Alexis of Sparta (Book II) - Unedited, first draft*

λ -Trianda

Thirty

 The doubt continued to gnaw at Paris ever since they returned home. Doubt, worry, guilt. They sloshed around his gut like the wine he consumed, a desperate move to drown out the feelings.

He told himself that he saved her, whisked her away from her royal prison in Sparta, that a life in Troy was much more appropriate for such a free spirit. Helen was, after all, the prize his goddess, Aphrodite, had offered. Two attractive royals, rejecting their kingdoms for...something. Passion, most likely. Love, perhaps.

Paris took a sip of his wine, the tart liquid coating his throat. He'd come to care for Helen, though love seemed too far a stretch. The sky cried for him, filling the air with damp dirt and fresh water. He'd declined Hector's invitation to join him for training in the rain. The last thing he wanted to do was have to put on a show for the Trojan army. Besides, word had spread quickly about his delicate demeanour. He would rather drink, fuck and lose himself in the wealth of his kingdom, than die fighting for it. Let them believe he was as promiscuous as Dionysus. Even the god himself approved after that incident in the garden.

Paris finished the rest of the wine and as it shot to his head, he set the glass on the table, a small smile curling his lips. The garden seemed like decades ago. Alexis had come to save him from a god. Foolish, brave girl. She had a mouth on her, her accent from a far away land. Her customs foreign and she was, at times, a little too bold. And scared. So scared.

The smile faded. When she needed him the most, Paris wasn't there for her.

If he had been there, she wouldn't have fallen under a Greek's charm. That... Achilles. Hector had heard of him. A strong hero blessed with impenetrable skin by his mother, Thetis. Some water nymph, though Paris' mind was hazy. Perhaps it had been a wood nymph, like the one he and Alexis had met.

Hector claimed that Achilles was protected by the River Styx. Not even the older Trojan prince could match the likes of the River Styx, let alone his uncontrollable younger brother.

Paris ran a hand through his hair, his hand dropping heavily onto the back of the lounge couch he lay. And, not for the first time, his thoughts wandered back to his father's farm. Not his blood father, Priam, but his adopted father. The man who defied his king and queen and, rather than leave Paris outside to die, kept the infant alive. Raised Paris as his own in secret.

When Paris and Hector first returned home from Sparta, the younger prince had overheard Cassandra pleading with their father to listen to her. Helen's arrival would doom all of them and it was because Paris had been left alive, despite the terrible prophecy hanging over his head. Priam had dismissed Cassandra as foolish but Paris knew, with a sinking stone in his stomach, that she was right. He didn't want to believe her (everything screamed at him that she was a false prophet), and yet he couldn't shake the feeling that he had done something terrible.

A knock on the door shook him out of his stupor. "Enter."

The person who walked in was his mother.

Hecuba seemed to have aged since Paris and Hector departed for Sparta. She still stood with her back straight and her chin lifted, but her eyes lost their sharp clarity, and her white hair was limp around her shoulders. Her mouth sagged under the weight of the loose wrinkles, her skin paler than usual. Her gaze shifted to the discarded bottle of wine and then to the state of his room. He'd refused any servant or slave to clean it, so it was left to rot, like his heart. At least there wasn't a naked man or woman tangled in the unmade bedding, though the lingering smell of sweat and sex permeated the dewy rain.