Title: Hiding Place

Author: Shoola McFee  - e-mail at ShoolaMcFee@aol.com

Rating: PG

Warnings: Spoilers

Summary: Paris’s lowest point must have been after the death of his elder brother. On the night that Priam goes to beg Achilles for the body of his elder son, and Helen is comforting Andromache, an old friend of Paris arrives to offer some comfort.

Disclaimer: I don’t own these characters and I won’t make any money from them.

Feedback: If you like.

 

Author’s note: In the world of classical Greece relationships between an older man and a free, adolescent male where not only well thought of but could be a cause of pride. These relationships were bound by strict codes: the elder man would court the boy and could openly desire him, though penetrative sex, if it happened at all, was not to be mentioned in public. The youth was a passive partner, the beloved. He could respect and learn from his suitor but not desire him. If he did or if the relationship continued after the youth had become a man (developed facial hair) then the relationship was no longer acceptable. The young man who allowed it to continue would be considered a catamite, worse than that it would invalidate his status as a man. Age/role centred relationships appear to be more common in pre-industrial societies and pederasty was possibly a convention that could have been practised as far back as Homer’s time.

 

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The air was rich with incense; scented smoke wisping to the heavens in memory of a dead brother. And under that the ever-present perfume of the burning pyres, acrid wood smoke, flesh-fuelled, demanding of Paris that his sins were never forgotten even in sleep.

The younger prince of Troy stood at the window of his room looking out for any sign of his father in the gloom of the late evening. He had begged the King to let him accompany him on his errand to bring back Hector’s body, desperate with concern for his father, desperate with grief for his brother and desperate for redemption. His cowardice was now a large and vivid backdrop to throw into relief the courage of Hector; courage that had cost him his life. But the King was stubborn in his plan that only going alone and unarmed could win the trust of Achilles.

Paris could not even look Andromache in the eye. Andromache cold pale and bent with pain as Helen had helped her to her chambers. Helen would stay with her this night. He had heard the wails of the women as he had returned from his meeting with the King. All the household wailing in a frenzy of grief, each sound in the echoing, cavernous palace compounding his own misery. His mind conjured the grieving faces, each tear in each eye an accusation.

He was aware of the large presence in the room, the man that had followed him from the King’s chambers but had halted in his doorway and was now staring into him but who did not speak. It was Glaucus, ally and friend to the royal house who had for years loyally served the king, comrade in arms of the elder prince and onetime lover of the younger one

Glaucus had paused in the doorway staring in at the familiar figure to whom he had been as a stranger for so long. He wondered if he had come only for  comforts sake. Comfort for whom: for the boy or himself? What is my role here he thought, lover, father, mentor or friend? He yearned for a time when he had been all of these things to the young prince.

He remembered the day the king had given him permission to court Paris, laying out the rules as if in a military memorandum, “If he looks on you favourably then I will not prevent this. Take your pleasure but there must be no hint of anything disreputable, he is a prince after all. There is much can learn form you Glaucus old friend but he needs discipline, I will use the rod if you will not.”

Glaucus would never have hurt Paris, though he was often sorely provoked. The child had filled him with terror and frustration as well as wonder. He had been so keen to learn yet so impatient of the lesson; wilful and loving, stubborn and yielding by turns, so impulsive, so anxious. A hundred years and one could not fathom those depths. Eventually the King had decided that the relationship must end. That was the last time that the old warrior had trusted himself to stand at Paris’s door as he did now.  But the passion he had felt had never left him, whether it was proper or not it squatted on his thoughts and he could never see the boy but feel the stirrings of lust, or was it love? Could love unrequited, hidden and unspoken be still alive after all this time?

The youth was motionless and Glaucus silently walked in, could not think of a word to say. He stood behind his beloved breathing as softly as he could. Should he offer the comfort of one soldier to another? A hand on the shoulder and a nod of mutual understanding? How could he think while looking down on that neck, golden in the candlelight and starlight. He knew how it felt to touch that skin. He had once said, “you would make even a blind man love you for your beauty”; the gruff old soldier made poet.

Paris did not move for some time, when he turned to face Glaucus his eyes flitted up to the strong, familiar face, searching the eyes and forehead for a sign of how to feel, because he no longer knew. Was now the time for courage he wondered.  Every ounce of his being wanted to fall to the floor in misery and weep, weep with misery for Hector, for his own shame, for Troy and his father. Wretched, he cursed himself, with not the strength to show such weakness.

Glaucus was staring down at him, caught in the spider web of memories, of the child crying at his mother’s funeral, the boy falling from his horse on the beach, the man running from the Spartan king. Paris realised that Glaucus knew him as no other ever had and that pretence was useless, yet neither man spoke. When Glaucus broke his stare it was to move his eyes down to the smooth chest of the younger man, stronger more muscular than in his memories.  Paris was wearing a long robe open with the traditional sarong beneath. Glaucus was aware of his own desire as a disturbed crab, scuttling sideways within his grief. The boy was open before him, calling out from the depths of despair; the older man berated himself for feeling such lust as he did but the urge to reach out and touch was unbearable; it made him sweat with the struggle of resisting. Finally he broke, Glaucus slowly moved his hands until they were resting on top of the supple waist inside the robe.

Paris stood his arms loose at his sides, he did not resist, but whether that was out of habit, or desire or weariness Glaucus did not know. He stroked his hands up the sides of the body to under the arms and then up and over the shoulders pushing the robe off so that it fell to the floor. Battle hardened hands were insufficient to feel such softness, he moved his head down to lightly brush his lips against soft neck skin.  His hands moved down to the waist of the skirt but Paris moved back suddenly pushing the hands away.

His eyes turned up to his old mentor. “I’m scared”, soft words whispered upwards in explanation, almost like an apology.

Paris read confusion in the eyes of the other and answered, “I’m scared that I want this?”

There was a long pause before he continued. “Do I want to go back to being a boy? Can I hide once again in childhood? When I was frightened then, I always found safety in your arms, when Hector was training and father was busy you always had time for me. Now Hector is dead and my father risks his life, and I am the shame of the royal house. I have fallen so low that I could desire comfort by allowing you to love me, I have endured such shame that this would be only one more proof that I am a pathetic. I was so terrified of death that I crawled on my knees to the protection of my brother. And now he is dead. He is dead because I started this war. Hector who was greater than me as the sun outshines the moon in the afternoon sky. And I think, as all Troy, even my father, must think, if only it had been me who died, I who started this war, it should have been my body dragged around like a common dog for the enemy to spit on. Now I wish I was dead.”

Glaucus’s expression changed from confusion to anger and Paris stopped, taken aback by the strength of fury in the other man’s eyes and unsure of its cause. The hands grasped harder at the smooth shoulders and bruised where they held the flesh. “Never say that again, in my hearing. Bring out the man who wishes harm on you and I will slay him where he stands, just as surly as your brother killed Menelaus, whatever side he is on he will not be spared.” He held the arms tighter, then suddenly let go so that Paris reeled backwards.

Glaucus paced the room and grunted as his strong face scrunched and shook. “Do you think yourself of such greatness that you and you alone could be the start of such a conflict or that you could force Troy to fight for your cause. Your brother made his own decisions, as did your father, as do I.”

He paced back to the stationary youth and paused stabbing himself in the chest with his fingers. “If you wish to blame, blame me or your father or Hector that we allowed Helen to stay.”

“And would you also blame yourself that I fled from a fair fight?” Paris’s voice was steady but hushed.

“That we allowed an untested youth to challenge that madman to a duel when any sensible man would have kept you back, yes. How many young warriors have gone too soon into the fray only to fall or to fail? Such acts always end in disaster. Yes I blame myself and I blame Hector.”

“No” Paris turned to move but Glaucus restrained him, his large hands once again on the shoulders. Paris turned back his eyes bright with anger and tears, “Never blame Hector for he was honourable even unto death.” Paris could no longer speak for the emotion, Glaucus held him closer, pressing his head to his shoulder. Paris struggled away but still remained in the iron grip. “No if you take away my responsibility you take away my pride, you see me only as a boy, as I was when I lay with you. What is acceptable for the child is not for the man.” Glaucus caught the double meaning of this, his heart sunk at the words since this was the rejection he had always dreaded. The old warrior felt the young man slipping away from him in his grasp and dropped his hands to his sides. The young prince had become stronger even in the last few days.

Paris looked down, his heart, already overcrowded by emotion, found room for pity, it hurt him that he had been the cause of the elders sudden pain.  He added softly,  “You know I let you down by my cowardice.”

“The war is not finished yet Paris, I know you will fight beside me when the time is right for you to take your place. And I will fight to the death happy if I know that you are there.”

“Yes,” Paris said his eyes were lit by an unexpected hope “I will stand beside you in battle, I have been trained, I have skill with the bow and arrow, I may yet die with honour.”

Glaucus felt his heart seized by pride and fear. He knew that this was no idle boast, in the eyes of his prince he saw the resolve and knew that he would prove himself when the day came, but at what cost.  The death of Hector was the greatest grief he had ever felt yet it paled now at the image of the younger prince laying dead in the blood of battle.  “But do not substitute one mistake for another, my Prince. If the day comes when Troy falls remember your first duty is to this house, not to your own pride. The women and children must get away so that something of Hector and your father survives. If our cause should be lost promise me that you will help them to get away.”

Paris looked sadly at his mentor “You do not think I could help in the fight. You think I would disgrace you again”.

“No, I do not. It is I who would disgrace you. I could not fight unless I knew that you would do this.”

Paris cast down his eyes once more, “As my brother disgraced himself when he killed the man who had every right to take my life. I suspect that was the only regret of his life.”

Glaucus slowly lifted a hand to the beautiful face before him and ghosted the edge of the cheek and jaw with gentle fingertips. “Your brother regretted nothing.  Your father urged him on and we who watched him sighed in relief as the sword sunk into that villain’s heart. And I? All that I regret is that for these last years I have not visited your rooms. Your father’s separation came too early for us both and I regret that I watched you from afar but did not have the courage to touch you as I touch you now. And now I fear that tomorrow I may die without once more holding you in my arms.”  The body before him was suddenly a weight in his hands. When did you last eat? When did you last sleep?, he thought,  noticing for the first time the dark shadows beneath the young man’s eyes.

Paris felt himself falling, he was aware that Glaucus had moved him backwards and that they were sitting side by side on the edge of his bed. He wanted to let his head fall onto that broad shoulder, as a child he had thought of his mentor like a rock, an immovable object, able to withstand all things, a solid and broad old tree. As Hector had been a rock. Shattered, crumbled, all fail in the end, prophecy of doom.

Paris stared at the legs beside his own on the bed. Was Glaucus then vulnerable? Did he also need to feel another and another’s comfort? Did Glaucus also fear being alone? Is that what he had said? How many times had Paris longed to be held but had kept his desire hidden, fearful that he would be thought of as a catamite.

A realisation dawned within Paris that Glaucus had never stopped needing him. Paris had found love elsewhere but Glaucus had not. Pity stabbed his heart once more.  He ran his hands down the broad legs of the pale warrior. It was too late; too many things had changed.

“When my father told me that we must stop our relationship, I cried. He said it was not proper for our liaison to continue, since I was on the verge of manhood. He said that you would think little of me if I allowed you to persist. He told me that if I clung to you I would disgrace you and myself. I missed you. But since then we have both changed. I sought consolation in the arms of women and I have had many lovers. Now I have a wife. We cannot go back.”

Glaucus knew that his beloved was right and that he had to let go, he wondered when the prince had developed such strength and wisdom, he smiled, “No but I just hope that we can go forward. Paris let me just be with you as your friend, let me hold you. I don’t ask for anything more.” In that moment Glaucus knew that this was true. His first thought was for the young man that he loved not for his own wretched passions, he needed to be with the one he loved on the night when they both needed each other most.

He stood and removed his robe. He wanted them to be naked, just to feel skin on skin, with nothing to hide, no furtive ardour stirred him now, it would be honesty and love that bound them.  “Helen will stay with Andromache and give her what comfort she can. Let us rest for a little while.”

He guided Paris to his feet and they stood face to face. Paris trailed his hand through the thick grey hairs on the commander’s chest, when he had been younger he had been fascinated by the mix of red and grey, the red was gone now but a white forest covered the shoulders and chest and trailed off down the broad back. The man put his arms around the slender youth and undid the ties on the sarong and gently removed it dropping it to the floor behind them.

Paris let his hands rest on the broad chest in front of him. Naked now, a good and familiar place from long ago, his minded was flooded with warm memories. He could shelter here a while, repay comfort for comfort until his father returned. He felt a sickening lurch inside at the thought of no return and the reason the old man had gone. The image of his brother dragged through the sand had returned, burning into his brain once more.

Glaucus noticed the sudden tension, he felt his emotions swell again and he pulled them both down on to the bed so they lay facing each other.  Paris now had his eyes fixed on the eyes of the older man mesmerised by tears that were forming there. He watched the drops forging a path down the rough, red cheeks. Slowly he moved his body closer to the other man and with his lips caught the salty trickle as it ran down the chin. Maybe this would be the way to forget, to slide into a long relinquished role, to let go of resolve and want what he had not wanted for so long.

Glaucus smiled softly, brought his hand up to stroke the dark silky hair off the angelic face and then hold it as he leant into kiss those lips. It was a tender gentle kiss, full of compassion and respect.

The kindness and regard pierced his heart more than any anger and contempt ever could; Paris could feel the sobs starting in the pit of his stomach as they kissed. The youth moved his head down in to the dark crook of Glaucus’s neck, he breathed in the warm, musky smell of his old mentor masking the perfumes of incense and smoke. He could hear a voice coming from a long way off, the words he did not know but the steady rumble was comforting and strong. The warrior spoke,  ”Now is the time to weep if you will, when your father returns you will need to be strong and maybe tomorrow you will have to fight. Tonight you can surrender and rest for a little while. Knowing when to fight is as important as knowing who to fight. Did I not teach you this?” Glaucus tightened his hold a little, certain that despite the pain, he would be able to let go.