Ἑλένη (thisisspaaarta) wrote in forgotten_past, @ 2010-06-04 17:36:00 |
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Entry tags: | helen, paris |
Who: Helen & Paris
Where: Sparta, Paris' guest quarters
When: before the Trojan War
Rating/Warnings: PG
Helen was going out of her mind. From the moment the Trojan prince stepped into her husband's throne room, Helen was riveted. From where she stood in the shadow of the king's chair, she regarded the youthful man with the cherubic face and golden locks that may well rival Apollo's own. It almost seemed as if his eyes swept the room seeking her. For once in her life, Helen shrank back to prevent from being spotted, not knowing what to do with herself. She was a married woman. She should not be so intrigued with someone other than her husband. But Menelaus was ever concerned with war and politics. A woman needed to be romanced. The King of Sparta was a fighter more than a lover and Helen was often left feeling downtrodden, waylaid by affairs of state. She wished for the burning fires of passion that was said to engulf and consume. She felt none of that with him.
A secret part of her ached to find out if she could experience such with Paris.
What was wrong with her? Helen of Sparta may be many things, but never before had she contemplated being unfaithful to her husband. Her lord and master. Yet as soon as he had concluded discussing his diplomatic business with Paris, he rushed off to Zeus knows where. And here she was, in the dead of night, standing at Paris' door, small torch in hand, the dying embers of the flame flicking due to her shaking hand. She could not want this, but she did. Oh, she did. Each time she stepped forward, she took two steps back, uncertainty filling her. Helen had never felt so unsure of herself in her life. She thought momentarily of Hermione, her beautiful little nine-year-old daughter, and her three sons. She could not betray them so. Could she?
Indecision warred in her mind, pulling her every which way. In the end, she extinguished the torch, the flame blowing out in a puff of finality. Helen slipped into the bedchamber of Paris of Troy.
The prince was apparently in the midst of preparing for bed. The only light in the room came from the brightness of the moonlight streaming in through the large open windows. Helen securely closed the door behind her. Without much preamble, she strode toward him, bristling with womanly indignation, a poor attempt at hiding her frazzled inner state. "What have you done to me, Prince Paris, that I should think of you so?"