Disclaimer: I do not have any rights to Troy. I do not own most of these characters. I do realize that Troy was historically inaccurate, but I am basing my story on the inaccurate movie.
Warning: This is a slave fic. There will be language and torture (though not very graphic). Please do not read if uncomfortable with these things.
Blurry lights swarmed in front of Hector as the bright sun assaulted his eyes. He winced and tried to bring up down hand in an attempt to shield himself from the brilliant glare. When he realized that his arms were not responding, he attempted to clear his foggy mind. He felt sluggish, weak; his last memory was an unclear haze. Hector yanked his right arm down, causing a sharp wrench of his shoulder. The pain cleared the fog in a jolt and Hector's senses returned to him in an overwhelming onslaught. His weary brain registered multiple pains: the insistent pounding in his head, the burning of his knees, the ache of his back and shoulders, the tightness in his legs. He groaned and slowly twisted his head around, hoping to hear the soft pop in his neck that preceded relief.
As he turned, his cheek scraped against a rough object. Hector opened his eyes, curious to know what he was so close to and why his body was in such a poor condition. The intense light forced him to squeeze his eyes back shut, a glowing red seared under his eyelids. He opened his eyes again, slowly and cautiously. He squinted through long eyelashes to see a wooden post at his back, mounted on glittering sand. Hector blinked rapidly, not wanting to believe what his mind was registering. He was a prisoner.
He was kneeling on hot, burning sand with his ankles lashed together by rough, thin strips of rope. His calves were tied to his thighs. He couldn't feel his legs, much less move them. As he flexed his calves, he began to feel the tingling of blood flowing back into limbs. Hector let out a laughing gasp at the sensation. It made every slight shift of his body feel like his skin was on fire. No, his skin was buzzing, like strange things were dancing on it.
But it was the heat that was the hardest to handle. Apollo was not having any mercy on him. Hector was almost glad that he didn't have his heavy armor on. Instead, he was only wearing a dirty, small loincloth that draped over his thighs. The gray cloth was flecked with black dirt, contrasting with Hector's bronze, unblemished skin. The sun was unbearable, his brown hair hung limply down to his shoulders. He could feel his hair plastered onto his sweaty neck. Sweat. Beads of it rolled down his face, his chest. The salt stung his eyes, making Hector's eyes water.
Hector swallowed, trying to rid his throat of a thick, heavy layer of phlegm coating it. He looked around, dimly recognizing the Trojan beach that the Greeks had attacked on the first day of their conquest. He could see the sacked temple of Apollo up on its hill.
He pulled at his bonds, testing if there was any give to the tight ropes. There was none. Whoever had tied the knots had known what they were doing. Hector did his best to settle into a comfortable position; he knew that he would need his strength to get him through the day.
Achilles had been sitting by the bed for a few hours. His fingers ran through the soft hair that was splayed out over the pillows, combing out any stray tangles. He held onto the still hand, gently squeezing, watching the shallow, slow rise and fall of the thin chest. Patroclus. It hurt Achilles to see his beautiful, strong cousin on a bed, wasting away. The once tan, lithe body looked decrepit and weak. It was worrying; two days had passed since the horrible morning when he had woken up to the sight of his beloved friend hanging limply from Eudorus' arms and Patroclus had not stirred since then.
That morning. Whenever Achilles thought of that morning, he felt a hot rage and had a sudden urge to kill anything in sight.
He had woken up to find that his troops had gone into battle, he immediately knew the cause of the blatant disobedience. Patroclus had always wanted to go into battle. Whether it was because of a desire to please his cousin or whether it was because he wanted personal glory, Achilles did not know. That morning, the warrior had paced around his tent, muttering angrily to himself, thinking up severe punishments that could be dealt to to the impertinent, foolish boy.
When he heard sounds of clattering armor, he stopped his impatient grumblings and straightened his tunic. He stood tall and regal in the middle of the tent, crossing his arms, waiting for the stupid child to come in. Nobody stepped through the tent flap; Achilles stepped towards the small opening, about to duck under when he had heard a trembling, fearful, yet extremely urgent voice call out to him.
Without waiting for an answer, Eudorus ran into the tent, almost colliding into Achilles. Eudorus was carrying a lifeless body. Blond hair. Black Myrmidon armor. It looked just like Achilles'. It was his. And Achilles was terrified.
He grabbed his baby cousin from Eudorus' proffered arms and set him gently down on his own giant bed.
He nearly ripped off his cousin's armor in his haste, tearing anything covering his brother's chest away and throwing it to the ground. He barely contained his shout of anger when he saw a long, deep cut crossing from his cousin's right armpit to his left shoulder. Blood had spread from the horrible wound, staining Patroclus' whole chest crimson. Achilles stared in shock at the gash until he heard a small moan come from Patroclus' lips, blood bubbling up at the corner of his mouth.
Without taking his eyes off of his cousin, Achilles spoke to Eudorus quietly, "Get me a needle and horse hair." Eudorus snapped to attention and ran out of the tent to do his master's bidding.
Achilles stitched up the injury with as much gentleness as he could muster, praying that Patroclus would be fine.
He stood up and walked outside, beckoning at Eudorus with his fingers to follow him. Once he was sure that he was far enough so that Patroclus wouldn't be bothered, he let out all the fear and rage that he had been holding inside of him since he had woken up.
He whirled around very quickly, taking his second-in-command by surprise and he grabbed Eudorus' long hair, yanking it down towards the ground. Eudorus cried out his shock and stumbled backwards, his legs moving wildly to maintain his balance. His attempt to stay upright was foiled by a sweep to the ankle, sending the man falling hard onto the sand.
"Damn you! You traitorous son of a bitch!" Achilles screamed at the coughing, gasping man, his voice cracking, "Fuck you!" He drew his leg back and slammed his foot into the prone soldier's stomach, causing another fit of coughs. Instinctively, Eudorus drew his legs in and curled into a fetal position in a primal attempt to protect himself.
Achilles rolled Eudorus onto his back with his heel and started pressing down on his neck. The helpless man only lay there, in complete submission to the judgement of his master. Achilles, having finally reined in his feelings, said quietly, "Give me one reason." Underneath those four gentle words simmered a storm of wrathful thoughts and inclinations. Eudorus looked up at his lord with tearing eyes and tried to swallow. Achilles could feel his Adam's apple bob as much as it could through his thin leather sandal. He could feel the small but intense tremblings that racked Eudorus' whole body and, staring at his most loyal friend's fearful, pleading eyes, he knew that he couldn't hurt him.
In the few seconds that had passed, all of the Myrmidons had gathered around their leader. As one they had went on bended knee, bowing their heads in obeisance, waiting for Achilles to acknowledge any one of them. He nodded towards a young man skilled in archery named Agathon who pleaded, "Please, my lord. He didn't know. We thought he was you. He moved, talked, fought like you. Spare his life, please!" Agathon looked up in hope but was only met with cold silence and a hard expression on Achilles' face.
"Sire, I'll stay with Lord Patroclus until he's better! I'll-" Agathon broke off in dismay. He wasn't sure that anything would be able to dissuade Achilles from executing Eudorus. While Agathon's and the rest of the Myrmidons' loyalty lay with Achilles first, they all had a deep bond with his commander. Eudorus was like a father to the rest of them. He offered comfort and support to those who needed it. He was a fearless leader who cared for every single one of his men and while Achilles was the shining, bright roof, Eudorus was the hidden pillars that held everything up and together. Without him, the house would fall. It would fall hard and fast.
"What would you require me to do?" He cried out in desperation, "My lord, please, I would do-"
Agathon was cut off by Achilles' upturned hand and he breathed a sigh of relief as Achilles stopped putting his weight on Eudorus' neck. Achilles took a step back and sat down heavily on the sand. He put his head in his hands and began to cry. Gut-wrenching, agonizing sobs. The men rose from their knees, looking at each other anxiously. Agathon had never seen the invulnerable hero show his emotions so openly. It scared him. It scared him that Achilles couldn't control himself; the man had always been so strong, never wavering or unsure of himself, never showing any weaknesses. And here he was. Breaking down.
Achilles was lost in his past until - "My lord?" A tentative voice called through the tent flap. Eudorus poked his head in and, at Achilles' beckoning, stepped into the spacious quarters. "My lord, your prisoner has awakened," Eudorus shuffled his feet around, staring at the bright woven rug he was standing on, wondering how he would phrase what he was going to say next. He wasn't even sure he should say. His master was not known for being merciful and would not take kindly to being second-guessed. He hurried on before he lost his courage. "Please do not take offense, my lord, but..."
Eudorus trailed off hesitantly, drawing Achilles' full attention. He looked at his faithful general questioningly. Achilles inclined his head, gesturing for Eudorus to continue.
"Is it truly wise to hold a prince of Troy hostage? Why didn't you just kill him?" In truth, Eudorus was worried. Prince Hector was known for his cunning and strength. The close battle with Achilles had only reaffirmed Eudorus' fears. The prince showed bravery and astounding perseverance and resourcefulness. Eudorus didn't doubt that the Trojan would be able to slip his bonds and escape. He worried for his fellow Myrmidons, for his brothers.
Achilles seemed to read his mind, "Do not worry, my friend. The Trojan has no way to harm us. I will make sure of it. And as for my decisions," he paused to glower at the older man, "They are my decisions and mine alone. I would thank you, Eudorus, to not meddle in my affairs."
The suitably chastened soldier stood aside to let Achilles duck under the tent's opening. As the warrior stalked off, Eudorus took a moment to study him. His bright, blond hair shone in the light. Like a lion, Eudorus mused. No, his master is more like a tiger. For a lion is slow to act while the tiger is relaxed but quick to spring. The tiger relies more on strategic bouts while the lion depends on brute, violent force. Keen, insightful eyes and a menacing presence that makes others cower. Yes, he thought, I'm so proud to serve such a king.
Hector snapped awake once he heard the soft tread of bare feet approaching. He looked defiantly at the figure that was blocking the sun. A young, handsome soldier wearing a light blue tunic stood in front of him. Hector recognized the golden embroidery spanning the rich fabric. A Myrmidon. Hector knew plenty about them. Brutal and cunning in their fighting and strategy, they fought for no country. They only used their skills to further their personal name and riches. Their only allegiance was to a crazed, glory-seeking madman who had no sense of honor or decency.
He glared up at the boy and began struggling against his bonds. It was bound to be futile, but Hector was determined not to appear like a weakling. He bucked up with all his strength, yanking his wrists forward as hard as he could. But all intent to fight back vanished when the boy squatted and swung up a dagger to meet Hector's vulnerable, bare neck. A wave of fear washed over him and Hector couldn't breathe. He closed his eyes and pushed his panic away.
The soldier reached behind his back, making Hector wonder what was in store for him. Torture? Probably. Humiliation? Definitely. As if he wasn't humiliated enough. When a small water flask appeared, Hector almost let loose a moan. His throat was burning with need. Every breath coated his mouth with layer of sand. The swirling dust in the air went into his nose with every inhale. Hector stared past the small leather flask and focused his attention on memorizing every detail of a small dune up ahead. Hopefully, he could ignore the temptation, the teasing gift.
So his surprise was great when the man put the mouth of the container to Hector's lips. He was suspicious, questioning what was in the container that the soldier would give to a worthless prisoner. But only pure, slightly warm water trickled into his mouth. He suppressed his desire to spit the liquid back into his captor's face because he knew that he needed it to avoid dehydration. He also acknowledged that angering his enemy while helpless was not the most intelligent thing to do.
Hector desperately sucked at the lip of the bottle, straining his neck towards the man, trying to drain every drop in the leather, not knowing when he would get another chance to drink. After a few deep gulps, the container was removed, leaving him panting for air. The soldier took a small cloth and poured water over it. Hector watched several droplets fall, forming a small puddle which sank into the golden sand; the only proof of its existence was a tiny darkened spot.
He looked up only to shrink back as the cloth was drawn closer and closer to his face. The touch of fabric felt cool and refreshing as it was wiped over his face roughly. A sticky layer of sweat and grime came off to Hector's great relief. His task completed, the man stood up fluidly and walked off.
Hector knew that the soldier did it all out of kindness.
"Thank you," he croaked at the soldier's retreating back. The soldier didn't even look back.
I'm going to try to update as soon as possible. I'm going for at least once a week. So, wish me luck on that! This is the first time that I've actually posted anything I've written, so that's exciting. Yay! :)