Disclaimer: I don't own Troy, or any of its characters. On to the story...
Paris dismounted inside the walls of Troy amidst general confusion and indifference. The real battle was raging outside. No one cared what the young prince had done to make a fool of himself; it did not matter now, and anyway, no one dared to criticize him. A few guards, with genuine concern, attempted to help him dismount and get to his chambers. Without a word he pushed them away and stumbled up to his chambers himself. He could still walk. More was the shame.Once inside, he sent away both his attendants, locked and bolted the door, and collapsed onto his bed. He didn't bother treating his wounds, although pain was shooting through him with every step he took. He would heal with time—again, the fact shamed him. He should have let Menelaus kill him. He had had one chance to prove himself, gain glory and honor for himself and win the war for Troy—and what had he done? Fled to his older brother. Like a ten-year-old child.
He was a coward. He had no right to live. And yet still—still he wanted to live, that same fiery insistence that had flared up in him as Menelaus had raised the blade against him, to end his life. He hadn't cared then, about anything, about anyone, except to go on living. Selfish. Coward.
"Paris!" It was Helen's voice outside his door, concerned, even frantic. "Paris, it's me! It's Helen! Let me in!"
He never wanted to see her again. He had no right, anymore, to be happy. He lay back, staring at the arched ceiling, hearing the dying screams of worthy soldiers outside. Blood was soaking into his sheets. He ignored it. Coward. Traitor.
"Paris!" He closed his eyes and waited for her to go away, but she showed no sign of it. Her cries escalated in volume and intensity. "Let me in!" Finally he could take it no more.
"Leave me be!" he cried, and all his anger and frustration poured out in those three words so that his voice was as sharp and ragged as metal. She fell silent. Paris waited for the sound of her retreating footsteps, but they didn't come. At length she spoke again, barely loud enough to be heard through the door.
"Paris, I swear to you...I will not eat, or sleep, I will die before I leave this doorway without speaking to you." Her voice was full of pain. He felt a twinge of remorse for having spoken to her roughly, followed closely by another surge of anger that he should have to deal with this guilt in addition to all the rest.
He forced himself off the bed and managed to get to the door. His leg could barely hold his weight now, but he walked on it nonetheless. He unbolted the door and wrenched it open.
"What do you want from me?" he demanded.
She stood there, her beauty even heightened by her sadness. She did not answer right away, but reached up to touch his bloodied face, her eyes wide with shock at his wounds. He flinched and evaded her touch. Finally she spoke.
"Oh Paris, I was so afraid..." she moved to embrace him, fling her arms around him, but he turned away from her. His leg screamed with pain and he barely reached the bed before collapsing back onto it. Before she could say anything more, he spoke. "I want you to go."
She stayed by the door, not attempting to advance, but not turning to go, either.
"Have you lost your love for me, then?" she asked softly.
His voice was strained when he responded. He couldn't see her face from where he lay; he didn't want to. He couldn't face her. "Does it matter to you what a coward feels for you?"
Helen approached, slowly, only a few steps to keep from angering him further. "You think yourself a coward?"
He didn't answer. He didn't have to.
"Paris," she said. "My love," she said. His back remained unmoving and intransigent, but tense, so that she knew that he was listening. So she spoke. Her voice was steady, even though hot tears were already forming behind her eyes. Paris needed to understand—why he was alive, why he had to keep living.
"People called Menelaus a hero," she said. "He lived for fighting, and glory, and victory... and every day that I was his wife, I wanted to walk into the sea and drown."
Paris spoke, his voice low and carefully devoid of emotion. "Menelaus was a brave man. He has kept his honor."
"No," said Helen, passionately. "He lived in fear. Of what other men thought of him. He was too afraid of dishonor to ever love someone enough to accept defeat, just to save them, to stay alive and be with them. He was not brave."
She reached his bed and sat on the edge of it, gingerly, as if he was a wounded tiger—dangerous than usual because he was vulnerable and knew it. He did not turn to face her, but neither did he move to send her away. She placed a hand lightly on his shoulder. He was breathing spasmodically, in ragged gasps.
"I left Menelaos and I chose you, my love, because you live for something more than just honor. The power of love burns in you. It is in every move you make. You loved me enough, today, to suffer shame, even disgrace, to save our life together. You stayed alive to save our hope."
Suddenly he flung her hand off him, and turned over abruptly. She started but she held her ground, not getting up from the bed, not retreating. Something terrible burned in his eyes, a pain she had never seen there before. Yes, he still wanted her, but she could not be relieved by it because she saw how he was repressing it, how he felt that he didn't deserve happiness ever again.
"Do not lie to me, Helen," he said, his voice threatening to break because of the weight it carried. He hadn't called her Helen when they were alone together for a long time—it had always been "my love," ever since they were back at Sparta, whispering love words in each other's ears in secret in her room. The coldness in his voice when he spoke her name froze her heart.
"I have lied to myself all my life, pretending I was brave, pretending I was waiting for the moment when I would prove myself," he said. "But I'm not lying to myself now. It was not love that made me flee today. It was fear. I was afraid." She could see how it hurt him to admit it, to hear it in words.
"You were afraid, yes," she cried, "but so are all the soldiers who die with honor. You had a chance to save yourself, and you took it, because you do not live only for glory. You live for love, you live for life. Do you think it would have been noble and brave to allow Menelaus to kill you? Would it have been noble," and her voice broke, so her words came out choked, "to leave me here, alone?"
He had been half-raised on his arms, anger in every line of his body. He was listening, almost helplessly, since his rage did not make him immune to her captivating voice, but he was resolved not to believe a word of what she said. How dare she come in and interfere with his pain? But the sound of her crying startled him. As if her words had the force of truth. His anger broke, and drained from him; he was ashamed to have caused her pain. And to his surprise, he found that this shame ran deeper than what he had felt when he had turned away from the battle.
Did she speak truth? He brought himself back to what was certainly the most painful moment of his existence. Kneeling on the sand at Menelaus's feet, forcing himself to meet his eyes, fearing every second the feel of the sword tearing through his flesh. And at that moment, faces had swum before his vision. Hector. Briseis. His father, Priam. But the clearest of these faces had been Helen's. Pleading with him. Live.
Even so, he argued inwardly. Even if I had a reason for wanting to live. I gave my word. I issued a challenge; it was accepted. I lost, and I fled.
"I betrayed Troy today," he said finally, whispering. "I betrayed you."
Helen exhaled sharply. At least he was speaking of something other than his own glory, his own disgrace. "You saved my life. If you had died, I would have had nothing to live for. I would have given myself to Menelaus and let him do what he would with me. And you know what he would have done."
Paris shuddered to think of it. "I told Hector—not to let Menelaus hurt you."
"I would have gone, whether Hector allowed me to or no. And then Agamemnon, drunk with victory, would have burned Troy to the ground for spite. You know this."
He did know it. This war was not about Menelaus' pride; it was about Agamemnon's hunger for power and control. What had his challenge been for, then? Glory. Honor. Victory...perhaps they would never be his. For fear or for love—for he still could not know which—he had run from the battle. But what was honor? What did it matter what people centuries from now would think of him? Helen was here with him, today, tomorrow, the next day...
His face was unreadable, and all at once Helen was consumed with urgency. She could not live without him. He needed to understand. Risking all, she placed a hand on his cheek, ignoring the blood on her hands. Her voice was pure emotion. "Paris, please—you kept my hope alive today, when you turned back from the battle. Please don't kill it now."
Love. He still had love. He would always have her love, just as she would always have his. Love was not something to rashly throw away your life for; it was something to live for. He was alive. And he could not but be glad of it, for he had Helen to love, and to love him back.
He reached up and covered her hand on his cheek with his own, gently, as if he could hardly believe that she was there, that so soon after his defeat he could be feeling happiness again. Suddenly, he reached out and took her other hand and drew her down with him. His hand was still grimy with sand and streaked with blood, but she took it without hesitation, held it as if she planned never to let go. He encircled her body with his arms; his grip was tight and urgent, and his pressure on her fair skin thrilled her whole body. He kissed her, deep and passionate, and she kissed him back, urgently, her tears becoming tears of relief, of joy. Their love had lived. Their love would live forever.