By ElveNDestiNy, June 12, 2004
Memories in the Past…
It was barely dawn when Paris stole out of the small abode, leaving the old shepherd and his wife sleeping in the next room. He ran down the sloping green meadows of his beloved mountain, exhilarated both by the run and by the beauty surrounding him.
No, he thought, no, he would never grow tired of this world. Last night's dew still lay nestled in the lush grass, the little droplets of water sparkling and forming minute rainbows when lovingly kissed by the first few rays of the sun. However familiar these green pastures were to him, their peaceful beauty never failed to enchant him.
Quickly he found the shadowed valley where thousands of blossoms swayed gently in the chill morning breeze. Although it was protected by a circle of tall stones, like the ruins of some worship site, patches of sunlight had filtered between the gaps. Already some of the flowers had opened. Paris gathered a fragrant armful of blue and white wildflowers, the delicate petals just opening, not yet awakened from their night's slumber.
He sat and leaned against one of the standing stones, resting for a moment and looking at the sea of flowers before him. There were two kinds that he had picked: forget-me-nots and a strange sort of flower that he had no name for. They had five petals in a star shape. The flower itself was white, but the petals gradually darkened to red at the center.
He rose and walked through one of the gaps between the stones, only to nearly smash into the object of his affection. A slender, lithe young girl with startling blue eyes and blue-streaked black hair stood in his way, hands on her hips. She was shorter than he was, but that hardly stopped her from glaring up at him with those disconcertingly brilliant eyes.
"Paris! Oh, I had so much trouble fleeing the nymphs, they follow me everywhere, you know! You promised to wait for me—" she cried wrathfully. Her eyes fell on the flowers in his arms, however, and despite herself she smiled.
"Come now, Oenone. These are for you," he said, and gave her the flowers. They filled her arms and catching her in that moment of weakness, he tucked one of the blue flowers into her hair. "There, that's so you'll never forget me," Paris said mischievously.
"Of course I won't, Paris. What a silly thing to say," Oenone said in an exasperated tone. Her tone softened and she said, "Here now, I have something for you, too." She flung her arms around his neck, brought his face down, and kissed him meltingly on his lips.
"That's so that you won't ever forget me," she said gaily.
Paris laughed breathlessly and drew her tighter to him when she would have darted away. "There's little chance of that, my nymph. You've captured my heart and ensorcelled me until I can think of nothing else."
He played the lyre for her, the notes sweet and the sound unearthly in the hushed valley. "Come on, I want to show you something," Paris said to her.
Hand in hand, running through the shadowed valley, they looked every bit like two young spirits in love. The daughter of the town healer was gathering herbs when they passed her. She looked up in envy and sighed when the sounds of their laughter and excitement lingered in the air long after they were gone.
Paris finally stopped and Oenone, looking around at her surroundings, found herself in a completely unfamiliar part of the mountain. "Where are we?" she whispered, unwilling to disturb the heavy silence. Here the meadows and grass ended and small brush thickened into a dark forest. Later she would learn that it was the Phrygian forests, and in it grew many of the rarest healing herbs.
"Shh, it's a surprise," Paris said. "I want you to close your eyes." Oenone did as he said, trusting him, and felt him bind a piece of cloth over her eyes. Then he began to lead her, slowly and carefully, for what felt like a very long time. Soon, she heard the sound of water. It relaxed her a little, and Paris' hand on her arm was warm and comforting.
"Here we are," came the sound of his voice in her ear, and he undid the strip of cloth. Oenone opened her eyes and gasped in wonder.
They were in a large cavern, but the stone walls gleamed with veins of silver and gold. Ahead of her, a small waterfall fed the pool of blue-green, clear water. The minerals of the cave had formed fantastic shapes and forms, and sunlight illuminated the room from a hole in the rocky ceiling above.
"I found this place a few days ago while exploring," Paris said to her, watching her reactions with pleasure.
"It's beautiful," she said. Oenone ventured forth and touched the water; to her surprise, it was warm and the pool was deeper than she expected as well as more than large enough for a good swim.
"Go on," Paris said. "The water is clean and it's safe."
She looked at him warily, but could not quite resist. Shedding her clothes quickly and slipping into the water, she swam like a fish and beckoned for him to join her. This was another side of her life, creature of the water that she was.
Later, they lay on the sandy floor and let the wind dry their wet bodies, and knew for the first time the pleasures of love. The blue flower lay where it had fallen when Oenone first entered the cavern and was crushed underneath the nymph unheedingly as she felt passion's sweetest and most dangerous fire.
"Forget me not," she whispered, resting her cheek on his chest. They lay in a tangle of lithe limbs and silky skin as sleep overtook them.
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He had taken the life of Achilles yet despite all the praise and glory that he received for it, Paris could not truly feel that he had deserved the honor. A vague sense of foreboding shadowed him, though he told himself it was nonsense. What god or goddess could stand against him now, if even the mighty Achilles had fallen to his arrows?
Paris lay unsleeping, allowing himself to remember for the first time in many years. Oenone and her simple, yet so true, love. Strange, that it was only after he had killed his son that he felt regret for all he had done, wondered what might now be if he had never chosen to give Aphrodite the golden apple of Eris or fell to the deceitful charms of Helen. Truly was the golden apple from the goddess of Discord!
Yes, he remembered now the little boy Corythus, who had looked up to his father with such admiration. Yet Paris was haunted by what had passed only a few weeks ago, his dagger having found the heart of his son, who looked so like himself.
His restlessness had bothered Helen by his side and now the golden-haired seductress rose up on her side in irritation. "Paris, why do you lie unsleeping? There is battle yet in the morning."
Beautiful Helen, who had betrayed him, taking even his son to bed. What use were Aphrodite's gifts, when the heart inside that perfect body was shallow and false? It seemed to Paris that all the veils that had been put over his eyes in the last ten years were finally ripped away. He was prideful still, too prideful for the gods, but even now, when he should have known the most honor for slaying Achilles, he felt only shame and regret.
Filled with unease, Oenone's dire words of his death echoing in his ears, Paris slept little that night. The next morning, he left Helen slumbering still and entered the world of his nightmares. War, in all its facets; a war, he remembered now, that had been started over the woman that lay sleeping by his side. Helen, who had betrayed him time and again, for whom sensual pleasure had more import than love.
There was little truly glorious in battle, whatever those like Achilles might believe or say. Paris had long been familiar with bow and arrows, but now, rather than using them for hunting, they would take away human life. Perhaps it was not Helen that filled him with regrets, but it was the bloody war itself. Ten years, they had fought, and Paris had finally learned how precious life was. He had seen friend and foe alike lying dead on the battlefield; there was an odd equality in death.
The Trojans were uneasy. There were rumours, whispers that the seers had said that Troy would not fall without the bow and arrows of Heracles, and that Philoctetes the Greek possessed them. Joy over the death of Achilles could not last long amid such dark prophecies.
It was quiet; a sudden hush had fallen over the warriors, one of the momentary lulls in the sounds of battle that occurred infrequently. Paris could not see what it was that had caused the lapse.
The next thing he heard was the hiss of a speeding arrow, but it was not his own. He gasped as he felt white fire spread from his shoulder. Dropping his own weapons, Paris sought the arrow that had pierced through his right shoulder.
Already the world seemed to dim around the edges of his vision. He had been wounded before; it was nothing like this—first numb shock and then agonizing pain, burning, as if knives were slashing into his shoulder.
His body became lax and he was brought to the ground. A shadow fell on him and Paris looked up through a haze of pain to see a warrior, and in that instant he knew the feeling of fear, true fear. Yet he made out with blurring vision the armor in the Trojan style, and he realized that it was another archer, not an enemy come to finish the kill.
"Poisoned…blood…corruption…" Paris heard as if voices were shouting very far away, and it was the last thing he knew.
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It was the pain that woke him—fierce, clawing, burning pain. Paris took a breath and cried out before recognizing his own hoarse voice. His eyes were still blurred, but he could make out the form of a woman standing by the bed, back turned away.
"Helen?" he asked. He was still covered with blood, still in his armor. She turned towards him, mouth set petulantly, but with fear on her face.
"It was Philoctetes and a poisoned arrow of Heracles. You fool, you…" Her voice broke off and as his vision cleared, he realized that she had been crying. Burdened as he was with more pain than he had ever experienced in a lifetime, he could not bring himself to care much.
"Why has the arrow not been removed?" he asked, voice rough. When Helen did not answer, his frustration fed on his pain. "Helen, stop your weeping, by the grace of Apollo! Answer me!"
"Oh, Paris…there is nothing anyone can do. The arrow is poisoned and none dare pull it out for fear of death as well. The venom is deadly, and there are no remedies at Troy that may heal you."
Paris did not need Helen to explain. He knew very well that over the past years he had become such figure of contempt that none would offer a hand to him now, when he most needed it.
He knew without asking, also, that Helen would refuse to help him. She frightened easily at blood and would have nothing to with it. The greatest irony of all, Paris thought, that the woman had caused thousands of lives to be lost, could not stand the sight of death and bloodshed.
Helen had left the room to act out her own dramatics and to cry lovely tears on someone other warrior's shoulder. Paris lay bitterly, knowing that his end was near, and the pain was like needles on his body, but it was the pain in his heart that was truly unbearable.
At last he admitted to himself his mistake, that he had given up something precious and good in exchange for Helen, with flawless beauty and flawed heart. He thought back, ten years past, to remember Oenone and that last night. If only he had stayed, if only he had been faithful still…
It had all come to pass just as Oenone had dreamed. True dreams, but he had been so blinded by arrogance, thinking himself above the gods, thinking himself above Fate itself. Was this his punishment, then, for all his misdeeds? To die alone and in excruciating pain, to have finally repented when it was all too late?
Then he remembered Oenone and her gentle healer's hands, her miraculous herbs from the Phrygian forests that she so loved. His first love, and only true one, Oenone.
It seemed to him as if he could hear the sound of her voice again, singing whilst he played the lyre, and the pain eased a little when he thought of her, back when the days were idyllic and he had never taken another man's life. So long ago, it seemed.
It was only later, near the dawning of the sun, when he remembered her last words to him. When you are wounded, Paris, come back to me, for only I can heal you and save you from death...
He knew he must go back to her.
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Please review! Only two more parts to go… Thanks,
ElveNDestiNy
6-29-04 Will someone PLEASE tell me why, when I change the content of this chapter, it always registers as an update? I.e. for some reason the story update date changes and stuff like that…it's really confusing because I keep records on my progress and the dates are all wrong. Is this part of ff.net now?