text: (WP) A Bitter Lovers’ Quarrel “I told you it didn’t have to happen this way,” His beloved snarled. She was sitting on the bed with her arms crossed, her full, luscious lips twisted in disgust. “I tried to tell you!” Her voice was soft, but carried an undertone of steel that would have sent him running for cover, had he been anyone else. But he was Paris, Prince of Troy, and he refused to be cowed, even by his own lover. Paris’s arms felt empty without Helen within them. Even though his lover was technically married to King Menelaus, it hadn’t stopped him from falling in love with her the moment he laid eyes on her. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and after all that logic and reason flew straight out the window. “That was one of the members of my family, Paris. And now Hector is gone! I tried to tell you that there was a way out of this that didn’t involve war and bloodshed!” Her back was turned to him, and that alone felt like the worst sort of rebuke. For all her beauty, it was easy for even him to forget that she was a demigod, the King of the Gods her father. He wanted to say that she hadn’t protested when he’d stolen into her room that first night, and they’d kissed, never mind that her own husband was lying next to her. It was the first time that Paris had ever tasted her, and it was that madness that prompted him to steal her away from her husband and people. Both Trojans and Greeks wondered if the prince had been struck by one of Aphrodite’s stray arrows; that had to be the only reason that both armies were now falling to ruin. “I’m not sorry,” Paris replied at last, and once the words left his mouth, he realized that it was the truth. “Of course, you’re not sorry!” Helen snapped through gritted teeth. “Why would you be? He wasn’t part of your family.” She remembered all the time she’d spent with Hector, despite his seniority. He’d been as dear to her as her own father, and despite the fact that she adored Paris, she wasn’t certain if she could forgive this particular trespass. Before Paris could see them, Helen wiped her face of tears. Despite herself, she found herself missing her husband and Sparta. Standing on the other side of what could be her greatest impulse or ruin, Helen found her heart crumbling to pieces inside of her ribcage. How had this even begun? Was it her own way of distracting herself from her yawning, all-consuming boredom, despite being a queen with a loving husband? Had Paris been nothing but a shiny, well-oiled distraction from the gilded cage from which she’d ruled on high? She’d grabbed on to him with both hands, duty, decorum and all the gods be damned, never mind that she’d left her old life in shambles in doing so.