Embers From an Unquenchable Fire 2
EMBERS FROM AN UNQUENCHABLE FIRE
2
by Araddion
© 2015 R. Keith Peck
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The thoughtless man understands the voice of the Deity as little as the child understands the man. -- Heraclitus
Achilles was a ship adrift and he needed an anchor. He groped and found Patroclus shoulder and drew himself to his man. Strangely, they were clothed. Swords were belted at their waists but neither had cuirass nor greaves. Two round shields lay on the grass at their feet.
Below them -- for they stood on a high place, deep within the kingdom of the air -- and to their left spread a vast sea, glinting beneath the Sun. To the right was another body of water, more like a lake than a sea. A narrow band of water connected them. Achiles had seen this pattern before. The sea to the left must be --
"The Aegean," said Patroclus.
Achilles pointed. "Tthere's the Hellespont. There's the Propontis. Mount Ida. We stand on Mount Ida."
They looked down upon the plain of the Troad, the great field of battle drunk with the blood of good men. Achilles' darting eyes located landmarks. Yes, there was the river Scamander. And there was the estuary where the fleet lay. Should lay. The long beach was empty of biremes, of tents, of impromptu city, of stockade.
"Keen-sighted Achilles is with us. Hmm. Does your poet call you keen sighted? I can't remember."
Facing them, the lyre player, wearing nothing but a wry smile, stood in fair-skinned glory. The wind stirred his lustrous hair. Behind him clouds strolled above a misty horizon.
"Where is our fleet?" asked Achilles.
"And where is Troy?" asked Patroclus.
Achilles located the place where the towers of the city should rise. A lonely hill, crowned with poplars, stood where King Priam's palace once overawed all visitors. There were no fields on the broad Troad. It was virgin land, untouched by men.
"Escape," said the lyre player. "Do you understand?"
Anger flared within Achilles. His hand sought the hilt his sword. "What have you done?"
Patroclus restrained him. "Calm down, golden one."
The youth wasn't alarmed. "I've set you on the road of escape."
Achilles surged against Patroclus' strength. "You're the poet, aren't you?"
The young man thrust forward his groin, so softly kissed by fur, and blinked.
"No he isn't," soothed Patroclus. "Think. Feel. You know something's changed."
The lyre player smiled warmly "You're close, Achilles. Your poet is no longer elsewhere, but here. Or your composer, Patroclus. We've opened the gate of your cage. You've now ascended to the same level as him. Now come. This is merely the top of your road. Now we must travel the way down, and see how far it goes."
Achilles and Patroclus exchanged looks. Wonder. What had happened? Puzzlement. Should they do as bidden? Acquiescence. They took up their shields. One last look around to assure themselves this was real, and they followed.
"You, of all people," admonished Patroclus, "should be able to feel the intervention of the gods."
Achilles nodded slowly, abashed. He should have felt that tickle. "Well, you, of all people, should know how dangerous it is to be entangled with the gods."
"Too late for that, isn't it?"
"Yes," said Achilles. "I suppose we have to go forward."
"Do you even want to go back?"
"No." There was no doubt at all.
A well-trodden path crossed the grassy upland. The wind was clean and pure and their heads spun. Shadows cast by the racing clouds dizzied them.
The lyre player led, his butt swaying like a mare in heat. At the lip of a deep glen he paused. Beyong him mist rose from the glen. Mischief glittered in his eyes. He was a boy eager for a game. His eyes watched the men while they caught up. He kissed each man, slipping a hand beneath their clothing to weigh their testicles. He grunted appreciation, and then, without a word, turned and began to descend the path.
Achilles and Patroclus, their organs swollen, shared a glance, then followed the beguiling butt down.
The path criss-crossed the glen's rocky walls. Scruffy grass and threadbare bushes clung to the lip of the drop. Moisture trickled from the rock, and moss grew thick in shadowed crevices. Hawks wheeled in the glen.
Patroclus murmured soothing words to Achilles, knowing very well the hot heart of his golden one, but they weren't needed. Certainly Achilles walked with a hand on his sword's pommel, but he sensed neither deceit nor treachery in the young man. He knew this was a mystery, not a trap..
They descended the path. Small birds, brave in their own way so close to the presence of the hawks, sang song from the bushes. Achilles smelled wood smoke and then, after descending further, saw a faint smudge of it rising from the bottom of the glen.
At the bottom of the descent the path began to run alongside a young, happy brook. Tall bushy thickets enfolded them. Cypresses and oaks embraced the wind with soft, shivering sighs.
The lyre player led them through a bank of glossy-leafed greenery into a clearing. Squatting between two oak trees, each seeming as broad as the glen itself, sat a wood hut, well-made but clearly the habitation of an impoverished man. The hut wore a blue plume of smoke. Upslope of the hut a stone cistern briefly captured the brook, which overflowed and rushed off. A small pen held sheep.
Beside the cistern Patroclus paused and gripped Achilles' bicep. "Do you hear that?"
"Yes!" Achilles' heart hammered.
all three heard it. A rasping voice chanted sonorous hexameters. Poetry was afoot. The sound emanated from within the hut.
All was now clear to Achilles. He smiled grimly and drew his sword. "Come, beloved. Let's be free!" Achilles charged past the lyre player as if storming the citadel of Troy itself. Patroclus followed.
The lyre player folded his arms and walked in small circles by the cistern, curious to see what these men would do. Apprehensive? Certainly. Could these men escape from the fate-governed herd? Eyes brimming with hope followed the charging men.
Achilles, leading with his shoulder, crashed through the door. He stumbled inside, ready for battle.
A cry of surprise choked off the hexameters.
"What was that?"
The gray-bearded old man, whose hair was so wild it seemed birds nested in it, stood frozen in mid-pace. He stared with milky eyes two or three feet to Achilles' left, one hand groping for something to support him.
A young man backpedaled away from the table at which he'd been sitting. Scraps of paper lay strewn on it. A pen, dropped in panic, lay near an ink pot. A pair of buckets, stuffed full of scrolls, held open another scroll. The man stumbled, recovered nimbly, and dove for a dagger lying on the hearth. When he stood his eyes blazed with courage.
Achilles, if his passion hadn't been drained during the coupling with the lyre player, would have leaped, roaring at the foolish man who challenged him with a mere dagger. As it was, Achilles simply froze just inside the doorway, shield interposed, sword tip pointed at the foolhardy young scribe. He felt Patroclus behind him.
"Who is it?" wheezed the old man.
"Brigands!" the young man barked.
Achilles' brows knitted. "I am no brigand! I am Achilles, the son of Pelleus!"
The old man turned to face the source of the voice. "Achilles?" he croaked. "You can't be Achilles!"
"And why not?"
"Because you're not real!"
The young scribe advanced on Achilles and Patroclus. Firelight flickered on the dagger. His voice quavered with outrage. "We have nothing! No gold! Take a sheep or a goat, thieves, and let us be!"
Patroclus slipped around Achilles. He sheathed his sword but his shield continued to cover his flank. He extended his free hands, palm up. "We're not brigands."
"What do you see?" Achilles asked Patroclus, his sword remaining right where it was. The young scribe looked as if he were tensing to spring.
"A young man. A blind man. A harp. Buckets of scrolls."
This was a quicksilver moment, exactly the same as when the three had coupled in the tent. The opposite of the chiselled hour the poor Trojan youth had cast his spear at Achilles. Here in this hut possibilities shimmered. Countless destinies flowed from this moment. Achilles must think! Review the situation. This wasn't a duel upon the Troad. This was a test. To succumb to anger was to lose mastery.
Achilles lowered his sword. "We won't harm you."
"Harmony pleases me." The lyre player stood in the doorway, gloriously naked and shamelessly erect.
"Eros!" cried the old man fervently. "I will never forget that voice! That croon ... I will always ache for your youth and your beauty!"
The old man stumbled forward. His servant hurried in front of him, his dagger no longer threatening anyone. The scribe put the old man's right hand on his shoulder. The old man steadied.
"Achilles," mused the old man. "I suppose, since we all hear your voice, that you cannot be as unreal as I'd imagined you to be. But this raises many questions. Why are you now speaking words that I haven't composed for you?"
Silence. This was not a question Achilles knew how to answer.
The old man went on. "And you! Eros! Are you up to your tricks again?"
The lyre player laughed. "I am not the trickster." He brandished his erection. "Actually, I'm quite honest."
The old man tapped his guide. "Take me to this Achilles."
The young scribe led the blind man. They stopped in front of Achilles.
"You smell real," said the old man. "A powerful man. Sweat and leather! But my nose is even less reliable than my eyes. Let me touch you. If I feel flesh, then you must be real and I must be sane. I'm sure we'll both be relieved."
"Touch is the truth of things," said Eros, who played with himself.
Achilles watched the old man's tremulous hand reach toward him. Oddly, he felt fear. This world they'd entered was the playground of the gods. What would it mean if the old man's hand passed through Achilles? Did that mean the poet was a shade? Or that Achilles was a unreal? That both were metaphysical?
His touch was dry and feeble. The blind man's fingers moved over Achilles' breast, then found his biceps.
"Powerful," murmured the old man. "As I described."
Achilles remained still. It felt good to discover he wasn't someone else's dream. The old poet was as real as a kindly grandfather.
The old man turned his head. "Eros! Why do you keep tricking me?"
Eros frowned. "Trick? Why don't you believe me? He who you say tricks you is not here. Never forget that other forces are in play. Touch his chest. Grasp his bicep. Cup his testicles. Smell him. He is a man. Surely you know that now. Why don't you understand what's happening? Didn't I tell you a poet cannot enter his own epic?"
"Once, maybe," chuckled the old man. "I wasn't sure if I should believe you. Yet here is the proof. My character seems to have entered my epic."
"You should've listened to all I said. Or have you simply forgotten? There are endless levels. The book has infinite pages. Any letter, when sufficiently wet, may make an impression on another narrative. Let me assure you, I'm simply a character too, like you and Achilles and Patroclus. The aeons are rife with mystery, and no one's wisdom cannot be wholly trusted."
The old man lost patience with mysticism. He confronted the flesh and blood in front of him. "You're a big man. Strong. Indomitable. Angry, too." He cackled a bit. "Lusty, too, I know."
"How do we become free of you?" asked Achilles. The calmness in his voice astounded him.
"You can never be free of me," said the old man. "I am your father. With words I wrote you into being. They are my seed."
Patroclus emitted that gasp that Achilles knew signified he'd had one of his flashes of insight. Patroclus' eyes flashed a question at Achilles. Achilles nodded and tensed, ready for whatever might transpire.
Patroclus darted to the table. He shoved aside the ink pot and buckets and snatched up the half-written scroll.
"Don't touch that!" snapped the scribe. "We work long and hard on it!"
"This is the tune, yes," Patroclus murmured. "I was sure of it. This is the music that filled my head. Note after note."
Of course!
Achilles snatched the scroll from Patroclus' hands. Fine writing, steady and clear, marched to and fro across the scroll. Achilles read. This wasn't narrative; it was biography. The words broke off at the point the lyre player began his song in their tent. His eyes slid a few columns left. There it was. The passage where Achilles destroyed a Trojan youth. Troilus, son of King Priam, had died spitted on his own spear, wielded by Achilles. He almost wept, for the old old man had described Troilus as one of the world's great beauties, and his death impoverished the cosmos.
"Our poem," he murmured.
"My poem," said the blind man. "Or music. I'm very prouod of it."
"You had help, remember?" muttered his young scribe.
The old man said, "You achieved reality at an interesting time, my Achilles. I'm almost finished with this volume. My next will deal with your feud with Agamemnon --"
"I am my own Achilles!" the warrior roared. "I am not yours!" He pounced on the old man, the scroll trailing behind. He shoved the unfinished poem into the old man's face. "In this next poem. What happens? What happens to Patroclus?"
Patroclus growled, "And to Achilles?"
Unintimidated, the old man gleefully rubbed his hands together. "Oh, it is the most moving of all! Agamemnon insults you, taking that lovely girl Briseis I gave you some books back. Unable to bear the insult, you withdraw from battle. The Trojans learn this and assault the fleet. It is ruin! The Achaeans seem destined to go down in fiery defeat! Patroclus, valiant and honorable, cannot bear this. He begs you for your armor. You grant it, and he goes out into battle ..." The old man's excitement drained away."Patroclus is killed. This is unendurable to you. You come forth in all your rage and your grief and you sweep the Trojans before you!"
"No. No. No!" growled Achilles. Rage mottled his face. "I will not let it happen like that! My beloved will not die because of your pride in your art! Because of my anger!" Glory and fame everlasting? And the price of this was to be sundered from Patroclus? To hell with the damned war! Fuck the human race! "This is rubbish! This is idiocy! This is unendurable!"
"But it's art --"
Achilles whirled and seized the buckets containing finished scrolls.
"Eros!" cried the old man. "Stop him!" Eros remained where he was, smiling warmly. The frantic poet beat on the scribe's shoulder. "Do something!"
But the scribe was far too slow.
"Our fate is our own!" Achilles hurled the buckets into the fire. It blazed up.
The old man's scribe howled with anguish. He leaped at Achilles, but Patroclus blocked him with his shield. Taking no chances, Achilles hurled the unfinished scroll into the hungry flames. A great flare leaped high. A shower of sparks exploded up the chimney.
The old man trembled. "What-- what-- what has happened?"
The scribe, clutching at his head, fell howling to his knees. The old poet almost stumbled as he sought the shoulder that had supported him.
Patroclus wiped away tears that had come unexpectedly to his eyes. "Good, my lion. Very good."
"He burned it! He burned it!" cried the scribe, wringing his hands and beginning to weep.
The old man gathered himself. He sighed. "I should've guessed." He wore a resigned look.
Achilles turned away from the hearth. He sucked in a huge breath as he fought to cage the lion raging within him. When he spoke it was his best drill sergeant voice. "You will make poems of someone else's life! Not of Achilles! Not of Patroclus!"
The old man was silent. Intense grief etched his face.
"You could choose other names," suggested Eros.
"I cannot keep changing names!" the old man raged. "It ruins the meter! Do you know how much reworking I had to do when I had to stop using 'Gilgamesh'?"
"My hands wrote the damned letters!" cried the scribe.
Patroclus said, "Change us! Two different men can bear the same name. Make this new Achilles ... anything but the son of Pelleus!"
The old man shook his head sadly. "Ruin, ruin, and more ruin!"
"What about my hands?" sobbed the scribe.
Ancient as he was, there was still suppleness to that mind. The old man mused, "Change the characters. Not the name. Hmmm. That may work."
"No it won't!" cried the scribe. "This will just happen again with different thugs!"
But the blind poet was gathering his energy. "Nonetheless, I will start again. I must, it seems, do it again and again until I get it right."
"Rather like masturbation," said Eros, slowly masturbating.
Suddenly a new thought disturbed the poet. "Answer me this, Eros. If Achilles, standing here, is my fiction -- then whose fiction am I?"
"Who knows?" Eros grinned. "The cosmos seems to be layer upon layer of mystery. A man -- even a god -- is a hut, built over an old cellar that itself is the entrance to a cavern filled with secrets. We grow and the hut acquires a new floor, then an attic, and other floors, until the whole world can be seen from the topmost gable. And then we realize we still have not yet learned anything of the stars." He turned to Achilles and Patroclus. "You are no longer rhyming couplets in another man's poem. You have escaped him."
"Freedom!" cried Achilles.
"Oh no. Not yet," said Eros. "There is something to come before you are free, Achilles. Have you not listened to Eros, your guide? There are poets who compose sub-poets, and songs which sing to life other composers."
"The road down -- " began Patroclus.
"-- is the road up. But you've not yet reached the lowest point on the road. Come. Leave these two to their creating." Eros turned and went outside.
They did not bid the old man and the young farewell. Their departure was, in fact, unnoticed. The blind poet and his scribe were at it again. A virgin scroll was spread across the table and the quill hovered, poised for action. The old man looked within himself, searching for what he would bring forth.
In the shade of the oaks, watching the mist curl through the branches, Achilles grinned at Patroclus. "So this is escape."
Patroclus stroked his beard. He glanced at Eros. "How can we have escaped, and not be free?"
"Liberty is something beyond the simple striking off of your fetters," said Eros. "If you want to be free, well, there is more of the road to tread."
"I want to be free. Free of everything but Patroclus!" said Achilles.
"Then you must walk further with me," said Eros.
Patroclus said to Achilles, "Walk with Eros, eh?"
Achilles grinned. "Me first." He smacked his lips. "I could stare at his ass all day!"
The brook that flowed from the cistern plunged down the glen, leaping playfully over short waterfalls into pools. Eros led, beaming and happy, his trim butt swaying and mesmerizing both men. The path took them into a broad valley where the brook joined a stream. Trees of many varieties grew in dense copses. Pines, cypresses, stately oaks and gnarled olive. The path continued along the banks of the stream. The sunlight was warm. Bees hummed in sunlit glades. The smell of the earth filled their nostrils.
Eros was Eros, playful and seductive, clearly happy to be in this liminal world. Frequently, coquettish eyes looked back at them. Desire gleamed like emeralds. Neither man was immune. Soon both struggled to cut in front of the other so as to have unimpeded view of that sublime ass. They growled lewd invitations. Eros affected not to hear, laughing, skipping away, sometimes stopping to admire a tree or a cluster of irises or lilly pads. When, unable to resist the sight of those buttocks, one or both mortals charged him, Eros ran swift as a faun along the path, laughing, always firing inviting looks over his shoulder.
The stream broadened into a pool set amidst a grove of trees, many of which were draped in vines. Calf-high grass grew on the banks of the pool, and tall reeds fringed it. Lilies grew in profusion, and the flowers were cups from which bees drank. The air was fresh with the scent of grass. It was a peaceful place, untouched by war or blood.
Here Eros turned aside, displaying his erection. He bit his lower lip like an uncertain boy. Achilles and Patroclus fell upon him, pawing the satin of his skin. Eros grinned. He slipped his hand into both men's garments and cupped their balls, appraising their stamina. His bright smile revealed his deep appreciation of their richness. His eyes were now as clear and honest as a summer's day.
"I require a sacrifice," Eros said. "Spill your seed, so that this pool is a mere drop compared to your flood!"
"With pleasure!" Achilles and Patroclus spoke in unison. Both men stripped and lay their clothing and swords on their shields.
Eros, bursting again into laughter, raced away. Achilles and Patroclus, erections throbbing in the afternoon sun, gave chase.
They found Eros hidden -- not very well -- behind a tangle of wild grape vines. He braced against an olive tree. Back arched, butt jutting out, eyes innocent yet hungry, he presented himself as lust undisguised.
"Don't play," growled Achilles, stroking his erection. "You need this as much as we do!"
Eros parted his legs. His testicles, smooth as bags of silk, swayed between his creamy thighs. His ring was tiny. It did not seem possible that it had ever devoured this pair's shafts.
Free to be boys once again, Patroclus and Achilles jostled one another for position, play fighting, joking, erections straining, eager to penetrate that tight crinkled ring. Their laughter rang through the grove. They had forgotten -- indeed, had never known -- what it was to be true to themselves. Now their hearts soared.
"Hurry up!" demanded Eros. "Stop playing and stuff me!"
"I want him," said Achilles, thighs bulging as he strained to push Patroclus aside. "He's mine!"
"Respect your elders!" laughed Patroclus.
"Yield to ability!"
"You're the one that yields!" Patroclus, knowing he would soon be overpowered, sought for a different kind of leverage. "Do you remember how it felt when you sank into that shepherd, using my seed to ease your entrance?"
With this recollection, Achilles gave way. The memory was pungent and fresh and overpowering.
"I'll be your pilot." Achilles guided Patroclus' erection into Eros' socket.
"Both of you," gasped Eros, grinding his sphincter on Patroclus' dripping head, "are teases."
"I blame our teacher," said Achilles.
He slapped his beloved's rump. Patroclus thrust. Eros' soft cries as Patroclus pierced him stirred the semen in his bull-like balls. Eros grunted and then sighed with delight as Patroclus sank deeper. His head lolled back and his eyes rolled white.
"Don't be shy," grunted Eros. "Be rough!"
Muscles bled through Patroclus' skin as he slammed his crotch harder and harder against those pert, hungry buttocks.
Achilles knew a great many tricks to send Patroclus over the brink. He crouched behind Patroclus, pried open those strong buttocks, and attempted to bury his tongue in the tight hole. Patroclus thrust too vigorously for that. Achilles stood. He gnawed on an earlobe and ground his erection against hard-working muscles. He stuffed a finger into Patroclus. Finding the swollen knot inside, Achilles tortured it, his grin growing ferocious as Patroclus spat and cursed and stampeded towards the cliff. Achilles licked the sweat cascading down Patroclus' temples and felt droplets of fluid drizzle from his erection onto his beloved's pleasure-wracked body.
"Need more?" Achilles grunted, sliding his cock in Patroclus' crevice.
There was no response. The only sound were the harsh grunts, forced between Patroclus' lips, as he pounded away at the wimpering god. While Eros babbled praise for the giant instrument stretching his succulent ass, Achilles spat into his free hand, coated his shaft, and pressed it against Patroclus' ring. He writhed against his beloved's back. His hands crept around to tease Patroclus' instrument as it plunged in and out of Eros' sweetness.
"Ready?"
Patroclus growled.
Achilles thrust and buried himself. Patroclus' ring squirmed, egging him on. None of the joined trio was in the mood for gentleness. They were vines entwined around one another, drawing life and sustenance from the grunted lust of the others.
Once fully ensconced, Achilles hammered Patroclus. The bearded man roared his delight, servicing Eros with strokes that grew ever more fierce. Achilles felt Patroclus' rosette squeezing his shaft even before the great man's cries announced the river of seed he sent coursing into Eros. An massive earthquake convulsed the bull-like warrior.
"Fill him," Achilles wheezed in Patroclus' ear, hammering away. "Make him drip."
Patroclus' spasms subsided. Achilles withdrew and pulled the big man out of his way. Patroclus' organ emerged with a lewd squelch. Achilles stared at the divine globes before him. Buttocks, parted, creamy, dripping another man's seed, gleamed like a king's treasury. He knelt and peeled open the crevice. Eros ring was a cavern from which a fat, milky serpent slithered. Patroclus' spunk oozed down Eros' thigh.
Roaring like a lion, Achilles plunged into the gave, crushing the supple body against the tree. Eros thrust his butt back, grinding his satin flesh against the warrior's hairy crotch. Achilles hips surged fore and aft and his tongue licked the damp locks of hair on the nape of Eros' neck. The rectum was sin personified: warm and wet and burbling like a brook. He smelled seed and his mind spun so rapidly he thought of the wild ride that had brought them here. Achilles felt the slime oozing down his own testicles and it was easy to imagine he'd buried those sublime organs in Eros' tight chute..
The sensations were too much. Madness overtook Achilles. He seized Eros' hips and rammed furiously. He wanted to do nothing else but what he was doing right now. Not eat, not drink, not breathe. Only to saw away at this wanton god forever and fill that hunger inside Eros with his glorious seed.
Even upon his initial entry Achilles was close to the precipice. He struggled to avoid racing off into that orgasmic gulf of wheeling fire and spinning air. When Patroclus returned the favor, jamming a pair of fingers up Achilles, the golden lion's howls echoed off the valley slopes and his semen joined his beloved's in the guts of the god of lust.
Achilles, as he disengaged, popped Eros' buttocks with his palm. His heart thudded as if he'd just won a wrestling match. "Only the first of many!"
Eros glanced at him. "I'll hold you to that oath."
Achilles clasped Patroclus' hand and pulled the grining man to him. Lust-slick phallus and spit-slick tongues dueled as the men congratulated each other on their victories.
Eros, beaming, bade them recline and recuperate on the banks of the pond while he searched the grove. The men lounged in the grass, listening to frogs leaping into the water. They kissed and caressed. Joy was easier than war. Memories of long ago surged up, and it was if they lived in the present and the past. Laughter was their music, and they made it in abundance.
Eros returned bearing an armload of pomegranates. The men ate while Eros, light as a kitten, lapped at the juice trickling from their lips. His hands were not idle, touching and teasing and returning the shafts to a state of proud, throbbing vitality.
"A second round?" Achilles grinned at Eros.
Eros' eyes lowered to stare at Achilles' testicles. "The god of lust commands an offering."
Patroclus and Achilles, as always fast companions in battle, advanced on Eros. Their erections drew them toward the god.
Patroclus popped Achilles on the butt. "You first this time, so that I can feel your ooze."
Clever Eros had other designs.
"Turnabout!" he cried.
Quick as a hawk he dashed behind Achilles, seizing the man's arms. The god wrestled the man down onto all fours. Who would have thought such a stripling could subdue the muscled power of Achilles? Achilles resisted briefly, but only from shock. As soon as he realized what Eros wanted, he submitted, laughing.
Achilles glanced at Patroclus. "You won't tell?"
Patroclus laughed. "Enjoy yourself, Eros! Only be careful that you don't fall in!"
Eros knelt behind Achilles, pumping his erection between hard, rounded buttocks. He nibbled on Achilles' ear and spoke a lewd invitation. They both broke up in a fit of giggles.
"Until this day," Achilles chuckled, "no man but Patroclus has been inside me." He eased his knees apart and leaned forward, revealing his hole. "Take what is yours."
"I will take your offering," said Eros, "in the way it deserves."
Eros, eyes flashing, bent down and kissed the dark rose. When his tongue slithered within, the hunger inside Achilles emerged as gasps and soft moans. Patroclus, who knew the territory well, supplied much advice. Eros' tongue went where the bearded man suggested, flickering here, probing there. Soon Achilles was begging for something more substantial.
Eros lined up, pushing his plum-sized head against the sopping ring, and sank in. His weapon was not large, no more than three fingers thick, but Achilles shivered like the Cretans had -- when had it been, just a few hours ago? He was penetrated. Eros organ throbbed with power, and his eyes shut while he savored the junction of god with mortal.
Kneeling, Patroclus stroked Achilles' hair. "Please Eros, golden one. Please him like you please me."
Eros began thrusting. The sensation of the god's flesh conquered Achilles. He closed his eyes and he silently praised penises. Male organs were bridges, uniting mortal with immortal in the bonds of ecstasy. It was good to be a man, who could both use and be used.
Eros grinned at Patroclus. "He's a whore by nature, isn't he?" He shuddered. "His ring grasps me like a fist!"
Patroclus ruffled Achilles' hair. "So you like them small too, eh?"
Achilles gasped and he glanced over his shoulder into Eros' intense face. "You're growing!"
Eros spoke through clenched teeth. "I am. Longer. Thicker. Don't mistake me for a boy. This instrument inside you is something not even a bull like Patroclus can claim to wield." He clasped Achilles by the waist and sawed faster and faster. Achilles' erection slapped against his hard belly.
Eros made no idle boast. His shaft swelled, a great tree growing inside Achilles. Achilles felt it probing deeper and opening him wider. The organ seemed to grow with each thrust. His kidneys registered Eros' strokes, and all the crinkles of his rosette were stretched flat. It was thick as his wrist. He cringed, hovering on the cusp between pain and pleasure. Would he be able to adjust?
"By the gods!" Achilles roared. "I'm going to split in two!"
Eros' cock was thick as Achilles forearm. Would he survive?
Eros thrust and swelled. He was now as fat as Achilles' bunched fist. Was there an upper limit? Achilles pounded the turf. Translucent oil dripped from his erection. At one point, eyes screwed shut with pain, he almost tried to tear himself free. But Achilles trusted Eros. He sensed that whatever Eros put inside him would only bring rapture.
Patroclus, grinning as he peered down at the sweaty space between the two bodies, felt his pulse racing. An organ as thick as his biceps sawed in greasy abandon in Achilles' anus.
"If it pleases you," said Patroclus to Eros, "when it comes time to take me, fill me with something bigger."
Eros was quite pleased to do so. For, after spilling a cataract of seed into Achilles, he withdrew his phallus. There was no diminishment to Eros' stiffness. Unsteadily, seeking to keep balance, he knelt behind Patroclus. The leer on Eros' young face only decorated his beauty.
"Will this do, my hungry one?" Eros voice was hoarse from exertion.
Patroclus nodded. Eros mounted. Patroclus cried out, scattering birds, as Eros stuffed the divine instrument inside him. Achilles, drool hanging from his lips, crawled over. He sprawled on the grass, listening to the two grunt and growl, and he watched his beloved thrust himself back against Eros' groin. The sight seemed absurd. A slim, smooth youth sodomizing a powerful, fur-clad man? But there was no denying the erection throbbing against Patroclus' belly, nor the quick eagerness of his butt, grinding away at Eros' crotch.
Through the remainder of the afternoon, the three coupled, devising complex new ways of merging into one. Roles were reversed. New combinations were made. New places were selected. Semen was in abundant supply.
As daylight waned, the trio ended up in lubricious union beside the pool.
Eros once again hungered to absorb the organs of the mortals. He began by kneeling and beckoning Achilles into his butt. The warrior thrust, frenzied by desire. Semen frothed where he pierced the god. His testicles swung like a sling packed with heavy stones. Sweat bathed him and his muscles cried out as if he'd battled all day. No worries, for Achilles was indomitable.
Eros called Patroclus to him. The god laved Patroclus' fat testicles, then he inhaled Patroclus' shaft. His lips did not stop their slide until they tasted the salt in Patroclus' pubic hair. Patroclus' fingers seized the god's hair and he too churned. Spittle hung in demented ropes from Eros' lips.
Hearts thundering and chests heaving, they sustained this dance, poised on the slender bridge over the canyon of ecstasy, until Eros, sensing the immanence of the great moment, broke up their coupling, spitting out Patroclus' shaft and disengaging from Achilles. He had to fight free from Achilles, for the warrior clung to him, churning away.
"You are great, lusty men," Eros said, wiping his lips. "And to you I will now render honors!"
Eros, himself awed by the stamina of these two, abased himself before the twin warlords of lust. He nursed on their testicles like a calf. He licked their rosettes, his tongue a serpent flickering in and out of slime-filled caves. Eros then gulped down Achilles and impaled himself on Patroclus. Employing all his cunning arts, Eros simultaneously reigned in in and unleashed pleasure, seeking once again to stretch out this action as if it were a strand of divine precum, trickling from heaven to earth.
Before the cataclysm the mind of Eros disintegrated into bouncing rubble. His divinity drained away, and he was nothing but flesh alive with the delight of pure being. Only Achilles and Patroclus remained themselves.
Patroclus hammered at Eros' guts while Achilles' shaft plundered the throat. The god of lust united their mortal bodies, but the fire glimmering in their eyes was only for one another.
Both reached out, seized the other's jaw, and held the other steady.
Each reminded the other: "I am yours, and you are mine."
Bliss poured forth, glorious as comets, into the lithe body of Eros.
It seemed like forever that Achilles reclined between the warm bodies of Eros and Patroclus. His heart slowed, and he drowsed. He was at peace. What liberation it was to be able to watch bees drone or to listen to the wind sigh in the poplars. To have no duties towards kings or wars. Laughter came unbidden.
The others stirred. His fingers sought Patroclus' hand and clasped it.
"This is what it is too be free," said Achilles.
"Free?" called a voice. "Not yet. Why won't you listen, Achilles?" There was a snarl, as if a huge panther skulked nearby, hidden in the greenery.
Achilles bolted upright, his eyes searching the foliage. His sword ... where was his sword?
Eros said, "Don't fear, Achilles. This world is not your enemy."
"Who's there?" Achilles called. Habit forced him to disregard Eros' words. Where was his sword?
A man, of middle height, pushed his way through a bank of fennel. His curly hair was black though tinged with rust. Small horns protruded just beneath his hairline. He sported a thick but short beard. His face was weather beaten but he was not unhandsome; he reminded Achilles of an experienced sea captain. He wore a crimson loincloth, belted round his body with links of metal that flashed in the Sun. He was muscular but not powerful -- a runner, not a beast of burden. Behind him two leopards trailed, tails twitching. He approached with a faint smile on his features.
Eros sprang to his feet. "Dionysus!" He ran to the figure, pressed himself against the body, and kissed him. His hands searched underneath Dionysus' loincloth.
Patroclus rose, standing beside Achilles. "Well," he said. "Nothing to fear from Dionysus except a hangover."
Achilles, watching Eros and Dionysus trade lewd caresses, said, "If you'd heard what I've heard, you'd fear him."
"I have heard what you've heard, golden one. Like Eros he's dangerous, but not malevolent."
"He always demands a sacrifice. Not something easy to provide, like semen. But something more costly."
With great reluctance Dionysus broke his lips free of Eros. His erection now tented his loincloth and for a moment he beamed down at Eros. Then he turned his eyes upon the mortals.
"You're wise, Patroclus. The arts of healing and the arts of war are united within you. Much of the nature of this world is displayed by the unity of opposites. However. Not everyone is so balanced. Your comely lover is quite right to fear me." There was coolness in his eyes. "Eros tells me you wish to be free."
"We are free," said Achilles. "We burned the poet's words."
Eros murmured to Dionysus, "I've told him and told him, but he won't listen."
Dionysus smiled with benign patience. "You've struck off the manacles, to be sure. But that's not liberty. If it's freedom you want ... well, there is a toll charged to take that road."
"So what needs to be done?" asked Patroclus. "What form does the payment take?"
"If you want to be free, walk with Dionysus. That is the next step. As for the toll ... well, one doesn't know the cost until it is time to pay."
"That's an unfair deal," said Achilles.
"It's the only deal put to you," said Dionysus.
"We're still on the road down?" Achilles asked Eros.
But it was Dionysus who nodded. "Patroclus is near the end of his journey, I think. His payment will be far less. But as for you ... the road will go much lower. You will see the depths before you return to the heights, I think."
Achilles and Patroclus exchanged looks.
"Don't fear him," said Eros. "Trust your instincts."
"Don't lie to the mortals, pretty boy," Dionysus chuckled. To the mortals: "Come." He twitched his phallus, summoning them. "It's the only way."
Achilles exchanged another look with Patroclus. The older man nodded. Both took a step.
"That's good," said Dionysus. "But don't forget your clothes. Bring your weapons. Carry everything on your shoulder. I prefer the company of naked men."
As Dionysus bade, Patroclus and Achilles followed, their belongings on their shoulders.
The path rolled on, winding around thick bushes along the banks of the stream. Dionysus and his two leopards led without a backward glance. The god walked with the assurance of a king surveying his domain.
Achilles wondered what this pair of gods had designed. Though he wasn't a subtle man, he knew he and Patroclus had entered a mystery when their cocks had united in Eros' butt. But what? Freedom? Perhaps. A toll? What did that mean? Eros and Dionysus, for all their power, were persuaders, not compellers. Achilles did not feel helpless, as when the blind poet governed him. But neither did he feel as if he were his own master.
The two leopards weren't entirely tame, for from time to time they bounded off after rabbits or small game. Dionysus let them have their play, then summoned them to his side with a whistle. Eros walked in the middle of the procession, his slim buttocks still beckoning to the two men bringing up the rear. No one seemed to want to speak.
As the sunlight waned further the path entered a dense belt of evergreen trees. The shadows thickened on the bed of needles.
"It's been a strange journey, hasn't it?" Dionysus called over his shoulder.
"Yes," said Patroclus. "I suppose we both wonder why we were called."
"You called yourselves, and we heard. Eros first, of course. He heard Achilles' prayer for escape." Dionysus chuckled. "Wanton slut! Eros has been eager for an excuse to ride your organs."
"Ecstasy," said Eros, "is the highest and greatest of all feelings, and only the union of two bodies can achieve it."
"Or three," grinned Patroclus.
"Many people speak against lust," said Achilles.
"Fools fill silence with their foolishness," said Eros.
"A strange journey," repeated Dionysus. "Have you had anything to drink?"
"At the pool, before you arrived," said Achilles. He chuckled. "Though I would not refuse any of your wine."
"Wine?" Dionysus mused. "Very well then. Wine for Achilles."
"Why not Patroclus?" asked Patroclus, brows furrowed.
"Gods write the rules," said Dionysus. "Mortals play the game."
The path passed through a cluster of cypresses and emerged into a broad meadow. The belt of trees encircled it. The sky, growing rich with stars, was free to look down into the meadow. Several streams, flowing down from the heights, joined their water into a fair sized river which flowed towards the low crescent Moon. Campfires glowed and drums throbbed. Figures in stark silhouette leaped in deranged dances around the fires.
"Do you mind," said Eros, "if I pay a visit to your flock?"
Dionysus' grin was visible in the wan starlight. "I've only a few thousand. Are you sure that'll be enough?"
"It's a start!" laughed Eros. He kissed both Achilles and Patroclus. "If things go as I hope, I will see you again in the morning. You, Achilles, must obtain your freedom. But Eros has his own liberty to savor!" With that, he ran off like a night breeze, streaking towards one of the campfires.
"Eros is a beautiful lad," said Dionysus. "And like beautiful lads he is easily distracted. But don't fret. We must resolve the issue of your toll." Dionysus knelt and spoke softly into his leopards' ears. They too ran off into the night, making for the belt of evergreens.
"Eros doesn't sound sure that I can pay," said Achilles, his heart unquiet.
"Quite true. Nonetheless, he has more confidence in you than I. Now come."
Dionysus and the two mortals forded a small stream. The cool water rose almost to their waists. On the far bank was a small copse of trees, thickly draped with ivy. A small stone building sat wedged between two enormous pines. Lichen and moss clothed the building in ancient garments. The trees were so tall that surely the Sun and the Moon must dodge them when they traversed the sky.
"Throw your clothing and your weapons to the ground," Dionysus ordered.
With a clatter, they tossed away their equipment and stood naked in the night.
"Liberty," said Dionysus, "is my gift to bestow. But there's that matter we must deal with."
Achilles said, "Deal with it ... how?" He felt wary. Patroclus' uncertain glance didn't reassure him.
"Men were created to soak the earth with life. To fill every void with their semen," Dionysus said. "They are not meant to pour blood upon the earth. Patroclus has spilled semen and shed blood. But he has staunched the wounds of other men. His balance, though tilted towards the side of blood, is not so skewed as yours, Achilles. I will forgive him and free him. But you? You've spilled semen, but you've shed far more blood. You've staunched no wounds. You've roared and you've slain and you've tilted the balance so far the whole apparatus has toppled. You must atone, Achilles."
Achilles didn't speak. His stomach felt as if he'd swallowed ice.
"Atone?" asked Patroclus. "How will he atone?" His hand slipped round Achilles' waist.
Dionysus ignored Patroclus. "Achilles, son of Pelleus, do you choose to atone for your sins while you were alive?"
"But it wasn't me!" cried Achilles. "The poet --"
"Your hand gripped the sword. This is fact. You took no actions to free yourself from the fate that governed you. This is fact. Now. Do you chose to atone?"
Achilles felt Patroclus' grip tighten. He swallowed then said, "I will atone. Whatever I must do, I will do, I will not be cut away from Patroclus."
The horned god nodded. "Come."
Achilles went to Dionysus. He looked the god in the eyes. Dionysus must know that Achilles remained indomitable.
Dionysus cupped a hand on Achilles' buttock. "Let's begin."
Achilles felt desire kindle within him. He parted his legs, hoping to encourage Dionysus to slip first a finger into his anus, then something far more substantial. He craved to feel embedded within him Dionysus' phallus. The god was an image of Patroclus, bearded and majestic with power.
But Achilles could not tear his mind away from the word atone. What did it mean? Sacrifice? He would not give up Patroclus. He would surrender his life before he surrendered Patroclus.
There was no penetration. Dionysus used Achilles' buttock to move the mortal toward one of the enormous pines flanking the stone building.
"Don't resist," Dionysus said quietly. "You prayed for escape. You asked for liberty. With freedom there is no certainty. Fear and terror will be your companions. You will have no ally but your self. Shall your self be master? That's the question liberty asks."
Fear and terror? thought Achilles. These had been his companions all his life! Nonetheless, the coldness grew heavier and heavier in his stomach.
Roughly Dionysus thrust the warrior against the pine. The god's horns cast sharp shadows on his face. The ivy leaves felt cool against Achilles' back. Dionysus' hand clamped Achilles's throat and his eyes now shone with anger.
"You're a killer," growled Dionysus, "drunk on blood. Resist me and I'l deal with you as you've dealt with others!"
Achilles' fists clenched and power surged through his muscles. But he saw Patroclus' apprehension and maybe the older man's innate wisdom managed to touch Achilles. He relaxed his fists and he let free a shuddering sigh.
"I am Achilles. I have said I would atone."
"Good," crooned Dionysus. His eyes closed and he began to chant.
Achilles shuddered. He felt something like a centipede race across his wrist. He stilled the urge to run. It was not a centipede but a vine, covered with fine stiff hair, and it moved at the behest of the god's chant, binding Achilles fast to the pine. Other vines cinched tight around his ankles, thighs, and chest. Dionysus ceased chanting and regarded the bound figure coolly.
"How am I going to atone?" asked Achilles. "Shackled to a tree?"
"It's simple. First," said Dionysus, "I'm going to torture you. Then I'm going to kill you."
Dionysus turned and walked towards the stone building. Achilles eyes locked with Patroclus. Even in the star-lit gloom Patroclus' worry was clear. Neither man moved. The gulf between them seemed as immense as a sea.
Dionysus pulled open a thick wooden door and entered the building. He emerged bearing a silver trumpet.
"Torture," said Dionysus, "takes many forms. You'll come to appreciate mine." He blew a great blast on the trumpet.
Achilles strained against his bonds. Futile. They were unbreakable.
"Don't be afraid, golden one," Patroclus said softly.
Responding to Dionysus' call, a throng of men emerged from the darkness. They congregated in a semicircle round the stone building, eyeing Achilles and groping Patroclus. Many bore torches. Sculptors had shaped torsos for war, or for running, or for swimming, or for wrestling. All wore masks. The masks depicted animals -- panthers, bulls, horses, even dolphins. Achilles heard the labored breathing of the men humming through gaping mouth holes. Other than the masks the men wore nothing except sweat and erections. Some erections were short, some long, some thick, some slim. All sprouted from groins thick with hair. Achilles faced a phalanx of spears.
Patroclus, like Achilles, stared with fascination at the array of erotic weaponry. His own great organ rose in salute. He grasped one or two, frigging them, a slow grin spreading across his face.
"It is night, men!" roared Dionysus, trumpet cradled under his arm. He grinned and his teeth flashed in the starlight. "Bring the wine! Bring the drums! Light the fires and let's triumph over the darkness!"
What followed was a ritual long practiced. Some of Dionysus' men, hooting and leaping, darted into the building and emerged carrying vats, wineskins and drums. Several men took up the drums and set up a stampeding beat. Logs were arranged in great piles and doused with oil. As soon as the logs were kindled the night scampered back within itself, leaving behind halos of golden luminescence. As wine was poured into the vats, bales of herbs were tossed onto the bonfires. Soon the air was hazy with aromatic smoke. Men plunged their heads into the vats, and drew them back, spluttering and wiping wine from their faces. The air crackled with laughter.
The herbs filled the air with an erotic fog, for as Achilles breathed those fumes it seemed as if invisible fingers caressed his testicles. His organ, tumescent from the sight of so many men, stiffened and throbbed in the firelight. He surged against the vines --
"Try all you wish, Achilles," Dionysus called, toasting him with a cup, sloshing wine everywhere. "They won't break!"
"This is torture!" said Achilles.
"And we've only begun!" The god turned to the raucous men. "Let the fucking begin!"
A great cheer went up. Dionysus danced away into the throng of revelers. Patroclus was already one with the ecstatic mob.
It was torture. The most exquisite pain Achilles had ever endured.
It was impossible to say how many men joined in the orgy. To properly count one must be able to separate one man from another, and these servants of Dionysus sought union. There was no individuality. Undulating muscular bodies sported ever-stiff erections. Firelight danced across sweat-drenched skin. Words? Some. Achilles heard snatches of sentences, many in languages he couldn't comprehend. But the words, no matter how urgent, weren't the true method of communication. The deepest feelings of these congregants emerged in grunts, in cries, in sighs as some giant phallus found a home.
The throbbing of the drums and the throbbing of cocks enthused the men, and bound the torturers to their vine-shackled victim. Heart hammering, Achilles struggled to break free and fling himself in the center of an undulating pile. Fluid leaked from the tip of his erection and his testicles sagged, growing ever more heavy with unspent seed.
Achilles cursed. Atonement? This was hell!
For a brief moment Achilles saw Patroclus' eyes. They were bleary from the thick smoke. His beloved's phallus towered while two men -- one a gigantic brigand with blond hair, the other a slim man with amber skin -- worshipped its potency with slavering lips. Even Patroclus' testicles, drained as they had been by Eros on the banks of the pool, now seemed as swollen and bloated as the Sun. Sweat plastered Patroclus' chest hair to his skin.
"You lucky bastard!" Achilles roared.
If Patroclus heard he gave no sign. His hands dug into the hair of the men servicing him, and he guided them to heighten his ecstasy. Someone handed Patroclus a mask and he donned it. A bull, its horns at least a foot long. Patroclus beat his chest, leaped, spun and plunged into the fray. The blond pushed the amber-skinned man onto his back and thrust himself into a sweet, round butt.
Achilles groaned, surging and twisting against the vines.
The flickering bonfires bathed Dionysus as the god darted here and there. Now he lay on his back, legs lifted, begging this man or that to sodomize him ever more deeply. Now he had seized the waist of a comely youth and sawed his straining phallus between quivering, taut buttocks. Once the light revealed Dionysus engaged with five men simultaneously. Dionysus had mounted a man who crouched on all fours, while absorbing the giant erections of the fair-haired giant and guzzling down the shiny rod of an obsidian-skinned man clad in a lion mask. Dionysus frigged the phallus of one man while his other hand was buried in shadow behind Patroclus' testicles.
The drums throbbed. The men cavorted. High above the stars marched slowly across heaven's black dome. And poor Achilles could do nothing but watch, and hear the ululations of men given up to ecstasy, and smell sweat and seed, and strain against the force which bound him. He could not touch them, and he could not touch himself. He cursed and snarled and roared praise and bellowed encouragement and screamed promises that when he was free, he would show them his mettle.
Sleep crashed over Achilles. A cruel sleep, for it was an orgy of thrashing trees and furious winds.
Achilles woke with the feeling of warm lips against his, a thick beard abrading his chin, and the sensation of fingers expertly tickling his nipples.
"Patroclus," he murmured, opening his eyes.
"Achilles," crooned Dionysus, beaming as he pulled his face away. His erection crossed Achilles'. "Look out on the morning of the last day you'll be alive. Isn't it beautiful?"
Dawn was soft pink like freshly sliced salmon. Mist rose from the nearby stream and hazed the space in front of the copse. Birds greeted the light with rapturous song. Achilles sagged in the grasp of the vines, as limp and spent as if he'd engaged in last night's orgy. Yet inside energy seethed, and his balls throbbed with pain. Some of last night's revelers snored in heaps nearby.
"You're cruel," murmured Achilles.
"You know cruelty far more intimately than I," said Dionysus. "But don't fret. You've come through the torture. All that remains is your death. Are you ready?"
"I've been ready for death all my life."
continued in part 3