Chapter Text
Oh, poor little Trojan boy
Glance in the eyes of the one who arms for you bore
And brought to your country the infamous war
See the fire that you never saw before
In the eyes of your beloved
Before the red-haired king your head bowed
A thousand ships for you had rowed
You, the one who quest for love begun
Will never get to wear the crown
The poisoned arrow cannot be outrun
A shepherd who had ranged
The cattle
His Fate remains unchanged
The battle
Tears and army they both gather
Pry and cry for fallen brother
In the arms of your beloved
Prologue
Look at him. How lovely he is. Young, barely sixteen, his skin in the shade of a cherry tree bark. Eyes bright with confusion and wonder, as he stares at the three goddesses standing right in front of him. Powerful. Wise. Beautiful.
Paris. Paris of Mount Ida. Paris the Cowherd.
Paris, Prince of Troy.
But he doesn’t know it yet. Raised in the green valley by the farmers, he would never dare to dream of being royalty. A simple young shepherd – that’s who he is. That’s who he believes he should be. It’s a sad life, really. Among endless plains one can feel trapped, living his days by hoping and dreaming about brighter future. Almost like a slave. He shouldn’t be dreaming. But he can’t help himself.
If he could, he would have abandoned this grey place a long time ago. He would have run far, far away from the sheepish valley in which he was raised. Unfortunately, he can’t. He knows that such choice is not up to him. He’s too cowardly to do anything. All he has are the vast fields where the cattle grazes on grass and sheep bleat their herbivorous lament.
In those vast fields the three goddesses, representatives of love, power and wisdom, approach him to ask the question that would change the course of history.
“Choose for us, young shepherd,” the voice of Hera rings in his ears. A sudden shiver runs down his spine. It’s the middle of the summer and he’s freezing. Hot air of August grazed his skin, but as soon as the wife of Zeus spoke the air turned cold. It’s the hottest month of the year and he’s freezing in the presence of ones bigger than him.
”Tell us”, Athena orders. Wind follows her voice together with striking sound: rustling of a thousand feathers. Owl feathers, each sharp like a bronze sword. One of those he saw painted on the wall when he once visited the big city. And they all hurt his ears and mind as if he was stricken by the cold metal. “Who is the fairest?”
He cannot choose. How could he? Each woman is gorgeous, full of unearthly light. Royal Hera, with queen-worthy power hidden behind her smile, decorated with Olympian jewelry like peacock’s feathers are decorated with thousands of shining eyes. Cold, so cold.
He’s still freezing.
Brave Athena, with strong muscles that have served in many wars. Fire burns in her cold grey eyes, as she strokes the spotted goat skin covering her lovely breasts. Nails like talons. Sharp, so sharp.
He can’t think straight.
Aphrodite, that radiant, beautiful, sweet fruit of Cyprus. Covered by scarce sea foam dress, her skin white as milk and lips pink as rose petals. Green eyes vigorous, like the grassy fields that surround them. But what really steals Paris’ attention is her hair. Fiery red, bright and healthy. Perfect, just perfect.
He feels the long curls stroking his skin as the goddess leans in, closer, probably to help show off her breasts. But in this moment he doesn’t care. That auburn hair is the only thing that lasts on his mind, its smell suffocating. Stealing the last breath out of his lungs. He gasps, lips parting.
He has to give them an answer.
“Make the right choice, mortal,” Hera begins again. “And I will make you the Lord of Europe and Asia. No longer will you have to beg for scraps at your father’s table, nor will you have to seek love in the arms that use you for their own pleasure. For my gift is one of power, the kind which once tasted, can never be refused. Respect and reign follow man’s might – for once you will be the one in control.” Cold strikes him again. “Until the end of your days.”
“Where the Queen of the Gods proposes power,” Athena’s voice thunders like her father’s lightning. “I can offer you something of more value – victory. With my help you will lead the Trojan armies against the Achaeans and leave their cities in ruins. Think about it, boy. Picture the respect with which king of Troy himself will greet you at the Scaean Gate. What happiness you will bring to your country and kin. The poets will sing of your deeds. You shall begin the true age of prosperity. One that will last long after your death.”
One could only expect goddesses to do anything that’s in their power to gain the honors of the golden apple. And as one could also foresee, the bargain they drive is a hard one.
He’s lost. He’s doomed. The futures in goddesses’ promises are great, but neither fate sounds appealing. No matter what he does, what he says, what he thinks, he will be doomed.
Just as he’s preparing himself for the upcoming labor, the sweetest of the voices makes its way towards his ears.
“Grant me that apple, sweet boy,” Aphrodite whispers in his ear, voice overflowing with milk and honey. Red strokes of hair cover her eyes. They now look as if someone painted a flowery field in them. Reflection of her colorful soul. “And I promise, that in return, I’ll grant you the love of one who will remind you of my beauty. Forever.”
Somehow he knows she is right. Somehow he knows the fate will twist her words. Somehow he knows, that the other two goddesses will punish him and won’t stop until his cold corpse falls down from the walls of Troy or drowns in the Aegan Sea.
And somehow, he still reaches out his hand to her.
The grimace twisting Hera’s lips doesn’t escape his attention. Neither does he miss the fire burning stronger in Athena’s eyes. They are all so beautiful. It’s unbelievable; it’s like a dream. A trance. A myth.
And in this myth only one of the goddesses brought Paris warmth and comfort.
“I’ll grant you the love of one who will remind you of my beauty”.
He’s young. He has nothing. Only hopes and dreams. He wants to believe her. He needs to believe her. He has to become somebody in this world that’s dominated by heroes and monsters, by warriors and tyrant rulers. But he doesn’t want to be a king, nor a hero.
“Forever.”
He wants to become a lover.
Peacock’s scream, followed by an owl’s shriek. And among these horrendous sounds – tender giggle of a dove.
The shepherd’s hand is free, no weight in it anymore. Empty palm freezes in the sun.
It is done. He had changed the course of history. He had set the hourglass of his fate on.
He had given the apple to Aphrodite.
For freedom is his domain and love is his call.