The Death of Paris
By ElveNDestiNy
May 29, 2004
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended on The Iliad, or Troy, the movie. Credit to references used is given in Chapter 1.
Author's Notes: For clarification, this chapter take places approximately ten years after Chapter 1, placing it in the tenth and last year of the Trojan War, in which most of the action happens.
Dedication: For every child that has felt the pain of abandonment, for every mother that has suffered loss.
Chapter 2: Abandonment, Seduction, and SorrowO Father, do you know how old your son is today? Ten years I have wondered whether we truly meant so little to you. What could have possibly changed you so, that you would willingly leave your wife and son behind?
Father, do you ever spare a thought for us, your family, Oenone and Corythus, whom you left behind on Mount Ida? It has been ten years since you left us and she would not say where you went, only that you are in a war. Ten years of battle and bloodshed. Do you ever miss the quiet love, the peaceful green valleys where you tended the sheep? Do you still have the reed pipes I made for you; do you still play them and listen to the wild yet sweet music?
Why? Why did you leave us here, to face the winters lonely and cold, to bear the mocking smiles of others? They whisper that lovely Oenone has finally lost her man, that Paris had ever a roving eye and that he has left her for another. Then the maids take their turns trying to seduce me, and their mothers say how I look so much like my father. My father, who left us. Why, Paris? Why?
I wonder why I even call you father. It is Oenone who raised me, who cared for me and gave me her love, and I always call her Oenone. Did you know that she has not aged since you left? She's as beautiful as she was when she married you...maybe that's why I cannot seem to call her mother. The few visitors to come are always surprised to find that she gave birth to me, for she looks young, though grief-stricken, and she could pass for my older sister.
Some things, once broken, can never be made whole again. You did that to her, you shattered her heart, and it still bleeds as if the wounds were fresh. She spends a lot of time by the river, by her father, and grows ever wilder, ever the more magical and elusive. Sometimes when I hug her, I can feel the frailness of her bones, the thinness of her shoulders. I find myself envisioning one day when she will simply dissolve into mist and be blown away by the wind.
Yet she is strong, we are strong. After you abandoned us, I stepped into your place, a six-year-old child suddenly feeling the full burden of responsibilities. I only asked her once, one single time, why you had left. She offered not explanations or tears, only a promise that I would receive the full story when I was a man grown.
Did you know how hard it was, after you had left? She became the local healer, but some days we went to sleep hungry and cold. At night, I would hear her cry. She never called out your name, but I know it was you that she dreamed of. She dreams true dreams, you know...I sometimes wonder what it is that she sees, when she wakes up terrified in the night.
I look into the mirror and I can see both you and Oenone. Did you know, Paris, that I have Oenone's dark hair with hints of blue, as well as her blue eyes, the signs of my half-human, half-naiad legacy? It must be hard for her to look at her son, because everything else I inherited from you. When I look into the mirror I see your face looking back out at me.
I never asked her why you left us, after that one time. That did not stop me from wondering, and ten years is a long time to wonder.
Do you know how old I am today, Father? I am ten and six years old, and I am a man grown in the eyes of both Greeks and Trojans. Today, Oenone will finally put an end to my wondering, and I will learn the truth of why you left us. Why she sleeps lonely and in agony each night, why she has refused every man since. She is still faithful to you, did you know? As faithful to you as you were faithless to her.
Today, I will learn why her eyes are red from weeping every morning, why you left a beautiful naiad and her six-year-old son. May the gods help me, and you, then, when I learn why you put us through such pain.
Did you know, Paris, that she still loves you?
- o - o - o - o -
She loved her son with all that was left of her heart. Corythus made it easy for her to devote herself to him. He was the one reason why she was still strong, why she had not drowned herself in the waters that she had been born from.
They ate dinner quietly but she found she could not touch the simple food. As the years had passed, she had found herself trying to think of ways to break her promise to Corythus. If only he would never have to know...if only she could keep this secret locked deep inside her heart forever... She was afraid of what her son might do when he finally learned of the reasons for his father's abandonment of him. Oenone wondered how much of Paris he remembered. She dropped the wooden spoon out of nerves when Corythus suddenly spoke.
"Oenone," her son said steadily, catching her eyes even as she tried to look away. She knew that this was a moment that could not be denied any longer. "Tell me about Paris."
So he remembered his father's name, although she had not spoken it since he had left. Of course he would, she thought. If Oenone had suffered when Paris had left her, she suffered doubly so for the sake of her fatherless son.
"It started over a golden apple," she said, voice as even and dispassionate as she could keep it. "A golden apple, with a note that said, 'To the most beautiful.' Of course, Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite immediately began to quarrel over it. They called upon Zeus for his judgment, but he was too wily, knowing that the two that were not awarded the apple would be wroth with him."
"Paris," Corythus breathed, knowing it must be the answer. "Paris had a reputation for fair judgment."
Oenone nodded bitterly. "Yes, it was your father that Zeus chose, and the three goddesses in turn tried to bribe him. Hera with power and the reverence of men, Athena with wisdom, and Aphrodite...what would the goddess have offered him, but love?"
Corythus turned away, his hands clenching into fists. "He did not need love! He had you—a naiad, a beautiful immortal wife. He had me, his son. He had us, he did not need Aphrodite's love!"
"Corythus, Corythus," Oenone said as she turned to him, entreating him. "The goddess of love offered him the most beautiful woman in the world, and Paris accepted. The apple was given to Aphrodite."
"The most beautiful woman in the world! Paris had you—"
"Shhh, Corythus, let me finish." Oenone found that her hands were trembling and she grasped them tightly together so that her son would not notice. She did not know that her eyes betrayed her: dark, swimming with pain and tears, too large in her delicate pale face. "Her name...her name was Helen, and she was the queen of Sparta, married to another man. Paris...he was obsessed, enthralled. I could not hold him to us forever, Corythus, and one night he left us. I offered him faithful love, and in return he gave me faithless love. He left for Helen, and I lost him. In the end, there was always Helen."
Corythus would not meet her eyes. He turned and paced in the small room, face hidden by the shadows. It reminded her abruptly of that last night, when she and Paris and exchanged such hard words, and his face had been veiled by the shadows. "You love him, still."
She had not expected this. Yet even as Oenone felt her heart become a leaden weight in her chest, she could not bring herself to deny it. Ten years, she told herself, ten years and she still had not learned to forget him. Would she never learn?
"Your father was a prince of Troy, and he went also to claim his birthright. After sailing to Sparta, he seduced Helen and stole her away. The Greeks declared war upon Troy, and it has been battle ever since. I dream of him more and more frequently," she found herself confessing to Corythus. "I see him defeating Achilles, I see him wounded...I see him dying on the blood-soaked battlefield."
"If he shall die, it will be my will," Corythus declared, standing.
"Corythus, what are you saying?" Oenone grasped his arms in alarm, and then the memory came of how she had done exactly the same to Paris, before he had left. She let go quickly.
"Let me go to Troy, Oenone, so that I might speak with Paris."
"What for? Corythus, when he left ten years ago, he knew that he had chosen Helen over us. He will not love you, perhaps will not even acknowledge you."
"Oenone, do not try to dissuade me from this. I have been your son, and you know that I love you well. I do this for you as well as myself. My presence will drive a rift between Paris and Helen, perhaps destroy their union." He did not say the thoughts in his mind, that he did it for her, but also for himself. Corythus had to meet his father again, had to see this woman that had torn their little family apart.
"Do you believe that even now, I would take Paris back?" Oenone demanded, but her voice lacked the conviction she needed.
Corythus looked steadily at her, always too perceptive. "Can you say you would refuse him?"
There was nothing she could say to that. I am a fool, she thought, a fool to love him after all these years, after he has betrayed me, left me for another woman. Yet love could not be governed by reason or logic.
"You have last winter's drachmas, and the year before that as well." He looked steadily at her, refusing to rethink his decision even as he saw her tears overflow and slide down her smooth cheeks like two rivers.
"Corythus, do not do this," she whispered. "Do not leave me, as he has. Please, my son."
"Forgive me, Oenone, but I must. Say that you understand, Oenone, tell me this. I will return Paris to you, to us."
"It is too late," she told him, but relented. "I do understand, Corythus, and I do believe you."
"I will leave early next morning. Farewell, Oenone. Do not fear for me; I swear by the gods that I will return to you when my task is complete," Corythus said.
"Corythus," she said again, pleadingly. Oh, gods, how she had pleaded with Paris this same way! Like father, like son, she found herself thinking, watching numbly as the tall, strong figure of her son walked away from her and disappeared into his own room. "Corythus." It was no use; she knew it. She had not stopped Paris from walking out of her life, and now her son would do the same.
She hated herself for lacking the will to call him back, to tell him that he meant more to her than Paris. Even as she opened her mouth to tell Corythus those very thoughts, Oenone knew that Paris would always be first and greatest in her heart.
Would she sacrifice her son to have him back? Gods help her, she would, and Oenone knew it. For Paris...she was willing to do anything, anything to have his love back.
She sat at the table and put her head down on her arms, feeling hot tears soak through the thin linen. "Don't leave me here alone," she cried softly, praying to the gods, to whoever would listen and help her. "Come back to me."
Yet even then she did not know if she was praying for her son or for Paris.
- o - o - o - o no longer knew if he was the seducer or the seduced. He was completely hers from the first time he had laid eyes on her. She could tempt any man to their doom. He had meant to seduce her, to take her to bed to stir the jealousy of Paris. He had meant for Paris to return to Oenone, to restore their happy little family. Instead, he had fallen, and fallen fast, to the allure of Helen.
Now as he lay in bed, cheek resting on her golden hair and smelling the sweet perfume of her body, he wondered what he was doing. It was for Oenone, he remembered, but no longer knew what he was trying to accomplish.
Helen turned over and drew him closer, a long pale arm sliding around his waist and caressing his back. He shivered at her touch and his eyes became molten sapphire with desire. "Corythus, that was magnificent," she said huskily, and her smile was a cat's smile, all content and satisfaction.
He couldn't think, with her warm body wrapped around him. Couldn't fight the feeling that he might have just fallen in love with the very cause of all the troubles in his life. He might be in bed with the very woman that had taken his father away from his mother. It was not even maybe, perhaps, or might—he knew she was the root of Paris' obsession, but the problem was that he understood far too well why his father might have become obsessed.
Corythus was in danger of obsession himself. He should feel disgusted and ashamed, but he could not seem to bring himself to care. Think of Oenone, he told himself, and it was no use.
He had not noticed anyone coming into the room until a rough hand dragged him out of bed and onto his feet. He had grabbed the sheet to cover himself but that only meant that Helen, the beautiful seductress Helen, was on the bed, uncovered. The firelight flickered lovingly over her body.
Corythus finally gathered himself enough to look up into the face of his handler before he received a blow to his stomach.
"Paris," was all he could gasp before he was doubled over with pain. It was Paris—Paris enraged, Paris attacking him, Paris inflicting a good deal of blows to him.
"Uh-unhand me!" Corythus gasped, trying his best to fight back. Helen attempted to step between her two lovers.
It was too late, Corythus suddenly felt a burst of sharp, cruel pain and a warm wetness. He gasped as he saw Paris draw out the dagger that had pierced so deeply into his chest. Helen was crying, the sound tore at him almost as sharply as the dagger had done—with a start, Corythus finally remembered his mother, Oenone and her entreating blue eyes, the color of her father the river Cebren. His promise to come back to her. He had not even had the chance to confront Paris, to tell him...
Paris looked into the face of the man that he had stabbed, and realized several things at once in an unpleasant jolt of surprise. One, that the man he had found Helen with was hardly more than a boy. Two, that his face was uncannily like his own, and that those blue eyes and blue-streaked black hair recalled someone to his mind...Oenone. Last of all, Paris knew that the youth he had wounded was well on his way to the Underworld.
"Paris," Corythus gasped again and blood came to his lips. The firelight turned him into something unreal, the jewel blue of his eyes intense, red painting his mouth scarlet. "May the gods curse you, Father...for what you have done to us..."
Even as Paris dropped the dagger in shock, the light in his son's eyes was dying. Helen scrambled to take the sheet to cover herself and then recoiled when she saw how blood-soaked it was.
Paris searched his memory for the name. "Corythus," he finally said. He looked at Helen, body golden in the firelight, and remembered Oenone, his first true love, her pale skin and clear blue eyes, her devotion to him and faith in love.
Now his son lay dead before him and that naiad was far, far away on Ida. It had been years since he thought of them, but he thought of them now, and for the first time Paris found himself wondering how they had fared after he had left.
Looking at Helen, bathed in the light of the flames, her eyes black mirrors of fire, he found himself asking if it was all worth it, the deaths he had caused for the sake of this one woman, Helen. Even the death of his own son. Paris looked down at those sightless, staring blue eyes now, so like their mother's, and tried to imagine what this son would have been like.
"Two thousand? Three?" He found himself remembering Oenone's words to him. How many lives would be cut short by his actions? She had never asked him if he would sacrifice his own son's life...
For the first time, Paris felt regret when he wandered through the memories of Oenone and their quiet life in the green pastures and deep valleys of Ida.
- o - o - o - o -
Oenone's scream reverberated through the night as she sat up in her bed, trembling and blinded by tears. It could not be a true dream! It could not...
Yet the art of prophecy had never failed her before, and her dreams were always true.
"Corythus," she cried, "why you, too? Must she take everything from me? Must I live here alone, forever?"
She closed her eyes but over and over the scenes replayed themselves in her mind, the gleam of light on the dagger as it glittered in an arc of silver, the blood all over, blood on his lips, blood on his pale, pale cheek.
Her son, whom she had loved and cherished for sixteen years. Watching his blue eyes darken and finally become glassy and dim in death...it was Paris, Paris had killed their son.
No, Helen had killed her son. Her son, the last remaining piece of Oenone's heart! Her son was dead because even he had been enchanted by this woman, this Helen of Troy! Oh gods, why such cruelty? How had Oenone the naiad ever offended them?
Oenone wept as if the tears would never cease, wept as she fled from the house and into the loving watery embrace of her father, the river Cebren. There her bitter tears mixed with the clear, cold, flowing waters.
She did not know if she whispered it, screamed it, or if it was simply trapped inside her mind. Paris, Corythus. My love, my son! Please don't leave me here alone! She kept on seeing him lying so lifeless on the floor...kept on flashing back to what she had dreamed, Paris wounded by the bow and arrows of Heracles, Paris dying, Paris as dead as her son...
How much pain could she bear? She screamed, but she was floating in the cold deep waters, and they filled her mouth and she choked, until she felt herself become the naiad again, become one with water. It carried her, drowned her, washed away her sorrow and grief until nothing was left.
Come back to me...
- o - o - o - o -
Author's Notes: As I said before, mythology has a lot of loose ends with minor characters. There's little about Corythus, except that what there IS of him is very interesting. "It is also said that she Helen had an affair with Corythus, Paris' son by Oenone. Paris, jealous, killed his son" (Robert Bell's Women of Classical Mythology) found on Mortal Women of the Trojan War, a Stanford University website. Also, "...Oenone's attempts at breaking up Paris and Helen. She sent Corythus to drive a rift between Paris and Helen but Paris didn't recognize his son and killed him." Anyway, I hope you enjoyed my own version of the events.
Please review! - E.D.