Remember When It Rained
- One -

It was raining.

She could hear them laughing downstairs in the banquet hall, their drunken stories growing louder and more outrageous with each wine pitcher the slave girls brought to the long tables. She rolled over in bed and covered her head with a pillow. Still their voices permeated her bedroom and she sighed.

Someone was walking up the stairs. Not a slave girl—no, the footfalls were too heavy.

Muscles tensed, she slowed her breathing and lay absolutely still.

The footsteps moved closer to her bed, and she could hear labored breathing. Gods, no—why couldn't he go back downstairs and drink himself into a stupor?

He dropped into bed next to her, fumbling to slide his legs beneath her blanket and pressed his body against her back.

Her eyes flew open in delight and she turned to face him. "Paris."

"Helen," he returned, pulling her into his arms. He smelled of wine, and when he kissed her, Helen felt just as drunk as him. His mouth tasted like the wine he had drunk—rich, heady, and entirely intoxicating. His fingers brushed past her face, winding themselves into her thick, blonde locks, pulling her face against his.

"Paris," she gasped as he moved from her mouth, tilting her chin to press hot kisses to her neck.

"My love," he breathed. "Sweet, beautiful Helen…"

It was so much better when he said it.

Poor Menelaus—strong, handsome, awkward, clumsy Menelaus. The king of Sparta led hundreds of men into battle, was renowned for his skill as a ruler and warrior, but knew nothing of women, or of love. He came to her bed intoxicated and made love to her with as much gentleness and care as he afforded a favored weapon. But a wife is not a sword, and Helen always shied away from his drunken embrace, when his rough beard scratched her soft cheek and his hands were too demanding.

"My Helen," he always said. "My perfect wife."

Poor Menelaus, living in the shadow of his older brother, Agamemnon. Poor Menelaus, always inadequate, no matter how great his glories. Poor Menelaus, who had all the power a man could want, but never had enough. And poor Helen, forced to endure his sighs and complaints, ignored for days then expected to play queen, both in his banquet hall and in his bed.

When the envoys from Troy had arrived, Helen stood blank-faced behind her husband. King Priam was too old to make the long journey across the sea, and had sent three of his sons in his stead—Deiphobus, the oldest prince of Troy, Hector, the most beloved, and Paris, one of the younger princes.

Helen had not noticed Paris at first, but he had noticed her, and sought her out, presenting her with Trojan baubles and trinkets, smiling and lingering just a little too long. She had accepted his attention only after she realized that Paris' attentions would deflect Deiphobus'. Deiphobus was nothing like Paris. He was taller and bulkier with a dark, almost wild-looking beard. He wore his hair shorn close to his head, like Menelaus, and the way he looked at Helen made her shudder.

So she had allowed Paris to befriend her.

And then he had bedded her, and now she was physically ill at the thought that he would leave her here alone with her heavy-drinking, thoughtless, red-haired husband.

Paris hovered over her, breathing hard. He pushed her hair out of her face with such tenderness that Helen wanted to weep.

"Paris, don't go," she said. "Please. Never leave."

"Sweet Helen," he said, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Don't think of it. The envoys will linger at least a week more."

"Menelaus?" Helen inquired, struck suddenly that her husband might still find his way to her bed tonight.

"Snoring blissfully on a stack of cushions in the banquet hall." Paris smirked. "I've never seen a king overindulge as often as your husband." He flopped down beside her.

Delighted, Helen wriggled upward in bed and kissed his neck. "Good," she said. "Then let's use this time…" She tugged at his earlobe with her teeth and whispered into his ear, "For us… alone… finally alone."

Paris pulled away and sat up. "Helen."

Hurt at his rebuttal, she frowned.

"I've had a dream."

A smile slipped across her lips and she reached for him. "Come here and I'll make it come true."

He caught her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm. "No, truly, my love—a vision. A vision from the gods."

Helen frowned again at his serious countenance. His eyes, bright blue like the sea, held no playfulness tonight. He turned his head away from the torchlight that blazed beside her window, casting his face half into shadow.

"They have never come to me before," he said. "I have heard the tales of men and women who have seen the gods, who have loved and lost them, who have been violated or despised by them, but I have never seen it for myself…" He turned back toward her, and the fire illuminated his face. "Until now."

Helen didn't know what to say, but Paris continued without encouragement.

"You should have seen her, Helen—she was so lovely I felt as thought I'd die when I saw her. It was… it was like she was too lovely to be seen by mortal eyes."

Helen felt a prickle of jealousy. Who could possibly have captivated him so?

"And then she spoke. It was like… like singing—only no singing I could have imagined myself. And do you know what she said?"

His face was beatific.

"What?" Helen asked, feeling immensely displeased. What was this new snub? For him to crawl into her bed and speak of a beauty beyond compare?

Paris leaned forward and clasped both her hands in his. "That you are mine. She gave you to me."

"Who?"

"Aphrodite," Paris breathed. "The goddess of love herself came to me in a vision and told me to take you away from this place. She told me you belong to me now—that we belong to each other—and no one, god or man, can keep you from me."

Helen gave a short, sharp laugh and pulled her hands away. "You are drunk, darling," she said. "You know Menelaus would never let me go."

Paris shook his head, the soft, dark curls moving side to side, and wound his fingers with hers. "You're not listening. What Menelaus wants, you living as his wife—those days are over. The only thing that matters now is that we are together."

"You're impossible." Helen tried to pull away, but he held her fast. "If we left together it would mean my head," she said. "Instead you will leave me, and it will only mean my heart."

"And you're not listening." He clasped her hands to his chest, and she could hear his heart beating rapidly, like a bird desperately flapping its wings beneath his ribcage. "Aphrodite came to me in a vision and told me that we belong together. You and I. Not you and Menelaus. Not me and a noblewoman from Troy. You and me."

"Paris," she said, helpless, weak with desire at the thought of escape.

"Come with me, Helen. Run away with me to Troy—we'll set sail tomorrow morning, while Menelaus is still to hung over to realize you're missing. It'll be hours before anyone knows, and by then it will be too late. You'll be gone forever."

"Paris," she protested.

"Helen," he said, releasing one of her hands and cupping her chin in his hand. It was strong, his grasp firm, but he didn't have any of the broad calluses that Menelaus sported, and his grip didn't hurt. "You'll never have to see Menelaus again," he said. "Live with me and I will love you and the goddess will protect us forever."

"Paris," she said again, weakening.

"Say yes." He laid down and pulled her into his arms, covering her face with kisses. "Say yes, my love. Say yes and we'll go away from here forever."

She couldn't think.

Paris was slipping her tunic upward, running his lips over her collarbone, destroying whatever reservations she might have had. "Let me please you, Helen," he said. "Let me love you always. Come with me to Troy." He kissed her hard. "Say yes. Please say yes."

The please, with his tousled hair and his adoring eyes, undid Helen. She nodded. "Yes," she whispered. "Yes, I'll go."

"Oh, Helen," he sighed.

And Paris, giver of immaculate pleasure, pleased Helen, Queen of Sparta, greatly.

Outside, the rain fell harder.