Chapter Fourteen: Some Degree of Woe

Far gone, unblinking, Paris navigated the well-lit, sweeping hallways and door-less arches. These stone and marble walls had been his home for less than a two years, had seen his transfiguration from humble, naïve Alexandros to stately, insecure Paris. His tears and his first tentative foray into princely duty, his surprised wonder at exploring a whole new world; these walls had seen it all. They did not judge his evolution as he experienced the life that he could have had if things had turned out different. Memories, however, like nightmares, oppressed his resolve to send word to Mount Ida, to the old man who lived there. With every step a new weight suffered on his young shoulders; titles and manners and a careful dance of words that purposefully blurred the lines of falsehood and truth until even he could not tell black from white. Hector told him these things take time. But what if they were lessons he did not wish to learn?

His slender hips were wrapped in black cloth and his shoulders folded in black as well as the sea-scented breeze tugged fitfully at the fabric, pulling it open and dragging it along the floor behind him. Clean and undressed of all material finery, Paris looked about himself as he walked, taking in nothing with his blank, staring eyes. Flamed in the bright, flickering light of the braziers, his dazed mind could not help super-imposing images of happier times when stress and comportment were concepts yet unlearned and undeveloped. The sorrowful ache of regret was twisting Paris's stomach with a soured longing that nearly reduced the young man to tears. Nearly, but he'd shed enough to fill the sea as it was. He would weep no more.

The ship baring them from Sparta had docked early and by mid-afternoon the fabled gates of Troy had been thrown open with all haste and ceremony to admit them. Their homecoming was to be a celebrated affair. Prince Hector, Tamer of Horses, and Paris, Beloved of the Gods. The fanfare within the city was a sight Paris would never forget. The utter adulation and recognition of the people for their princes was tremendous indeed, and completely unexpected from the humiliation Paris was sure all could see on his flushed, averted face. Astride his sable mare he had a fine view of the entire circus, from beginning to end. Hanging from windows, porches, balconies, and draping themselves from pillars, shop fronts, and temple steps, the people of Troy had turned out down to a man just to see them. It turned Paris's head.

The rain of flowers; pink, white, blue, yellow, orange, and red had been so thick that the young prince had barely been able to see the sky.

Still terribly embarrassed by the spectacle being made of himself, Paris had silently will the procession to move faster, feeling like a stunted weed in a field of vivacious wild roses. It was no mistake to say he was wound tightly. Even his hands were squeezing the reigns too tight, trembling slightly. He'd tried his best to still them, pressing them against his decretive silver armor. The day had gone on much like that, taking by surprise.

Coming to his rooms, Paris quietly dismissed his attendants and stood by his window, arms wrapped tightly about him self. The moon was a waxing crescent over the black sea. The clouds that tried their best to swallow the moon whole were dark and heavy and as dense as the sense of tension that rode the air. The Greeks were coming, drawing closer with each gust of favorable wind. Paris could feel it. He knew Hector could feel it, too.

Thinking back to that afternoon as he'd walked up the stairs after Hector had stepped away from their father's warm embrace. Hector had watched him fondly as devoured the pride and kindness, even love, the old king fairly beamed at him when they came together. It had been a bittersweet moment for him as a young man as each of his cheeks were anointed with a tender kiss and his raw, desperately hopeful face was held between two deliberate hands. Priam, it seemed now as he revisited the moment, had been just as intent upon his sons face as he had been upon his fathers.

Paris, as much as he yearned for the love and acceptance of this lost parent, the man who had taught him, sheltered him, saved him, and raised him to be a good, honest, hard working man was just as lost to him now. Would his gentle father stand to recognize him were he to make the backwards mistake of returning home? Would it not be safer for his heart to never taste the bitterness of such profound disappointment realized? Better that his home and childhood should be relegated to the golden-hued halls of immortal memory, than be cast now into the harsh light of his new self awareness. Yes, unfortunately, the old adage was true: you can never return home.

Yet, was it so wrong, he'd pondered passionately, looking into his fathers eyes, to need this kingly man before him to want him in return? As well, where was his anger at being so abandoned by his sire? Why was his wrath at being left for no less than dead not terrible and spiteful?

Even as Paris searched the black horizon for the slightest sign of a ships approach, he sighed and fell lethargically against a pillar. When has his life become so mired in complications? Simplicity, practicality, forthrightness- had been the cornerstones of his life. He was having to redefine all and it ate at him. He had drastically differing obligations now. He had power now. But oh, how he'd give it all up for his only, greatest, dream. Achilles would return to him in their grove by the river, make love to him, then take him by the hand to his ship and on they would sail to Larisa, to the wonderfully humble home his lover had been preparing for them. Down to the last detail, Alexandros could imagine each room, the splendid view of the sea under the sun and moon, the firm bed…

Turning his head to look at the lavish bedding, in Trojan blue instead of Spartan red, with its soft feather mattress and pillows plumped for his comfort, Paris returned his attention to the sea. His bed was empty, his heart in turmoil, and his future, the future of Troy itself, was uncertain at best. All he could do was wait and pray.

Patience was something Prince Paris of Troy had learned very well.

TBC…

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