The Death of Paris
By ElveNDestiNy
October 22, 2004
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended on The Iliad, or Troy, the movie. Credit to references used is given in Chapter One.
Author's Note: This chapter follows the others after more that three months. Why? To put it simply, I had a great deal of trouble in deciding what I wanted to do with this one, and every time I tried writing it, the ending came out awkward. This is the best version yet, although I think I might go back and improve on this. Also, my heartfelt thanks to all the reviewers and emailers…you guys are incredibly inspiring and supportive, and I know I made you wait a long time for this conclusion!
Chapter 5: In Death's Realm"Paris," she started, unsure of how to tell him the news. Oh, she knew he loved her, but so much would be changing now, and did he even feel ready for a family?
"What is it, Oenone?" The seriousness in her voice had attracted his attention and now Paris looked down at his wife with loving concern. They had only been married for a year, but those days were the happiest in his life.
"Paris, I—" Whether it was from her nerves or her condition, Oenone suddenly felt faint. She suddenly felt his support as he lead her to sit down on the bed. He sat next to her, hands still on her shoulders.
"We have a child," she blurted out, hearing herself in horror. It wasn't the way she had planned on telling him. She closed her eyes. Oh, gods, what if he did not want a family? She had tried to hide the signs, to delay it, but her figure was already beginning to change, and he would soon know, anyway. But they had never spoken of it before…
She opened her eyes again to gentle hands cupping her face. Paris looked surprised, but she could not read the other emotion that darkened his eyes. "Oenone, why did you not tell me sooner?" Suddenly, he let out a laugh, and she watched in confusion as he took her hands in his, and kissed them. "I thought perhaps you were ill. I worried about you, so."
"Paris," Oenone whispered. "Do you want this child?"
He looked down at her in astonishment. "How can you ask me that? Is this what has been worrying you—that I would not accept the news well?"
Put that way, her fears seemed silly and irrational. Oenone felt tears of relief come to her eyes. For the past two months, she had fretted over how her husband would react to the news, wondered if he would turn from her.
Paris put his hand over her belly and she realized the darkness in his eyes came from love. "Imagine, Oenone," he said softly, "there is a child inside there, a new life that we created together in love." There was wonder in his expression and impulsively, Oenone kissed him, half from her joy and half from her relief.
"I love you," Paris whispered in her ear. "Never doubt it, Oenone. Nothing has made me happier than the thought that we will raise a child together."
"He will be blessed," she whispered, "for having such a father."
"He?"
She smiled, mysteriously now, and he loved her all the more for it. "My little oracle," he said, laughing again, and pulled her so that she was sprawled half on top of him. Oenone felt tired but deliriously happy, and she lay back in his arms with a sigh.
"Sleep now, little mother," he said, curling around her body from behind, arm flung over her still slender waist possessively. "Dream of our child, love."
- o – o – o – o -
Oenone stared in horror at the bloodied, broken arrow shaft that she had thrown on the table. Her hands were sticky with blood, the viscous liquid not red, but brownish-black, because the poison had tainted it.
What had she done? All for her foolish, unforgiving pride…all to hurt him, to make him know what she had felt for so many years. Vengeance, this irrational desire for revenge, because he had once scorned her and cast her aside for another. You fool, you, she thought to herself. Can you not see you are only hurting yourself more? Because no matter what she did, she could not win. She still loved him and would always love him, no matter that he was with another, or had betrayed her time and time again, or even that he had killed her son. Their son.
Thinking of Corythus only sent another stab of pain through her heart. Why, why was she cursed with this life? If he should die, she would never forgive herself. What did it matter, if he went back to Helen, if he loved her or not? She could not bear to imagine what it would be like to know that Paris walked the earth no more.
Stumbling, Oenone walked blindly outside, but then she stopped in despair. He could have hid himself all over the mountain…how would she ever find him now? Where would she begin to search?
And then she had a flash of vivid memory, or perhaps it was a waking dream. She saw the shadowed valley of flowers and Paris and herself entwined, cushioned by the long silken grasses swaying gently in the wind, slender stalks so fragile. She looked with mingled surprise and happiness, recalling the certainty of love in that moment, smiling at the picture they made together, sprawled together, careless with the freedom of life and love.
Then Oenone's happiness turned to bitter ashes in her mouth and she wondered—memory, or foresight? Horrified at the thought, she fled down the mountainside, catching herself time and time again as once-nimble feet now tripped over stones and ensnaring plants alike in her hurry to reach their secret valley. A desperate paean to Apollo was upon her lips, the melodies and words barely uttered.
He lay still and unmoving in the tall grasses and she tumbled to a halt besides him, falling to her knees and reaching out with trembling hands to touch his cheek. It was cold beneath her fingers but at her touch his eyelashes fluttered, and slowly eyes the color of sable opened, meeting hers with delirium.
"Oenone," he mouthed, lips moving slightly, but no sound came out. She fumbled with the bag she had brought, seeking to bring out the precious herbs that would cure him of this evil, bring him whole and healthy to her once again. His hand rose to catch at hers weakly; he whispered a denial.
She knew he was beyond saving, knew it as she had driven him away from her home, knew it when she came in search of him. But still she cried, and laid herself beside him, and closed her eyes, so that he would not see her anguish. And in so many ways, little ways, she told him that she loved him and that despite every betrayal, she had always loved him.
Why had she learned the arts of prophecy? Her visions had brought her so much sorrow, and she was angry, that she had not been able to prevent it, that she saw their destinies laid out but could do nothing. It was a torture, to know that what she saw would be true, in the end.
Some white wildflowers were fragile and dying and their sweet-scented petals scattered in the air, falling on the two entwined lovers. Night fell and the figures were lost amid the darkness. Silver Selene from above looked on, remembering her own love, the princely Endymion, and she pitied the nymph in her sorrow, and shown soft light upon them, to gentle what despair that Fate had left behind.
- o – o – o – o -
The flames burned high in a great circle of fire and the figure inside, covered by a cloak of the darkest blue, was lost in the hungry orange, red, and gold. The crackling of the wood was loud, but those that stood by her swore that she made no sound. Yet her pain was for everyone to see; it was reflected in the blue of her eyes, painted by the slender and yet unyielding bearing of her body.
She stared into the flames with an odd sense of peace, mingled with longing. Why weep for this husk of the body, when the soul had already departed for the Underworld? She had suffered so, but now she stood with poise as if she were a column of smooth white marble.
All around the Nymphai wept, but for their mistress rather than for their mistress' love. The whisper among them seemed to feed the flames of the funeral pyre, and yet they persisted, speaking of the cold heart of Paris, who left behind a faithful and true wife, to take a bride that was the most beautiful wanton, to bring himself and Troy a curse fulfilled. So the oracles prophesied, and so it had come to pass. She looked at them all, one by one in the faces, recalling their loyalty to her through all the long years. They hated Paris, for all that he had done, but it was only because they did not understand.
What of Helen, Oenone wondered. Last night she had dreamed of her yet again, the luminous face that had caused the deaths of all she loved. How strange, that her life and Helen's were so intertwined, and yet they had never met, or exchanged a word. She could not truly resent the woman, for it was the weakness of men that caused the war, weakness that came of lust and the desire for possession. Couldn't they see that beauty, which they so prized as truth, was nothing but an illusion? Cut the skin, and everyone bleeds the same, Trojan or Greek, man or woman, beautiful or ugly. The men wanted to divide themselves in so many ways, one better than the other, but when it came to the soul, who was to judge?
She felt that perhaps she was kin to Helen in some inexplicable way, that Helen's beauty was a curse, just as her foresight was. She thought sadly that what beauty on the outside did not promise the same on the inside. Oenone thought of Paris, and how he was blinded by beauty, enthralled by it, when in truth, beauty is an ephemeral thing…it is the spirit within that survives, that matters in the end.
Loveliness is shed with the body, except for the rare kind of beauty that is of the heart. Oenone watched her beloved's body burn, and she wondered of philosophy although she had never done so before. It gave her some small measure of comfort.
Helen at least would be happy, Oenone thought without much bitterness. She had seen that she would live out her days by the side of yet another king, another man to fall prey to the failing of men. She knew those around her were staring at her, wondering what she was thinking. One dream, it was all she asked.
And then a cry from the multitude rose up, for the figure of Oenone was seen clearly before all, and she was walking towards the pyre with serenity. In that moment, bathed in the light of the red-gold flames, she was more goddess than nymph, and then she was dancing with beauty, never hesitating; it was a graceful dance, with fire as her partner.
They watched in horror as the flames caught at her simple gown, but still she moved on, and at last clasped Paris to her, then closed her eyes. It was mercy that the flames covered them so completely none could see the death of the lovers, and yet a keening, wordless croon of grief rose to fill the air, the voices of her followers, for they had witnessed an act of most faithful love, and not a heart was left untouched.
And they whispered that this once-shepherd, this Trojan prince was a fool, who knew not what heart he had broken so carelessly, and how he had exchanged truth and love for false splendor. That Oenone had loved him more than life, this prince that had turned from her and loved her not!
There were some that spoke of Fate and its destiny-thread, and shed no tear for the hubris of a prince that had been his downfall, and the nymph's love that had been her death.
Yet there were others that said they had seen a vision in the last moments of dying flame, Oenone and Paris embracing, whole and untouched, and behind them the loveliest form of Aphrodite, goddess of love.
They say that she spirited away these two lovers and reunited them in death, in the realm of Hades.
Who could say for certain, the power of love? One dream was all she asked for, one last vision of truth. Was this what she saw, when she walked into the flames?
- o – o – o – o -
Oenone silently stepped into the boat to cross the river Acheron. The shadow extended a bony hand and she gave him a gold coin as her fare, drawing her hand back quickly. She could not see his face, but all knew of Charon, ferryman of souls. The water was dark and unforgiving; although she did not touch it she felt as if she could tell it was as cold as ice.
"Do not look back," came the secretive whisper. She made no reply. There was no one to look back for, she thought tiredly. No one left. Wasn't this why she had done what she did, entered the land of the dead willingly?
The boat rocked gently, but Oenone sat still and unmoving, listening to the quiet sounds of the moving oars. She had nothing with her but the silver necklace she clutched in her hand, the symbol of her long ago marriage to Paris.
Looking down, she saw for the first time that it was not so very beautiful, not in comparison to the jewels and gold that must have been the treasure of Troy, or to what must have graced the neck of Helen. There was a simplicity to the small transparent teardrop stone, however, that she loved, and the winding silver vines and small leaves reminded her of the herbs she used to heal.
What did it matter if it was not the finest nor the rarest jewel, but a simple drop of glass? It carried with it all the warmth of memories, of the look in her love's eyes when he gave it to her that day that they pledged themselves to each other and became husband and wife.
She remembered Corynthus, only a few years old, had used to stare at it from where it hung around her neck, fascinated by the way the light could go through the clear stone. In some ways it was a symbol for herself, her undying love for Paris whatever he had done. Perhaps the devotion was wrong; perhaps when they had been abandoned, or when her son had been killed, Oenone should have finally given him up. Yet if she had any weakness, it was her loving heart. Yes, the stone was no jewel, no beauty, but it was love, and that was more precious to her than anything else could have been.
All her life she had been a healer, but who heals the healer?
She saw him first, standing as if lost in the darkness. "My love," she whispered as she reached out to touch him, half afraid that it was only a vision. He felt warm and solid beneath her hands, however. There was dull grief etched in his face and a weariness of the soul.
"Oenone," he said in a voice filled with longing, and his hands reached out to trace the shape of her face, to twine around her hair, as if he could not quite believe that she was real.
"I came to meet you."
The few tears that left his eyes were lost in the dark glory of her hair. "What have I done to you, Oenone? What have I done to us?"
"You were weak, Paris," she said sadly, admitting the truth to herself for the first time. "Yet I loved you, and still do."
"How could you say that," he said almost angrily, desperation causing his voice to be harsh. "I have wronged you in every way…I have betrayed you every time…" He pulled out of her arms.
"Forgiveness is mine to give, Paris."
"Not mine to accept," came the answer, hollow with sorrow and guilt.
Oenone understood how he must hate himself, the shame that was a heavy burden on his shoulders. There was nothing she could do for him, but she remembered his goodness before all had happened, the way that he seemed blessed with life and love.
"You were once another man," she told him, "one that loved and was loved. Do you believe that all that has escaped you?"
He turned away, unwilling to see her. Somehow the mercy in her eyes was harder to bear than any accusing gaze that might have been levied against him. He had lost faith in himself. "I do not deserve to be forgiven."
"Yet it starts here," she said in a voice so low, he could barely hear her. "Paris, look at me. Look at us." Paris turned around to see his son standing besides her, watching silently. He feared what he would see in Corythus' face, but there was no condemnation, no anger.
"Open your heart to love, Paris, and you will find that not all is lost." She drew him into an embrace and he realized at last it was what he had be searching for so long, why he had waited by the river.
In her love he had found redemption.
- o – o – o – o -
December 27: My futile attempt to improve this. All I ended up doing was adding a couple of paragraphs and correcting some typos. I'm sorry; I've heard that the writing for this story is awkward and unnatural, butit's pretty much all I can do, even after I've had it sit for a couple of months. No more attempted revisions - I've got other stories to write, after all. Please review anyway! Thank you – E.D.