Just a warning… I might deviate from the actual script in my writing because I find that retelling without creativity is not worth my time. I hope you'll like it. This is my attempt to add some sort of logic behind the utter selfishness of Paris and Helen: this is my attempt at an explanation, I suppose. Enjoy!
A night together...
The moonlight streamed through the window in a melodious trickle. The individual rays came through the window in an unhurried saunter, preening at their gilded reflections in the opaque panes. They danced and leapt through the shutters, vainglorious and proud of the shimmering beauty they knew they possessed. Creeping across the sullied sheets and tumbled silken pillows, the moonbeams crept and snuck throughout the gilded chamber as nymphs of the nighttime and fairies of good cheer. Their smiling mistress, the moon above, beamed indulgently on their exploring. Curiously, as though unveiling a masterpiece, the moon's rays touched upon the human face resting there in the bed at this late hour. Awed, they drew collectively back after a single moment's pause on her features. The face they cast into such stark relief was easily more lovely than they, and they were humbled by her presence. She was stunning, was this goddess of the nighttime. But she was more than merely attractive. She was unreal, clouded by an aura of the fantastic, as though Aphrodite herself had planted a kiss on her forehead as when a squalling babe. With that kiss, her flaxen locks had turned into the silkiness of molten gold, rippling and gilded; her skin had deepened into the blush of a peach's skin, soft and fuzzy, and her eyes had broadened and darkened with intent. And, though there was a fragility to her that seemed to beg for protection, the iron set to her gaze and the haughty set to her chin spurned all attempts at comfort. It was the same this night. Her eyes were velvet in texture, coarsened by heartbreak and rich with emotion. But they were lonely and exquisite in their sadness, and they watched the solemn nighttime with a silence that was deafening.
Helen of Sparta lay sprawled in sheets of satin. Helen of Sparta was tangled in her sheets of satin, and they bound her luxurious limbs more tightly than ropes in snares of her own devising. Chunks of hewn gold rested against her pale skin, as fire upon transparent glass, and they were looped around her neck by way of slim chains. She fingered one of the necklaces absently as she lay there. Back and forth, back and forth, her restless fingers skittered as she fondled the necklace in bemusement. Despite the lateness of the hour, her mind was on other matters. Underneath the careless coverings of her lids, her eyes were alive, twitching to the beat of the revelry going on downstairs and moving, always moving, to the restless tattooing of the drums. And, it was not until another hand came up to subdue her restless touch that she stilled anxious moving.
"Helen," he murmured against the tautness of her throat as he leaned in to place a kiss. "Helen." A single blonde curl had escaped the mass falling to her shoulders, and he captured it between his forefinger and thumb, like a butterfly held by its wings. And, though she kept her eyes closed and her lips parted, her heart fluttered beneath his fingers.
"Paris."
Helen felt, rather than saw, the outbreak of his smile. It started suddenly, almost uncertainly, as though the ability to begin the sincere gesture was lost on this confident youth. It began against her shoulder. Moments earlier, when he had collapsed there after his moment of passion, she had felt the heaviness of his breathing against her skin and had thrilled in the feeling. Now, she quickened to the touch of his smile even more. Even when their breathing had slowed and quieted after the outpouring of affection, they had remained thus: he slung over her, uncaring and limber, and she curled under him, sleepy and wistful. His muscular arms snaked under her shoulders to hold the back of her neck just so, with his fingers massaging the nape where her blonde mass showered down onto the pillow in long coils. And when she turned to see the furtive grin, childish and quick, her own wishful smile was displayed boldly for him to witness. After a moment of surprise, chuckles erupted, shy and swift, born from the boldness of their own audacity.
"You look like a besotted boy," she uttered loftily as she threaded her fingers through his nape, and her eyes were laughing at his unquenched adoration, as she watched him rest so serenely beside her. She was surprised to feel him stir after her teasing remark, and she roused from her perfumed stupor to meet his stare.
"Oh, my love? Is that so?" Paris chased her answering grin, small and knowing, with a burning look and rakish smirk. Her look of surprise was quelled under the hot possessiveness of his gaze as he confronted her there, against the pillow, with the aroma of their love still clinging to their conjoined forms.
The gleaming bronze of his tawny arms burned in the light as he lowered himself downwards to graze her lips with a breath, a promised kiss, a gentle wisp of air to enliven her sense." Besotted I am," he snaked upwards to ply her lips between his, hungry and challenging. But the look in his eyes was not meant to pacified or sated by the hungry meeting of lips. It was a look earned under the coiffed leadership of a stellar older brother and a venerated father, and it was a look of fiery rebellion. "But I am no boy, worldly woman of Sparta. Never a boy." When she clasped him close to console him, she could taste the warmth of his promise on his lips. Never a boy, indeed.
Long moments passed. He remained in her arms, and the golden flow of her hair meshed with his silky russet curls. She was lauded as the most beautiful woman of the land. Against the rising tide of sleep, she could remember the suitors for her wedding with dim fondness and the peculiar curiosity that a child cherishes towards strange events. She had been a child then. She had been a child on her wedding night, when her swine of her husband had rutted his way to satisfaction on her virgin form, all pretensions to kingliness cast aside. She had been a child when she had birthed her first babes, crying and red-cheeked with indignation at the undignified entrance, and she had been a babe when Prince Hector first landed on her shore to confer with the king. But then- oh, then she had grown up. She had become a woman the first time he had touched boot-tip to Sparta's shore, with those eyes that were so disarming and that smile of confidence. She had grown into a woman the moment Paris first bent over her hand in greeting, and she had been a woman the moment her gaze first traced his as he walked away. She had listened to the serving girls gush over him as they went about their chores, and for the first time, she regretted them their revelry and playful fancying. His eyes had held a promise. She felt, intrinsically, that she was destined to fulfill it. And now, after she had lain in his arms and learned the pattern of his breathing, she loved him more than ever.
But she was unlike him. Impetuous and willful, his love came in spurts. All of the world knew of Paris and his intrigues, of the many women to be wooed to his bed- and left there by the dawning sun. She merely wondered what would happen when the intrigue played out. She was not like him. Never graced with his ebullient carelessness, she had been chained in marriage to the first man to claim her. She bore no whimsical dreams about this partnership and its longevity. She merely wondered whether her heart would withstand the loss of the love she had felt after Paris turned his curious gaze to other women with pleasures still foreign to him. She merely wondered if she would live once his love had withered, as it surely would.
But perhaps the choice would be made for her. His ships were poised to sail within the next few days. Some of the supplies were being laden on the wooden planking, and the billowy canvas glistened in the moonlight. She would give it three days. Three more days of feasting, and three more days of hidden love. He would leave her before their loved had faded, and her heart would be salvaged. Nay, she was not like him. She was a woman. She had not the luxury. Against the hardness of his chest, her cheek slipped and fell. She could hear through the thick stone walls the carousing downstairs. She could hear the faint chime of the music, light and quick, and she could hear the rhythmic tapping of the dancers' heels against the cold floor. And, through the vivid melody, she could hear the bellow of Menelaus, deep and boisterous, and the lighter chuckle of Hector interrupt the refrain. His laughter shattered her. His laughter doused her fantasy, and she roused herself, bewildered and trembling, from Paris's lax arms.
"Helen? Why so sad?" Paris breathed against her lips as he rose above her, urging her to quicken against him for a kiss. Her white fingers began toying with the golden necklace around her neck again, fast and uneasy, as she turned her head away. The curls fell inward, fast and ready, to block her drawn features from his prying gaze.
"Why are you not so?" she whispered aloud, and the rebuke in her tone was faltering and frightened. "Why are you not sad? Look outside, Prince of Troy. Are you blind to the ships that gather there to bear you hence?" His arms groped for her, but she slid out from them and stood alone in the night air, unashamed and unafraid as the breeze prickled her skin. Her only adornments were her jewelry and untamed mass of hair, and she bent her body forward so that she was hidden from view behind them. Silently, he rose out of their mussed blankets and stood behind her, careful and cautiously evaluating.
"You should be going," she murmured into the thickness of the air as she wrapped thin arms around her willowy frame. Her curved back was to him still. "Your brother will be looking for you, and it is a risk for you to remain." He stayed behind her only a moment, with eyes that were perplexed and a face that was uncertain. The brown orbs were confused and surprised, thick with unease, and their spirit was tempered. His harsh breathing countered her sporadic gasps, uneasy and fragile. A cry rose in her throat when he stepped forward anyway, to seize her arms and pull her close. When she tried to free herself from his arms, he proved stubborn and refused to move, thus chaining her close. With lips that were hard against her ear, he spoke roughly and quickly into her listening, and she quelled under the comfort of his words.
"Know that it is a risk I gladly make, Helen. It is a risk I gladly make." She was released, but she did not move. She heard him gather up his clothes and dress silently, a phantom shifting behind her. She felt his final look, and she did not turn around.
It was only when he had finally exited that she allowed the tears to fall. The sun nudged at the horizon line, uneasy and faltering. The second day had begun, and Helen's beauty dimmed.
