as he walked. He kept his gaze straight ahead and waited until he was out of sight of the pair of them before doubling back; he had to find out what they were up to: anything planned by Clytemnestra and Aegisthus together would affect Agamemnon, and anything affecting Agamemnon would end up affecting his subject kings.

Watching his way, keeping a weather eye on his back trail, Odysseus slid around the tents, keeping at least one layer of cloth or trunk of tree between him and the pair he traced. Finally, after what seemed much too long a time, he managed to catch up enough to be within earshot of their conversation. What he heard in the brief moments before the changing of the guard stopped the conversation between the conspirators and sent them in opposite directions left him with much food for thought. He lost himself in the crowd as soldiers began to pour like a lumbering herd of cattle down the narrow paths, making sure to keep at least a couple of men between him and Clytemnestra as he headed back to the main entrance, his mind buzzing with the one word, “Poison”. That was not a word he’d expected to hear from the lips of the high king’s wife.

Thinking it over as he made his way through the gates and signaled for his men, Odysseus began to smile again. Perhaps his problems would be taken care of without him even lifting a finger. If Agamemnon was so concentrated on keeping control over his subject kings that he paid no attention to his wife’s intrigues, then on his own head be any fallout from such inattention.

The Ithacan guards were ready and waiting for him, horses saddled, when he reached the main entrance. Odysseus mounted and they left Astakos at the trot, accelerating to a rocking canter as soon as they reached open country. It didn’t take long to reach the coast, and even less time to load the horses and set sail.

Only when they were out in clear water did Odysseus relax. It was a constant surprise to him how tense Agamemnon’s proximity made him. Or perhaps it wasn’t surprising: his perceptions treated the high king as he would a cobra – with heightened awareness; something that his body felt was necessary, but his mind found tiring after a very short length of time. The cool breeze, the rocking of the ship, the softness of the cushion under him, all conspired to drain what energy he had left. He slept.

* * * * *

Paris woke, wondering what time it was. His body said it was late, but there was still light outside. He felt sore and stiff, but one particular bodily function was informing him that relief was necessary – and soon. Raising himself painfully from the bed, he staggered as he tried to stand. He knew that there was a cubicle in the wall on the far side of the room; a cubicle he needed badly. Tightening his spaghetti-ish knees, he tottered slowly across the room to the curtain covering the doorway. The material was tough – which was a good thing, since it ended up bearing his full weight when he lost his balance at the last second and had to grab the edge to stop himself from sprawling in an ignominious heap on the floor.

Head spinning, he lurched into the cubicle and braced himself on the wall as he emptied his overly full bladder. Once he no longer felt as if he held the contents of the entire ocean within him, he was finally able to take a deep breath - and stand up a little straighter. The bed seemed much too far away, so he made his way around the edge of the room to the window, where he sat in the deep embrasure to regain his strength.

He was still sitting there, his head leaning against the wall of the recess, his eyes closed against the setting sun which was bathing his face and chest in warmth and golden light, when Odysseus stepped into the room. The king checked on the threshold, breath leaving his body in a gasp, entranced by the sight in front of him.

Paris heard the quick exhalation and turned to look at Odysseus. His eyes felt as heavy as his limbs, and at first he wasn’t sure it was his king who was standing there, staring. When he finally focused, he held out his hand as far as he could, tears of frustration and lingering weakness filling his eyes as his back pulled painfully. After Myrto’s treatment yesterday, he’d felt looser, but the scar tissue had tightened up again as he slept today. Odysseus saw the flinch and came quickly across the room to sit beside him.

Paris nestled close, feeling Odysseus’s arms wrap around him, gently, carefully, making sure to miss the worst of the painful scars. Paris tightened his stomach muscles, determined that he wasn’t going to give in to the pain and fear. No matter that he was a slave – he was a prince, too, damn it; and he would not let this make him a puling weakling.

“How do you feel?”

Odysseus’s concern almost undid him. Paris took a deep breath before he could answer. “Not well.” He pulled away to look at his king. “Whatever Myrto is doing isn’t working. It seems to, right afterwards, but by the next day I’m back where I started.” He bit his lip and stared determinedly out the window.

“Damn.” Odysseus stroked Paris’s cheek in sympathy. “I’m so sorry.” He leaned forward to kiss the petulant mouth, raking his tongue across the dry lips, moistening them and drawing a reluctant grin.

Paris sighed. At least it seemed that Odysseus still wanted him. He relaxed just a little. “Where did you go today?” he asked.

Odysseus grinned. “To tackle Agamemnon.”

The prince jerked upright, wincing as his back pulled. “No!” he gasped. “You didn’t. Odysseus, what were you thinking? He’ll kill you!”

Odysseus shook his head. “He’s going to have his own problems soon. There are other plans afoot; ones that will catch him by surprise, I think. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. What we have to do is figure out what we’re going to do about your back.”

Paris turned to look out the window again. “I don’t think there’s anything we can do about it,” he said sourly.

“If there is, we’ll find it.” Odysseus stroked his cheek again; this time it was Paris who initiated the kiss, leaning on the king as their lips met and their tongues touched. The soft moan that escaped Odysseus was enough to reassure Paris that he wasn’t going to lose the king’s desire any time soon. Pulling back, slightly breathless, Odysseus saw that Paris was wilting slightly; he lifted the boy in his arms and carried him back to his bed, where he deposited the slight body onto the soft mattress.

Paris curled up, grabbing Odysseus’s hand as the king started to move away.

“It’s alright. I’m going to get us something to drink, and some food.” Odysseus grinned tiredly. “I don’t know about you, but I could eat an entire side of beef right now.”

Smiling back, Paris shook his head. “I think I’d have to stop at a quarter, my lord. but I am hungry,” he added, slightly surprised.

“Good. I’ll be right back.” Odysseus left, leaving Paris to wriggle on the bed in a futile attempt to find a comfortable position. He was still unhappily shifting around when the king returned, a tray piled high with fruit and meat rolls in his hands.

Paris’s eyes widened as he sat up. He’d actually been joking – but Odysseus had obviously taken him seriously: there seemed to be at least a quarter of beef on the tray the king was carrying. Odysseus smiled and, nudging Paris aside, set it down on the bed. Paris leaned his shoulder against the wall, fully expecting Odysseus to start feeding him. The king simply raised an eyebrow and took a meat roll for himself. Paris pouted for a moment, then grinned and grabbed the food laid out in front of him.

Between the two of them, the tray, seemingly so full at the beginning, rapidly became only the ghost of a few scraps of meat and rind. Replete at last, Paris felt his eyelids becoming heavy, so he blinked hard and sat up as straight as his scarred back would allow. Odysseus lifted the tray and set it on the table beside the bed. Leaning back against the wall, he pulled Paris close to him and spoke. “I did find out something, love. Something you probably don’t want to hear.”

Paris sighed. At the moment, he didn’t care what the king said. All he cared about was that Odysseus was holding him close. “What is it?” Raising his head, he looked closely at Odysseus. “Nothing you can tell me will make things any worse,” he said solemnly.

“I asked Agamemnon about Helen,” Odysseus began. When Paris flinched, he stopped. “Are you sure you want to know?”

The prince nodded. “Go on.” He was already pretty sure what Odysseus was going to say; he wouldn’t have been reluctant to speak if the news had been good.

“In a way, it’s even worse than we thought. Helen wasn’t just in on the plot. It was her idea.”

Tears started to fill Paris’s eyes before he blinked them away, suddenly furious. It was a glorious feeling – no longer unhappy, or hurt, simply blazingly angry. “Her idea. She was the one who set me up?”

Odysseus chuckled. “Not quite. The plan was hers – but she was targeting Hector – “

That completely floored Paris, his anger slipping into incredulity. “Hector?”, he said in disbelief. “Hector? She must have been completely insane! Hector hasn’t looked at another woman since the day he met Andromache.” Unable to even close his mouth, he sat and stared at Odysseus.

The king laughed out loud at the completely blank visage turned to him. He couldn’t resist the expression; he had to lean forward and capture the soft lips with his own. Holding Paris’s head between his hands, fingers twining amongst the soft curls, he ravaged the prince’s mouth, making absolutely sure that Paris knew just how much he cared.

Paris moaned, a tiny sound softer than a kitten’s purr as the king’s tongue slid between his lips to taste his own. He couldn’t stop himself; he leaned into the kiss and returned it with fervor, twining his tongue around Odysseus’s, allowing the king to draw it into his mouth, to taste of the king himself. Withdrawing, he gasped in a quick breath before attacking Odysseus again, first nibbling, then licking his lips, running his tongue across the strong chin and down the solid column of the king’s neck to fasten his mouth onto the juncture of the neck and shoulder, drawing blood to the surface in a mark that would, regrettably, fade within a day.

Odysseus groaned, shivers running down his body like a waterfall from his sensitized neck straight to his groin. Paris grinned and pulled back, reaching up to run his fingers through the king’s hair. He barely made it halfway before stopping with a gasp of pain.

The sound yanked Odysseus from the fog of desire he’d been wallowing in, back to the reality of injury and hurt. He sat up to catch Paris, who was swaying a little as he curled in on himself, his back feeling as if it had torn like a piece of rotted fabric. Odysseus held him close until he was able to calm his gasps into a semblance of steady breathing.

“What happened?” the king asked.

“I – I don’t know,” Paris whispered. “My back is on fire.”

“Lie down.” Odysseus turned Paris until he was lying on his stomach, with his arms by his sides. He caught his breath.

Paris strained to see what Odysseus was looking at. “What is it?”

Odysseus shook his head. “You’ve torn one of the scars,” he muttered, tracing alongside the long, bleeding tear. “I’ll get Myrto.”

As soon as the king left the room, Paris allowed his threatening tears to spill over. He had to let them go right now; it was the only way he would be able to regain control before the king and the physician returned. When he heard the quick steps outside the room, he wiped his eyes on the pillow under his face and took a deep breath.

Myrto paced slowly into the room, his hands full of medical implements that Paris couldn’t name and didn’t want to learn about. The physician pushed the emptied food tray aside and placed the tools on the table beside the bed before turning to the boy lying on the mattress. Paris lay still, fighting the darkness of oblivion as the doctor poked and prodded at his sore back, doing his best to ignore the pains that awakened, coming to screaming life under the probing fingers. He no longer believed that there was any chance of healing. Hope had left him, trickling farther away each day, like the sands through an hourglass. Then Myrto said that he would have to stitch up the newly opened wound, and Paris allowed the darkness to take him.

When Odysseus saw the boy’s face go slack in unconsciousness, he cursed under his breath. Never before had he felt so helpless; it was not a feeling he liked. Myrto pulled out his needle and thick thread, and Odysseus left the room, knowing there was no more he could do here.

It was time to make a decision that he had been putting off since this tragedy had first occurred, and so he walked slowly along the corridors of the palace, deep in thought. When he reached Telemon’s office, he stopped in the doorway. The steward looked up from the pile of papers on his desk, and seeing the king’s expression, immediately stood to draw Odysseus into the room and press him into a chair by the desk. Odysseus sighed as Telemon placed a glass of wine in his hand. He gulped some of the blood-red liquid before speaking.

“Telemon,” he said, “I’m going to have to go away for a few days. I need you to watch over the palace. And Paris.”

Telemon sat back in his chair, eyebrows raised. This was a surprise. He’d thought that it would have taken a fulcrum the size of a warship to pry the king away from his lover’s side. “Where will you go, my lord?”

“I’m going to the temple of Apollo,” Odysseus replied with a grimace at the expression on his steward’s face. “I don’t know how much I even believe any more, but I have to try everything that I can. Apollo was supposedly the patron of Troy. I’m going to beseech him to help one of her sons.” He shrugged. “I may get lucky.”

“Or unlucky,” Telemon snorted. “You’re walking straight into the same building that Penelope is living in. Remember her? The wife you banished?”

Odysseus rewarded that sally with the dirtiest look he could generate on short notice. “That was uncalled for, my friend.”

“Sorry.” Telemon’s tone didn’t match his words.

“Sure.” Odysseus sighed. “If you have a better idea, now is the time to let it free to wander in the light of day. If fortune smiles, we’ll be able to catch its tail.”

Telemon shook his head, grinning sadly at the mental picture he formed of the king’s words. “I don’t have any more ideas, my lord. I know,” he added with a cockeyed look at Odysseus. “Me, without an idea. Announce the rarity from the rooftop.” He sighed. “Asking Apollo for help is probably the only choice we have left. I spoke to Myrto this afternoon. He doesn’t hold out much hope for a full recovery.”

Odysseus stood. “I leave in the morning. It will take most of the day to ride, so we’ll make an early start.” He sighed. “Again.”

Telemon joined him as he walked to the door. “My lord, it won’t make a difference. Why don’t you wait one more day? Rest. Let yourself recover.”

Shaking his head, Odysseus stepped through the door. “No. If I stop, I won’t get started again.” He smiled tiredly. “I’ll be okay. Three days, then I’ll be able to collapse.”

Telemon nodded. “I’ll have your guard ready at sunup. Will you at least rest now? It’s late already, and you need as much sleep as you can get if you’re going to be riding all over the island in the next few days.”

“I’m going now,” Odysseus said through a yawn. “I don’t think Paris will even wake up until midday tomorrow. Let him know, will you?”

“Yes, my lord.” Telemon watched worriedly as Odysseus made his way to his chambers for some much-needed repose. The king had been under a great strain ever since he’d arrived in Ithaca, and the steward wondered just how much longer he would be able to handle it. First juggling Paris and Penelope, then facing Paris’s injuries and the necessity of banishing Penelope, the confrontation with Agamemnon and now, the need to travel to the temple and possibly face his cast off wife. Telemon sighed as he turned back into the room. ‘Please’, he thought. ‘Just let this work. They both need help, so badly.’

Odysseus dragged himself from his bed the next morning, unable to stop yawning as he walked stiffly down the corridors toward the stable. At every junction, he paused to stretch, trying desperately to bring mobility back into what seemed to be completely seized joints. ‘I’m too old for this,’ he thought with slightly melancholy amusement. ‘I’d be much happier to be allowed, just for a while, to sleep in late in the morning, climb out of bed when I’m ready, and loll around the palace eating grapes fed to me by a beautiful slave.’ That thought stopped him in his tracks. He already had a beautiful slave: one he was willing to fight for to his last breath. With renewed determination, he quickened his steps.

“My lord.” Sinon greeted him as he entered the building, which was redolent with the mingled scents of leather and horse.

“Sinon.” Odysseus smiled as he grasped the arm of the guard. “Are you coming along?”

Sinon nodded. “Steward Telemon told me that you would be needing assistance, my lord. I am here to serve.”

“And I’m glad you’ll be there to watch my back,” the king replied. “All right, let’s go.” He turned to mount the horse presented to him, and stopped. “Where is ?”

The groom paled. “He is lame, my lord.”

“Lame?” Odysseus ran his hand through his hair. What else could go wrong? “What happened?”

“We don’t know, my lord.” The groom gulped. “When we put him up for the night, last night, after the voyage, he was fine. This morning, we found a splinter in his left forefoot. The frog is swollen, my lord. But he will be fine,” he added hurriedly. “A few days rest is all he needs.”

Odysseus eyed the chestnut dubiously. It was a horse he didn’t know; and he always preferred a known quantity when he was in the saddle. Never mind. He could ride this one for the next few days, and so it would become known. The horse reached out to sniff the hand he presented, and blew softly across his fingers.

The groom grinned. “You’ll like him, my lord. He’s perfectly mannered.”

“He seems fine,” Odysseus said. After another glance at the groom, he added, “You’re new, aren’t you?”

Nodding, the groom moved to the horse’s side. “Yes, my lord. I come from Pthia.” His face fell a little, and Odysseus respected his silence. They all missed Achilles.

He mounted, and the honor guard followed suit, to trail him out of the gates and down the inland road. After a few miles, Odysseus started to relax. The chestnut’s paces were almost as good as his stallion’s, and the horse seemed to be very well trained: almost docile, in spite of its snappy movements. By the time they broke for lunch, the king was quite pleased with his substitute steed. They dismounted, and the groom unloaded the packhorse, setting out lunch for Odysseus and the guards, then attaching feedbags half-full of grain to each horse’s head. The comfortable sound of grain being masticated, along with the blowing of air through equine nostrils made an easy background to the voices of the men as they rested.

The time passed quickly; soon they were mounted again, and the miles of road rolled out behind them like a silver thread in the bright sunlight. They rode alternately through the quiet murkiness of forests and the dazzle of sunny fields, bright with neat lines of growing plants. As they cleared the last tree-line, they could see an incredible distance in the clear day: all the way to the Temple of Apollo, nearly twenty miles away.

The transition from dim to bright made Odysseus squint for a moment, distracted. When the chestnut suddenly bolted, he was caught completely off guard. His balance precarious, all he could do was hang on desperately as the horse neighed and ran furiously down the road. When it began bucking, Odysseus thanked the gods for the small favor – the lift of the horse’s rear was enough to throw him forward again, his shaky seat stabilizing. The chestnut put its head down to wind up another huge buck, and Odysseus yanked with all his strength on the reins, knowing that he would be hurting the horse’s mouth, but unable to worry about it right now. The horse jerked its head up and started shaking it around, foam thrown from its mouth on every movement. Odysseus sawed on the reins, pulling each one alternately; when that only made the horse even more fretful, he concentrated on turning it in a circle instead. A bolting horse needed speed, and the tighter the circle, the slower the horse had to move in order to stay upright. He put all his strength into hauling on the right rein, and the chestnut gradually gave in to the pull, turning its head in that direction – and where its head went, its body followed.

The exhausted animal finally came to a staggering stop, blowing heavily, its sides heaving with each huge breath. The guards caught up, horrified at what could have happened in those few minutes.

Sinon threw himself from his horse and rushed over to the chestnut, reaching out to grab at the reins. Odysseus panted for a moment before relaxing, ready to dismount. He was just swinging his leg over the horse’s neck when the animal screamed and reared. Odysseus threw himself sideways from the saddle, desperate to get away as the horse overbalanced, tottered for a second, then fell heavily onto its back.

His sandal caught on the saddle pad as he pushed away, and Odysseus was thrown onto his back on the hard-packed roadway. His head struck a rock, and blackness crashed over him like a concrete tidal wave.


TBC