A/N: I am so sorry. Like, really sorry. What has it been, more than a month? That's super embarrassing and, honestly, I have no excuse. A few days delay, yeah whatever. Weeks of delay are awful though. I know. Sorry again. I'm really not happy with these scenes. They kind of bored me and even though I loved writing Andromache and I had more plans for her scene, I was just not up to fleshing out everything in my head. Thanks to everyone who stayed with me and everyone who reviewed. You guys know who you are. All my love to you.
"We must go back, Father! They can't be far off, let me have riders to go catch them," Paris pleaded.
"No."
"Why? You're throwing away the life of your son! How could you?"
"Enough, Paris. Leave me," Priam replied, to tired to continue arguing with his headstrong son.
But Paris would not be deterred. Shaking off the warning hand on his left shoulder, he stormed up to the throne shouting, "You were so eager to start this war! You said this would be an easy victory for Troy and now look at you! The loss of Hector has unraveled any confidence you once had. You're cowering behind your walls in your extravagant palace while Hector's life is in the hands of a monster!"
The court was buzzing with whispers as news of the prince's unmannerly tirade passed around the great hall. Priam gathered himself, shivering with the effort as he opened his mouth to chastise his errant son. But before he could say a word, Paris cried out.
"They're torturing him!"
Silence fell over the room, the high ceilings magnifying only the slightest shuffles.
"When I found him, he was strung up, hanging by his arms. He could barely walk. He hadn't been allowed water. He was covered in bruises," Paris said quietly, the walls echoing the acute pain in his voice. Tears gather in his eyes. Tears of frustration, helplessness, and anguish.
He had to restrain himself from running out of the hall, but managed to stay composed until the heavy door was closed behind him, leaving a stunned and wordless court.
And he ran. Ran away from choices, past his decisions. He ran away from his brother, his guardian and his protector. From responsibility. From what was right. And he ran to safety and comfort, hating himself all the while.
He burst into his chambers, looking for the one balm to soothe his aching heart. And there she was. In all her splendid glory.. And Paris was again struck by how beautiful she was. What did I do to receive such a queen? There is no beauty in the world that can compare.He drank in the sight of her slender arms, her full hips and perfect breasts, covered by a sheer robe that only accentuated her nakedness underneath. Her curls had been pulled up in a simple updo, held with an elaborate ornamental pin, set with fiery gems. A brilliant golden crown rested on her head. He knelt next to the bed, took her cold hands in his and brought them to his cheek.
"Oh, Helen," he sighed into her palm, kissing it gently.
"Paris, I am so glad you came back safely. I was so worried when I heard the bells."
"Helen, I've done a horrible thing. I cannot go back, Father has forbidden it. The things they were doing to him! And I left him. And I should have insisted we leave the boy behind. But why did he take him? I don't understand why he's always so stubborn. He wouldn't have - we would have made it but he - why did he?"
He was rambling, his thoughts incoherent but he couldn't stop himself. The dam was cracking and a flood of emotion was ripping open his already injured heart.
But then Helen brought his lips to hers and all he could think of were those lips. So soft and delicious. She pulled away and put her finger to his lips.
"Peace, Paris. Don't think of such things, love. I want you to think about what is in our present. Think about me, my love. Think about tonight and what is to come. Forget your stress tonight, my prince."
And she took out the pin and shook out her golden curls. She reached behind her back and suddenly, the shimmering brocade fell to lap around her thighs, revealing creamy skin and slender curves. She stretched out and guided Paris onto the bed.
And he was lost.
Throwing off his light armor, his tunic, chucking his sandals into the corner, he attacked her breasts, biting and suckling until he squealed. She replied just as passionately, grabbing his hair with one hand and slipping the other to his member. He was already hard and weeping. She wrapped her long legs around his torso and pushed at his shoulders.
"Hold me down," she pleaded.
Paris grabbed her wrists and pinned them above her head, her pleas driving him to a ferocity he wasn't familiar with. He used his free hand to grab her head and bring it up for a bruising kiss. He threw her head back down on the pillows. Then he pushed inside of her. She was slick and the passage was easy. He worked up a brutal rhythm and gripped her wrists so tightly, she gasped with pain. She thrashed under him but pleaded for more. Egged on by her sweet calls, he finished with a shaky groan and collapsed by her side. Breathless, they lay there, unmoving, listening to the sunrise.
"I love you, Helen."
"And you are all I've ever wanted, Paris."
Her stomach growled and she giggled at the innapropriate sound, feeling like a little girl again. Or maybe that was just the sleep deprivation talking. She hadn't slept since the night before the battle, and that sleep had been a restless one. Kneeling on her chamber's cold, marbled floor, her only cushioning a thin, pale blue silk, she prayed. A prayer for deliverance, for salvation. She prayed to Apollo for reason and to Ares to give her love physical strength and to wreak war upon the Greeks. She prayed to Scamander, the river-god of the Troad, for one more attack on Achilles. Oh great son of Oceanus, hear me now. Raise up your waters once more. Finish your labors, thrice-failed but not again. Conjure your cascades, your deluges. Let them fall on the son of Peleus like hammer on anvil. Let them herald the death of the so-called invincible Achilles. Please. Please. Kill him.
It was the same mantra she had been repeating to the empty room for more than a day and a half now. And she would keep praying it until her wish came true. I have never asked the gods for much. I have lived virtuously, prayed religiously. Surely, the gods have no reason to deny me. Please.
A soft rap resounded through the high-ceilinged chamber. Andromache ignored it, hoping that the unwelcome interruption would remove itself if it did not receive a response. The knock came again to her dismay.
"Please leave," she called. Croaked. Gods, was that her voice? Rough, gravelly, hardly the voice of a noble lady, much less a princess. She swallowed, trying to sweeten her voice to its normal melodic tone, but the words stuck in her dry throat. "Korinna, I will eat when I am hungry. Feel free to finish the plate before you take it back to kitchen. Thank you, dear."
"My lady, it is Paris."
Andromache let out a gasp and brought her legs up to stand. Fatigued and weak, she immediately collapsed with a cry as her knees protested against the sudden straightening. At her yelp, Paris pounded his fists against the door, shouting her name. Then the door began to quiver as Paris threw his weight against it.
"Paris, don't break the door down," Andromache called weakly, "I'm alright, I promise." Unwilling to attempt standing again, she crawled over to the door and knelt up to undo the latches that held it shut. "It's open," she said before sinking down back to the floor.
Paris threw open the door and rushed to her side, hurriedly asking after her health and wellbeing. The concern in his voice made her smile. "Paris, I swear to you that I am fine. I am just happy that you have returned to us safely."
"You haven't changed your clothes. Your maid tells me that you have not eaten nor slept since the duel. She tells me that you sit in here praying without cease. You are not fine. I've brought food for you."
"Please, Paris. I'm really not hungry," Andromache protested.
"It's been more than two days. You have always been a wise woman, Andromache, don't be difficult." He brought a food tray out from the hallway and set it down next to the bed. He gently grasped her hands and began to pull her up when she removed her hands from his.
"I don't think I can walk," she bit out, embarassed about her feeble state.
Wordlessly, Paris picked her up in his arms, carried her up the short steps to her bed and sat her on the blue and purple linens. He picked up an ivory hairbrush and began to comb it through her hair, removing the snags and tangles with the utmost care. She relaxed under his ministrations and asked, "How is Helen?"
He glanced at her face and read into the underlying question. "How did you know?"
"There are bite marks all over your neck, dear. You are not subtle in the slightest."
Paris blushed and they sat in silence again.
Finally, he could endure it no longer. "Will you say something?" He cried.
Completely startled, Andromache could only stare at him blankly.
"Scream at me! Tell me that it's all my fault! Tell me to go back for him!"
"I have made my peace with Hector. His death is not your doing and I would never tell you to go on a foolhardy mission. One with no positive outcomes and no meaning."
Paris stared back at Andromache. He couldn't believe his ears. He had expected rage, hatred, depression. Anything but a rational response. And all he could think of was, "He's not dead."
She gave him a wry smile and replied, "I wish he was."
Then she began crying. Tears streamed down her face and her shoulders were shaking but she didn't make a sound. Paris, unsure of what he should do, wrapped his arms around her and rocked her back and forth, praying that everything would end well. Praying that Hector came back for his wife. For his child. For him.