By ElveNDestiNy July 13, 2004
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended on The Iliad, or Troy, the movie. Credit to references used is given in Chapter 1.
Dedication: Beware the abusers do not become the abused. For all those who have dealt pain unto others, in hope that compassion can be taught by a simple story.
Chapter 4: Forgive Me
"I have need of medicine for my granddaughter," the old shepherd said to the lovely woman. His eyes darted left and right apprehensively, despite the seemingly ordinary little home he was in, for he had known the woman before him for many years. A long, silken fall of blue-streaked black hair half concealed the delicate face, showing only a glimpse of pale skin and unnervingly vivid blue eyes. Although she had lived here for at least forty years, her appearance was that of a twenty-year-old woman, for she was a nymph, daughter of the river Cebren, and her name was Oenone.
"Very well," he heard her say, and he hesitantly began to describe the signs of illness in his granddaughter: that she coughed blood and could not be woken sometimes, and she was fevered."My little Anissa," he said stumblingly, seeking to draw her into conversation, "is only seven years old. I remember your own young lad, your son. He'll grow up to be a favorite of the ladies, I'm sure.
"Your son, I remember the young lad, bright-eyed as you are," he said stumblingly, seeking to draw her into conversation. It was true that the villagers of Ida were curious about this seeming maiden, for many still remembered what prize she had taken from them. His own daughter had loved Paris, whom Oenone had wed, and it was a friend of his that had raised the boy, who had been found on this very mountain.
Two steely blue eyes fixed cold on him, and he would later tell the villagers that it seemed as if her eyes had moving shadows in them, as if the blue of her eyes reflected running water. "Do not speak of him to me," she said quietly. Without more ado, he was handed a packet of herbs and given instructions on their use. In gratitude, he gave her a sack of wheat, having heard from others that she would not accept monies, but only gifts such that were useful to her.
Sensing easily enough that he was not welcome any longer, the old shepherd quickly bid farewell to her and left, well content with the medicine and the tales that he could tell later, of this encounter.
Oenone watched him as he left, soon hidden by the green slopes that were made Ida such an ideal place for sheep and shepherds alike. It had been but a few months since her only son had been slain, and the loss was still keenly felt. She closed her eyes and unbidden, she remembered those bright eyes, the hair like her own, the shape of his face that was exactly like his father's.
She had grieved for herself when Paris left her, and she had hated him. Yet ten years had passed and she had Corythus, and Paris did not seem so vital to her life anymore. Oenone had learned to fix her heart on her son, and to let go, a little, of his father. She would even have forgiven Paris, perhaps, for choosing Helen over herself.
No longer. Twice, he had destroyed her, and she was no fool to let it become thrice. Broken her heart when he left her, and again when he had killed her son—his son as well, though he had but known Corythus for six years.
There was a fine line between love and hate, and during the many years after Paris had left, Oenone had stood very carefully on that delicate line. No more. What love she might have still had for him had met its death, even as her son had.
She thought of what she had dreamed last night and smiled to herself. If the old shepherd had been back, he would have been frightened enough to leave, for the smile was cold and bitter, as deadly as poison and knife's edge bright. For Oenone had long had the arts of prophecy, given to her by Apollo and taught in their uses by Rhea, and even as Paris had left she had warned him.
Even now, Oenone knew what had happened so far away in Troy. Paris lay wounded, pierced by the poisoned arrows of Heracles, and Trojans and Greeks alike would have nothing to do with him. She was content that the gods would so punish him, for daring too much, for having started a war that ended so many lives.
The day was growing late but she left the humble home, longing to run free in the valleys and pastures of her mountain again. Two months, Oenone thought, tomorrow it will be two months since my son left for the Underworld. She ran, feet bare and crushing the grass underfoot, and her nymphs ran with her, voices lifted in a song of mourning.
It was in the late hours of the night when she made her way home, her maidens following behind to make sure she would come to no harm. There were people outside her home, however, and Oenone dismissed her followers, thinking that others had come seeking healing and medicine.
She was ill prepared for what awaited her. It was a face she could not bear to see, and it stirred both love and hate in her heart until it combined into some unidentifiable emotion. He dismissed his two guards with a word and they stood looking at each other, the dark night gentle to them. Ten years had passed since they had seen each other in reality, and yet the moonlight fell on them the same way as the night he had left her.
"Paris," she said, by way of greeting...and challenge.
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He dared not look into her eyes, but knelt before her, beautiful face pale and drawn, his eyes haunted with pain and something else she could not tell.
"Oenone, my love," he began, and because his gaze was fixed on the ground beneath him, Paris did not see the icy glint in her eyes that shone when the moonlight illuminated her face. "My wife, Oenone—I did not mean to take this path, to leave you for her. If only," and here he had the grace to falter, but not for long, "if only I had not been so faithless."
"Speak no more! So now you come back begging, Paris, calling me wife and love." Oenone said sharply. "No longer will you fool me, Paris, as you have fooled so many. Beauty and charm you have in plenty, but time reveals what lies underneath and even your own brothers and the Trojans name you coward, and worse."
"Oenone," he said, truly regretting all that he had done. Too late, too late—if only he could change her mind! Here he was, of genuine heart, but she was the one who turned away from him now. The next words he chose with care, although they cost him much to say. "Oenone, I beg you, in all the memories of our love, show me mercy. Only you have the skill and the Fates have decreed that only you can heal me. I love you still, I have never stopped loving you, and even now, we have some hope of a future..."
A strange sort of radiance seemed to bathe Oenone, and she grew the more beautiful in her anger . She wished to help him, it was in her nature to heal and to assuage pain, not cause it. She felt his agony as the poison spread to his heart, but she had vowed to herself no more. No more would she have aught to do with him.
"Paris, I will hear no more. You have committed filicide and killed the one I most love, you have broken my heart twice over and more, and now you entreat me to trust you a third time, to heal you so that you can go back to the arms of your beloved Helen? Oh, it is hardly true that you have never stopped loving me, but one thing I know for certain—I will never again love you!"
"Oenone, must I entreat you until my death is upon me?" He would have spoken more, but it was clear that the pain was too much. "I come from Troy, to seek only you..."
"Would that you had not found me!" she retorted sharply. "I care not, Paris, if you meet your end. Not long ago, I might have softened; I would have sacrificed anything to have you back by my side—until you killed Corythus. Do you know his name, Paris? He is your son!" she hissed at him, wishing for a moment that she be there to witness his death, to know that he had suffered for what he had caused. "This is your fate, Paris, that you and no other have brought upon yourself. Once, you scorned me and what I offered...I shall not offer it again."
She looked down at him. The arrowhead remained still in his shoulder, although he had broken off the shaft as best he could. None would risk the poison; none at Troy offered to help him—not even his own brothers, for they feared to die. The legend of the poisoned arrows of Heracles was prevalent and all were wary.
"You come to me now, only when you yourself need aid. Would I have ever seen you again, if not for your wound? I told you ten years ago that I had foreseen your death, but you cared only for Helen! Would you have me help you now, Paris?" Despite all her spiteful words, tears glittered still in her eyes; she was so angry she bit her lip to keep herself from doing more.
"Oenone, offer me some mercy. Would you have me plead some more, so that you may be convinced? Heal me, by grace of Apollo!" As she listened to him, she wondered how she could have loved him. Paris was ever so arrogant, as she had always known, but she had been blinded by love, willing to accept all of him, even his faults.
"Very well, then, Paris!" she said. "I return to you what you have given me, and I will help you only in this way—to speed you to your death! Is this the mercy you pray of?" Oenone reached down and grabbed the broken shaft of the arrow, sticky with dried and new blood. Years of gentleness as a healer were gone in an instant as with one savage motion, she succeeded in removing the poisoned arrowhead. Blood ran over her hands, thick and warm, as Paris cried out before her, awash with agonizing pain.
"Go, go back to your Helen where she waits! Beg her to heal you, be blissful in her arms as you await your death! May you know all the pain that you have given me, Paris, may you know what you have wrought in these past ten years. For every man that has died on the battlefield fighting your war, for every father and mother left bereaved of their children, for lovers slain—and this, and more! The vengeance of the gods is with you, as you feel the venom in your blood and suffer the pain. Farewell, Paris, for we will not meet again in this world!"
Her words were true, and Paris was beset once more by pain, though this came from his heart and mind rather than body. Strange, that his mind was clearest when his body was at its most wounded, that his heart at last knew what was love, when it was taken from him. Oenone, Paris thought, oddly comforted and at peace even as he knew for certain that there was nothing left for him but death. Such a treasure, she was, but he had not cherished what he had, not knowing the value of it.
With the last of his strength Paris stood and started to walk away, wondering at how the grass seemed so soft beneath his bared feet, how the night air was cool and crisp. He turned to look at her once more, memorizing the simple white dress she was wearing, how it flared at the wrists and had a demure, oval cut that exposed her graceful neck.
This was it, then, he thought. The only one who could help him had refused to do so, and even now, with Keres rapidly approaching, he could not fault her for her decision now. Everything Oenone had said was true—he realized this now, at last, but it was too late. His mind drifted and he wondered idly if it was because of the poison, but strangely now, though the pain still gripped his body, he felt none of it.
What to do now? Where to go, what place fitting for his last few breaths? Breathing in the sweet, clean mountain air, he was beset by memories of his earlier days spent here in peace. He had grown up here, had lived most of his life in contentment, but for the last ten years. Ida remained the same, its small community of villagers thriving on in secluded happiness, but he felt like a stranger here.
No, this mountain had not changed—it was he who had changed, and for the worse. His bow and arrows had been weapons of defense and hunting while he was but a shepherd, but these same weapons in the hands of a prince took on a different meaning. How many times had he fired an arrow into the air, watching as it found its target in the body of a man?
It had been such a long time, ten years. Enough to forever change his life. Paris suddenly knew where he must go, now, for one last time.
Every step of the slow journey was an agony on its own, for the poison in his blood had numbed his muscles and they were tense with strain. When other warriors had been wounded and rescued, Paris had wondered at their forbearance, how they strove so much not to show their pain. He understood now, that it was not merely a thing of pride—after so long, the body became used to the sensations inflicted upon it and began slowly but surely preparing for death.
The valley was just as he had remembered, shadowed still and shielded against the world by those tall stone boulders. Nor had the wildflowers changed in all the years he had been gone, and the wind still rustled as it blew, making the beautiful blossoms sway gently in the breeze.
It was a fitting place for him to die, he thought tiredly. He was not even worthy of it. The quiet tranquility, the soft sound of the thousands of flower petals brushing delicately against each other...gentle memories crept upon him again, and he slept and dreamed, slipping quietly into oblivion. Perhaps death would not be so awful after all, Paris found himself thinking, perhaps he would be offered a chance to redeem himself in the Underworld.
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The hauntingly sweet notes poured out of his wooden flute, a humble shepherd's instrument. Paris enjoyed the music, but nonetheless he played these heart-rending melodies with an ulterior motive in mind. Just as he had known she would, his nymph appeared, seeking both him and the wordless song of happiness.
No, not his nymph, not yet, but he had all the intent of making her his. It was in so many small ways that he seduced her, the music but just one facet. Paris' heart lifted to see her standing there, drawn to him even as he was drawn to her. Yet before he could rise and greet her, two more people appeared. Both middle-aged, the men were neighbors and quite well known on Ida for their frequent wrangling. More oft than not, they came to Paris to settle their disputes. He had a talent with people, a way of making them trust him and had gained a fair reputation for being very just in his decisions.
"The wall has fallen into disrepair," Lysis said straightforwardly. "He has not taken care of his side well enough and the storm a few days ago knocked down the wall."
"Tell me the story from the beginning," Paris invited, keeping his manner light and easy. It gave him no small sense of pride, however, to know that Oenone was watching even as men far older than himself came to him to find a solution. "Where is this wall?"
"It lies around our two homes. He will not rebuild it because he claims it is my fault, but it is his tree on the other side which has spread its roots under the wall and caused it to tumble!" Sotias said belligerently.
Paris heard them both out, letting the argument grow heated to the point that the two were on the verge of striking each other. When he raised his voice, however, they fell silent. They had come for his judgment, after all, and after many such disputes Paris had proven himself very capable of settling these situations well.
"Hear me, then. You are neighbors and thus have lived next to each other for many years. I recall that one of your children even married, and so you are related by kin and blood, not just by how many years have passed. Why destroy your friendship with these quarrels? It does not matter who's fault it is that the wall has fallen. This wall belongs to neither you nor he, but you must both admit that it has protected your families.
They would not meet his eyes and only gazed half in embarrassment at the ground, yet so stubborn in their natures that their shame at being bringing an argument to Paris like two boys only fueled their anger. "I will not rebuild it."
"If he will not, neither will I," the other declared.
"And so there will be no wall to protect your families. Will you risk this, for the sake of pride?" Paris countered smoothly. He had never been a warrior, but that did not mean he was without his own sort of gifts.
"No," Lysis said.
"I will not," Sotias agreed. "But what would you have us do, Paris? Who will spend the time to build the wall, if it must be built?"
"Both of you will share it. He will make his half of the wall, and you, Sotias, will build your own side. It will be joined in the middle. The wall protects, but its protection will only be complete if both you and Lysis each make his side of the wall. If no compromise, no cooperation can be found, then you will be without a wall."
"Yes, I am willing to do my half if he does his," Lysis said. Sotias nodded his agreement.
"Then that is all." The two neighbors left and Oenone came down to him as if she floated on air, for the flowers beneath her feet were not crushed by her weight.
"Paris," she called out joyfully, laughing with delight. "I never can understand what magic you have, to charm even Lysis and Sotias into resolving their dispute. I understand now, that your gift is not that of a shepherd, a warrior, or even that of a lover. What makes you unique is that you can persuade people who are unwilling. You will be a great man if you wish it so," she said happily. "Your gift is with people themselves, more so than any charm or romance, any seduction that you might plan."
"I hope it is so," Paris said deviously, "for I only wish to persuade a single lovely nymph to be at my side forever. Oenone, will you accept me?"
"Yes, Paris," she said, stunned and then laughing so merrily the sheep rambled restlessly in the pasture. No words were needed then as Paris kissed her, gentle at first and then fiercely, promising passion and possession. The betrothed pair wandered hand in hand even as night blanketed the pasture and dimmed the lovely colors of the flowers.
"I love you." Simple words that held a world of meaning, the promise of forever. Such things are but an ephemeral dream, though the two young lovers knew it naught on that night.
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Your gift is with people. The phrase whispered into his mind, into his heart. Yes, Paris thought bitterly, yes he had a gift with people, to touch into their hearts and convince them, persuade them to his cause. She had called it a gift, and during those idyllic days at Ida, it had been—a simple gift that brought more peace to the world.
Every gift could become a curse, however, and this one had. How could they have known that even in the moment that they had pledged themselves to each other, they had planted the seeds that would grow into war, death, bloodshed? A reputation for fair judgment had turned the eye of the gods upon him, Zeus himself, no less. A way with people, Oenone had said—that ability had only led him into the clutches of Hades.
Paris was tired, so tired that he would have even welcomed death. There was nothing left in this world for him anymore, not this green pasture and not his early memories. He could not turn back time and choose again, to see where that would have lead.
They called him a coward, but he did not fear death anymore, now that it was coming. Oenone, he thought again, awash in memories. Tears came to his eyes, tears of realization and shame, of pain not for himself, but for what he had done to her, and to so many others.
Was this to be his final fate, then? he wondered. Then even that thought was gone, and Paris found himself only wishing for one thing, perhaps the most selfish or the most selfless thing he had done in the span of his years.
If only he could look upon her face once more before death, his heart would be content.
.............................................CHAPTER NOTES..................................................
Please review and offer me your suggestions and thoughts! Originally I planned for one more chapter, but I think I may add more—different ending, etc.
Thanks,
E.D.
(Last updated 8-31-04)