Everybody Hates Paris
The cloud was a subtle blend of blush pinks with a hint of deep purple and a sprinkling of gold dust. It smelled of roses and ambrosia. Paris breathed it in with a sigh of anticipation and another of sheer relief. Then he laughed. It was quite amusing, when one thought of it. True, he had come dangerously close to soiling himself a few moments ago, but he could imagine the looks on their faces now! Ah well, some people just had friends in high places. Very high places. He straightened his panther skin cloak and pulled his most alluring kiss-curl down over one eye. He hoped to Zeus his eyeliner hadn't run.
"Radiant as ever, "he said to the dazzling figure materialising in from of him. "We poor mortals shall be quite sunburnt in the light of your peerless eyes."
It had taken him years to perfect that tone of voice, two parts throbbing masculinity, one part sensitive, artistic soul. And now even the immortal goddesses couldn't keep their hands off him. Gifts the aegis-bearer gives, Hector, he thought. You can't have it all. He closed his eyes and formed his mouth into the perfect kiss shape.
But "laughter-loving" Aphrodite wasn't smiling.
"Give it a rest, pretty boy. I'm not in the mood." She sighed and sank into the cloud in a mixture of indolence and irresistibility.
"Ah, what's matter?" He walked his fingers up her arm. A change of tactics; he had plenty more in his repertoire. "Tell Paris all about it and he'll make it better."
He had forgotten – a second before his head hit the opposite cloud in a shower of gold sparks – just how strong the gods were.
"Don't push your luck, mortal." Hades, she really meant it! "I've got Hephaestus breathing down my neck and, believe me, that can get pretty fiery."
"Find you in bed with Ares again, did he?" He couldn't quite keep the scorn out of his voice, or his eyes.
Aphrodite leaned over with a wicked look and plucked a single hair from his head. It was white. The goddess pursed her lips in the sultriest way imaginable. "Mortal," she mouthed.
Touché. All was fair in love and war, but that was distinctly below the belt. Speaking of which, couldn't she see he was in agony here? He'd just nearly died, for pity's sake, and now she was touching up her hair as if he didn't exist.
"Pretty please." Surely even the deathless could not resist those little boy's eyes.
"You don't know why I'm here, do you?" Aphrodite looked down the length of her perfect aquiline nose. "I have the power of life and death over you, believe it or not, and right now things are looking very dicey."
"What do you mean?" A trickle of ice had started to run through his veins.
"I mean, lover boy, that the list of reasons for the gods to keep you alive is growing mighty short. You've got to see it, when you consider who you're up against: Aeneas, Sarpedon, the worthy Hector. Everyone on Olympus is saying, "What's the point of Paris?" and I must admit they're onto something. What is your function? Do you have any redeeming features? Can you name one person in Troy right now who actually likes you?"
"What is this, twenty questions?" Sweat was starting to prick at the back of his neck. Surely life and death wasn't a popularity poll. Besides, everyone loved Paris. He only had to raise an eyebrow and women swooned. Helen had swooned…
"Oh, and please don't say Helen. She's just waiting for you to drop dead so she can go back to a real man who wouldn't let thousands die because he couldn't keep his scabbard on."
He clenched his fists and smiled through gritted teeth. "I think that's known as projection, my dear."
"Don't "my dear" me, worm food. Get naming."
By Zeus, she was infuriating! He mentally ran through a list of the royal household. No, it wasn't helping. If he'd been asked to give a list of everyone who hated him, it would have been quicker. His father: blaming him for loss of life. His sister-in-law: blaming him for loss of conjugal rites. His brother. Huh, don't get me started, he thought. Even Hector's scrawny son had cried at the sight of him. Of course, he'd cried at the sight of Hector too, which had been rather satisfying, but it didn't really help his case. Their noble allies couldn't stand him. And as for the men, he could still hear the boos resounding in his ears as he had fled back into the ranks. It was not looking good.
Aphrodite broke off a piece of cloud and began to powder her nose with it. He wished she'd put her cleavage away if she was only going to sport with him. Games for the gods; was that all mortals were? He watched her turn towards him with a frustratingly enticing smile and blow him a kiss. Gold dust settled on his eyelashes. He scowled. Then a slow smile crept over his kiss-shaped lips. Life was a game and he knew how to play it.
"You," he said, in a tone calculated to weaken even divine resistance. "I know you still love me, peerless one. And you're the only one that counts."
She stretched onto her stomach, her face framed between perfectly manicured hands. "I'm not in Troy, lover boy."
He put his lips to her cheek and breathed silk into her ear. "You're everywhere."
Her push was much more playful this time. He knew he was winning. Aphrodite kept him at arm's reach with a single finger.
"Say it again. Who's the only one that counts?"
"You; you; only you."
"Even if the whole of Troy hates you?"
"Especially."
He was seconds away from being in the arms of a goddess. What else was worth living for?
"So how shall I prove your worth to Olympus? Say you'll kill the swift Achilles? Avenge your worthy brother's inevitable death?"
"Yes. Yes." She was perilously close to him now. He might have agreed to anything. He could almost taste the ambrosia. His bones were aching. "You know I'll be doing it all for you."
Aphrodite opened a hole in the cloud. "Good luck then, sweetheart."
The realisation was like a splash of cold water in the face. "Where are you sending me?"
"Back to your wife, of course." She placed a rather heavy emphasis on the word. An elegant finger on his lips stilled Paris' protestations. A breath of pure heaven played over his cheek; her lips were an agonising hair's breadth away. "Pretend it's me."
He was falling through a pink and purple haze. The scent of roses was fading. The wind against his skin cooled his throbbing veins. And then he hit the bed. Falling into bed - he couldn't say it was the first time. Paris stroked the sturdy headboard and laughed. He was alive, he was a Trojan prince, and he was hotter than Hephaestus. He sat up amongst the perfumed sheets and pulled down his kiss-curl again in the reflection of three huge bronze mirrors. A man even the goddesses could scarcely keep their hands off. And Argive Helen only rooms away. Gifts the aegis-bearer gives, Hector, he thought. Everybody loves Paris.
Or something like that.
End.