Achilles/Patroclus/Briseis (but mainly just the A/P...OTP!)
...and Hector/Paris, but only in the movie
I'm fascinated by Agamemnon, although I think he's a bastard, from his background to his marriage with Clytemnestra, my favorite character in all of Greek mythology.
Aaanyway, this is just a little fic I wrote. Hope you enjoy. :) x-posted in _thousandships, troyslash, classics_slash, and epic_het.
Rating: PG-13, possibly a light R
Pairings: Helen/Andromache, Helen/Paris, implied Hector/Andromache and Hector/Paris
Author's Note: Well, I've never seen a Helen/Andromache fic, and that just sucks. ;) It was begging to be written, so I wrote it. Helen's POV.
My hands are wrapped in something that I cannot identify but that feels like the finest fabric to a lover's cheek, like cool water on a pained friend's forehead. To me, it feels like guilt. Compared to my hands, every other part of me can be called innocent.
My eyes have looked upon Paris' body longingly; wandered over his torso, up his arms, muscled but weak in comparison with his brother's, and finally into his own eyes, those two black seas that suck me in and slowly drown me. But not against my own will. I never struggle. I never try to swim. I have also seen men dying all around me from the corners of my eyes while I slowly sink into the depths of my impulsive lover's gaze.
My legs have wrapped themselves around his waist countless nights, locked tightly around his form as he's carried me towards the bed, the floor, the wall. They took me to Troy, aided me in my flight from Sparta and from Menelaus. They have guided me to Hector's and Andromache's chambers, but until tonight I could not force them to take me close enough to her so that my innocent eyes could gaze upon her sleeping form alone in the bed she shares with Hector when he fills what should be my bed space.
Even my lips are free of fault when likened to these hands of mine. They have whispered promises to Menelaus which were broken when my mouth met with Paris'. They have softly cursed Andromache when no one else was present for having Hector, heroic, unafraid, and strong. But they have also been dusted with sand when I stumbled and fell while chasing after Paris on the beach. They have boasted blood that mingled with the sand.
My eyes have been treacherous, but they have seen horrors and heartache. My legs have been disloyal, but they have also shown themselves able to hold me back from my recklessness My lips have been unfaithful, but even they have dressed themselves in blood.
My hands are smooth as I run my fingers through her hair, which is damp and matted from a nightmare. They are white in comparison with the rich brown of her silky waves. I can forgive myself for my lips upon her wet eyelashes; for my legs straddling her naked form upon the bed. I can even give myself absolution for drinking in the sight of that dark, wavy hair and not thinking of my own lover, but of hers. Her lover, whose hands are browned from battle and sunlight, black and red from scars and bruises. I envy his hands, and I feel that somehow they are what make the three of us love him. Not his nobility, nor his compassion, nor his bravery. His hands. He can forgive himself for running them over my lover's body tonight. And so can I. Even Andromache can forgive him for his betrayal, and I know she is doing so as I caress her breasts with my guilty hands. They are not Hector's. She forgives him, but she does not forgive me.