A/N: A bit of an alternate character interpretation to a character everyone disregards as just the vapid, vain and shallow pretty boy. And Greek mythology is really inspiring. Hopefully, I did it justice.
passivity.
There is deliberation in his steps, almost as if with every inch forward, there is a purpose there, something definite. His smiles are not given freely, instead passed around like an intimate secret. They are sly and wicked and filled with unsung promises. They are coveted, the sharp twist of his lips passed through whispers and rumours. He is unfeeling, they say, the lightest touch of lips to an earlobe, a soft giggle, the gleam of a harpy's eyes, he is arrogant, he is a prince, we are not good enough for him.
he wishes for a goddess, they say, eyes flashing and long fingers curling around the soft limestone of the courtyard, flower petals crushed casually under leather strapped sandals, we are nothing but queens.
(She finds him sometimes, in the dark of night, eyes cast to the stars and mouth curled into the softest smile she's ever seen. His face is clouded over, almost wistful in nature.
She likes to think that those smiles are for her, swept up in the blanket of the dark.)
ambition.
Paris is sweet, Paris is elegant, Paris is beloved. He is perfection in the skin of a mortal.
Still, they say he is a coward, they say he does not know the way of the warrior, they say that this pampered little boy doesn't know the taste of war nor the kiss of death. That the only kisses he'll ever know are those from degenerate sluts and whores who throw themselves at him with disregard to respect.
Paris turns his head and looks to the stars and instead dreams of a day when he can step out of Hector's shadow and when the world can see him for the glory that he is.
The rumours are true; he yearns for his goddess but marries a nymph. Oenone is beautiful and slender and alluring as the river water from whence she came but she is dull and he wants passion. There are glass shards in his smile and ice in his eyes when he tells her he loves her and kisses her with the touch of a needle.
intention.
Paris likes to think himself above the common man. He is a genius. He is intelligent beyond their primitive little minds and he thinks of the day when his prize will be won.
He puts the bulls against each other with the slightest gesture of his wrist. Flicks his fingers and sends them into such a fury that they scream and stampede and charge at each other with red in their eyes. Paris only laughs and twitches slender fingers once more.
The prize bull wins. Once. Twice. Again. Paris only watches with sharp eyes and an appraising gleam in his smile.
His boasts are loud and he watches out of the corner of his eye for the gods' inevitable intervention. Mortals' pride is not tolerated and to be crushed afoot by the lofty and arrogant gods seated atop their mountain. Paris's eyes narrow as he shouts out that his bull is the best; that it is undefeated, that not even the gods would dare challenge him and he waits in vigil for a strike of lightning, a roar of rage, a primeval shift.
He thinks nothing of the words but they slide off his tongue like honey in water.
Paris puts on a mask of easy grace and easy arrogance and smirks a secret smile that sends women swooning.
Ares comes crashing down in a thunderous roar and the strongest bull that plows over Paris's prized one is obviously muscled and a bright crimson red that screams of godly origins. The prize bull's dying scream is lost in the cheer of the crowd.
When rowdy Ares turns back into the façade of a man and stands twenty feet tall, towering over Paris like a statue, the crowd's cheers grow uneasy and confused. One harsh glare from the brute of a god sends them into wild and frenzied claps and hurrahs again but Paris can hear the fear and subconscious contempt in their howling voices. Ares turns and stares at Paris with fire in his eyes and demands his prize.
They expect Paris to fall to his knees and scream of the loss of his prized bull.
They expect Paris to jeer and cry at the unfairness of the god coming in to battle.
They expect Paris to be the coward he is.
Paris smiles a wicked smile and sinks to his knees but not in fear and not in hesitance but gracefully and regally and tilts his head the slightest bit up to look Ares in the eye. "My Lord," he murmurs and his voice is soft and eloquent and unwavering as he lifts the crown high. The sun gleams in his bright eyes. "Your prize is won."
When Zeus comes to him, Paris's smile is a soft lilt of his lips and he whispers, my liege, my king, my lord, in the same voice he uses to soothe the sheep.
Hera is beautiful and merciless. She pins him with a thousand mile stare as she twirls the white ribbon into Paris's silky golden tresses and the curve of her face is as vast as mountains and as fathomless as the sea.
Athena's eyes are the storm clouds that shape the sky when rain pours, wisdom and strength and this overwhelming sense of antiquity hits him like a tonne of rocks as she holds her head high and stares down at him from the straight line of her nose.
Aphrodite lives up to her name as she extends an arm out to him, dainty and pure with silky white skin that looks like the pale moon lighting up the night sky. Her smile is soft but Paris sees the calculating edge hidden beneath. There are flowers in her hair but Paris likes to imagine what they'd look like if they wilted, dead and limp and still so beautiful.
"Choose," Zeus booms in his heavenly voice and Paris almost imagines a hint of annoyance lining that deep baritone.
He hides his smile and adopts a reverent face. "I cannot," he says, softly, gently, hesitantly, as if trying not to offend. And before Zeus can strike him down in his rage, quickly amends his statement. "They are all so fair."
Zeus's face is a thundercloud.
Paris sneaks a secret look at Aphrodite from the corner of his eyes.
"Let them disrobe." Paris was never one to miss an opportunity.
He picks Aphrodite and it goes without saying as soon as she opens her mouth and the musicals words of, I'll give you Helen, come sliding out.
Paris is a prince and perfection in the skin of a mortal. He will not stop at anything less than a goddess.
heroism.
When he sneaks into the darkened room of Helen, he watches her sleep for what feels like hours. Helen's face is smooth and fair and her hair is soft tresses that fan about the pillow like a dark halo around her pale, pale face. She is Zeus's daughter and Paris imagines the piercing blue eyes that might show if she opened them but he sees something of Aphrodite's elusive beauty in her, that same aroma that surrounds that of a prize you cannot obtain.
It is foolishness.
If he so set his mind to it, Paris could have the world.
He wakes her with the prod of a finger. Helen is beautiful; even as she slides her sleep weary eyes open and as she regards him with a look of confusion and suspicion.
He raises the same slender finger to his lips and pulls her out of bed. Menelaus snores on, unknowing of the surprise that would await him in the morning.
Helen is hesitant at first, confused and defiant.
Paris pulls her to his chest and presses his lips to hers and then she says nothing more.
Oenone understands. She doesn't cry, doesn't curse him, doesn't scream his name to the heavens and hate him in her heart.
Instead, her eyes are sad and her expression says, I understand, and, If you must, and she tells him her arms are open if he be wounded.
Cassandra screams. Hector's face is disapproving.
But Paris pays them all no mind and laughs with Helen, dances with her, pulls her close and touches her nose with the pad of his index finger. Her smiles are the sun, her eyes are the stars and her lips are smooth valleys and perfection and beauty and all he could ever want in the world. This is love, he thinks, and this is passion and this is everything he dreamed life would be.
Helen's face is soft as night and she whispers his name with a voice that could have escaped from heaven. He dreams she is a dove and he is the sky and they twist and turn and their love lasts forever.
(But he wakes dull eyed in the middle of the night and he wonders if it was all worth it, if the ships on the edge of the horizon were only his imagination or the feeling of impending doom weighing down on his shoulders. He wakes with glazed over vision and wonders if he's finally proved himself or not.
Paris is used to the jeers and the taunts and Cassandra's accusations slide off him like oil on water.
He turns and presses an arm around Helen's waist and that is the end of that.)
And just like that, a war is started.
Paris watches from the window of his room as the fires burn and the battle rages on and doesn't know whether to laugh or to cry.
He settles for his wicked smile, turns his back and pretends he doesn't hear Helen calling from their chambers.
sacrifice.
Menelaus's sword is unforgiving and Paris thinks that there is no further agony than this, that there is no further humiliation than dying in the sand lying at his enemy's feet and face pressed into the dirt. His mouth is dry, his body slick with blood and he thinks, in this moment, he wants nothing more than death.
But even that does not come easily to him. Aphrodite's skin is as smooth as he thought it would be when he first saw her, her eyes still as soft, her hair still as beautifully curled. The flowers in her hair are as bright as the day he saw her, vibrant and proud against a backdrop of bloody war. Her smile is sad and cruel all at once as she draws him in her arms and places a soft kiss against his sweaty brow.
Paris feels the tender lips on his feverish skin and wonders when he'll be able to see Helen again.
Helen's face is the first thing that greets him as he opens his eyes. Her name the first on his tongue as he wakes.
Aphrodite stands in the corner and the sadbutcruel smile is plastered on her face as she stands as still as a statue and watches the lovers' embrace.
The war has gone on for years and everyone is tired and half dead. All around Troy, Paris sees drooping faces and saddened glances and harsh, fierce glares sent at his back when they think he doesn't see. Helen is distraught, crying in their chambers every day, weeping by the window and glancing out at the ruins around them.
He feels a pang of anger when she turns to him and asks if she made the right choice.
Paris doesn't say a word, merely gives her a stony look and turns, leaving her kneeling on the ground. She looks up to him in despair.
His footsteps echo as he walks out of the room.
Paris has always preferred the bow and arrow to a sword. His brothers laughed and the warriors laughed and his father laughed. He picked up the bow and his arrow misses the bulls eye by 5 inches and they all laugh some more.
So Paris has never been the best in combat, never the strong one. He has relied on his beauty and his grace and his intelligence for his whole life.
It never feels better when Apollo guides his arm and his arrows and they fly straight and Achilles falls like the beast he is.
Paris smiles a rare beautiful smile when the man is dead at his feet.
The men celebrate and for a single, fleeting moment in his life, Paris feels a spark of acceptance and a sense of camaraderie from his fellow countrymen. They do not laugh and they do not jeer and Paris stands tall and proud and wonders if this is what it was like to be common and accepted.
(Of course, the moment doesn't last and Paris goes back to his beautiful wife and wily stares and wicked smiles.)
Of course, Cassandra's prophecies were truthful, disbelieved as she was.
Their victory doesn't last.
Paris falls. Philoctetes stands triumphant. There is no Aphrodite to make amends.
When Helen begs her, Oenone only smirks in a facsimile of Paris's old smile and turns her back.
He perishes the next day, leaving behind a city in ruins, a widowed beauty and reputations tarnished.
surface.
The Underworld is bleak.
Paris steps onto the fields of Asphodel and gazes around him at the vast emptiness.
His lips curl into a wicked smile that had lost its edge. His face cracks from the strain and he falls, heavy with his life, to his knees.
(It was said that he did not smile. It was said that his smiles were rare and beautiful and wicked.)
He thought himself perfection in the skin of a mortal.