Chapter Twelve

Author's Note: I decided that this chapter would be fulfilling if it was told from third-person.

Before Helen, there was Oenone. When I was but the adopted son of a shepherd, she loved me anyway. She didn't see me for my social status, but rather my mind…before Troy, I lived in Mount Ida, a place full of wonders, memories, and incidents long forgotten. When I found that I was the lost Prince of Troy, I forgot Oenone. But Oenone truly didn't forget me, for ten long years.

Although Troy forgot about the youngest prince, Priam believed that I was still alive.

Love is funny. Once you fall in love, you cannot stop giving, no matter the circumstances.

The four men, Paris' bodyguards, carried the prince's weak body on their straining shoulders. It was an honor to escort the prince, and the four men didn't complain of their burden. They sprinted quickly but steadily on light feet, for the Prince had fallen deeply ill, and it had been the Queen's wish that he may recover.

Despite his desperate situation, he still had hope of survival. This hope seemed to be keeping him alive. Although he never explained why, Paris had instructed the men to take him to Mount Ida, where Oenone lived. No one knew who she was- she was said to be a nymph with healing powers. No one questioned Paris about her, for he revealed very little about her, and they didn't wish to bother a sick patient.

Oenone, strange as she was, seemed to be the only solution in curing Paris. The men marched each step with strength; they were near their destination. It was a scorching day, and a river must be nearby to quench their thirst.

Polydeyus, one guard, insisted on resting.

"Let us rest awhile, my friends. I know that we have an important task before us, but even we cannot stand this heat. I do not think it is wise to be traveling any farther without a sip of water. We need it. So does Prince Paris."

The men agreed. Filling their cupped hands with refreshing water, they gave some to Paris, who drank the water thirstily.

"Thank you, gentlemen. Would you be so kind to help me out of this stretcher? We are here at last! Oenone lives in the cave on that hill over there. Do you see it? It is but ten feet away."

His guards rejected. "No, my prince, you have lost your strength. We cannot let you risk your health like this."

Nevertheless, Paris crawled feebly to the ground, where he lay helpless for a moment. Then, managing to lift his hand, cried out:

"Oenone, my love, I have come. It is I, Paris. I have returned to you."

The guards waited patiently to meet this strange nymph they had only heard about in legend.

There was no immediate answer. Paris let out a sigh of anxiety. "Oenone," he called once more.

Soon, mist began to form near the entrance of the dark, hollow cave. It was incredible, almost like magic. The guards watched in awe as a tall, pleasant woman stepped out from the white smoke.

Oenone.

"What is the matter?" She asked, her voice cool but warm. She looked over to Paris, covered her mouth in shock, and ran over to him. She seemed to be holding in a scream.

Regaining her composure, she told them, "I am Oenone, dweller of these hills. I know a way to cure Paris. But you must promise me something. Return to Troy. Leave him here with me overnight; you can take him tomorrow at dawn. Make sure that Helen doesn't find out. Place him in bed right before she wakes. I would like to spend some time with him."

"But, my lady…"

"I ask you a favor. For me."

Reluctantly, the four guards set the stretcher down onto the grass. The scorching heat of the sun was particularly strong; it was mid-summer. The once green grass was dried up. Dead, infertile. Ill, like the prince himself.

"I leave him in your care. Please cure him. Helen is so worried."

A long pause. The name Helen seemed to turn her eyes to hard stone.

"Helen? Helen, you say. Does she really know the pain one feels at the risk of a loved one? Tell her that he needs to stay for the night if she ever wants to see her husband again."

With a nod, the guards turned, making their way down from Mount Ida. Oenone brushed his curls with unflagging affection that still hadn't died out. She smiled at him faintly, for she felt awkward being so close to him in a long time.

She waited for a response. Paris turned his head to gaze at her. It was a long, deep, questioning gaze that made Oenone tremble.

"Oenone…I have missed you. Forgive me for having to come back to you in a state of illness." He stopped for breath. "It is only you who can cure me, for you were the first to love me. Only you can save me. Please…you are so kind…" With that, he closed his eyes. He had passed out from the pain. Oenone carried the stretcher with some effort into her cave. There, she lay him down comfortably, in a bed of bird feather. She covered him with a blanket made of sheep wool from his homeland. He would be kept warm. She felt his head. He had a high fever. Although his bruises were healing, the scratches on his arms and legs were still evident. He looked beaten, abused. He coughed now and then; he had a cold.

Oenone quickly mashed herbs together into a thick paste to be used as medicine. She boiled it in hot water. With those herbs he would recover the next day, that is, if the timing was right. She dabbed his forehead with a cold rag with care. He mumbled nonsense in his sleep. Oenone hushed him, soothed him, sang to him lullabies like to a child. She urged him awake. Paris opened his eyes slowly, and his face was twisted with agony. Illness had made him gaunt. She blew on a spoonful of medicine, and made sure that he swallowed it. The remedy was strong; he was asleep within minutes.

Oenone, having watched him and taken care of him for many hours, fell asleep at his bedside.

Paris awoke, slightly refreshed. He felt better, his head felt lighter than before. His throat was still sore, but he could speak, call out her name.

"Oenone?" He said, seeing her asleep on top of him. He caressed her hair, for he remembered well the sweet scent of lavender in them.

Oenone arose. She pressed him tightly to her chest, for she was very glad to have him beside her again. "You are better, Paris. I was worried…Helen is worried. They'll take you back tomorrow morning," she added with a hint of sorrow. "There is something I need to tell you. Promise me that it'll be kept a secret."

"What is it, my sweet?"

"You…you are a father. Your daughter was born months after you left me." Tears began to well up in her hazelnut eyes.

"What?" Paris said in his raspy voice. "You- you never told me that you were-carrying my daughter. I am a bastard, aren't I; to leave you alone with a child to take care of alone. Oh, my poor Oenone." He kissed her on the lips. His kiss tasted of the aromatic herbs from the medicine, strong and savory. Piercing. "It's my fault. If only I hadn't lusted for Helen in the first place, none of this would have happened. The separation between us, this war. Those Greeks only want power, Oenone. Not Helen. They do not care for love. As long as they have their glory. I feel as if I cannot stop them from ruining my country. I…I love you. I'm sorry I left you." Paris cried then. Oenone wiped the tears with her soft hands. "It was a curse of Aphrodite. She rewarded me for giving her the golden apple, but instead she took you away from me."

"We cannot always decide our fates. But must you leave tomorrow, Paris? Stay here with me. Meet your daughter. I can't stand you leaving."

"I won't. Neither by my will or the Gods'," he whispered. He sat up and pulled her closer to him. He cradled her in his arms. He stroked her chestnut hair. He kissed her passionately on the lips. She kissed him back. Smiling one of his brief, charming smiles, Paris knew that everything was going to be all right. He lay on the bed with Oenone securing one hand over his chest. She pointed to where Andronea was sleeping. Their daughter. Paris marveled at the resemblance. He had so much that he owed to his family. He would dream of it now.

"I'm never leaving you again. I promise." Paris whispered one last time. As evening turned to night, they fell asleep in each other's arms.