The Rise of the Demon King's Consort
folder
S through Z › Troy
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
19
Views:
12,309
Reviews:
34
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
S through Z › Troy
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
19
Views:
12,309
Reviews:
34
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Troy, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
A shining beacon in the darkness
Sleeping Paris. Beautiful Paris. A shining beacon in the darkness that was the Seventh Plane of Hell. Adorable, all brown curls and moist lips. The Demon King sat by the sleeping Prince’s side, watching, contemplating. He could see Paris’ eyelids move, saw the beautiful thick lashes flutter a little. Paris was dreaming, but the Demon King did not intrude although he very much wished to, in case Paris was having a bad dream.
The Seventh Plane of Hell was under constant attack because of Paris. Ever since he’d first set foot in among the undead, his light that was life, had been the target of all the Demon King’s enemies. The Eight Plane below, Absolute Hell as it was called, from where all creatures cast down, were constantly trying to flood the Demon King’s borders. Because of Paris, they could now see which way was up, up towards the surface, past Earth and from there onwards to salvation. The daily stream of dead, depraved souls had both advantages and disadvantages. The flow of souls desperate to find a way out of the Eight Plane, was food to the Demon King’s soldiers, literary running straight into their maws. The soldiers were actually growing fat and lazy because they didn’t have to work to get their food anymore, and that led to more stray souls than ever making it across the border. And Lucifer, Lord of the Eight Plane, grew more and more envious day by day, assaulting the borders, stretching the magic perimeter day by day, for Lucifer, gorgeous golden haired fallen angelus Lucifer, was the embodiment of envy, and had singled out Paris from the very day he learnt that the Trojan Prince was giving birth to a warlord. All by himself, willingly giving himself to the Demon King Thyrion. Lucifer was dangerous. He was a demon with ambitions. And like all of his creatures, he yearned to reach the surface, to be ruler of pitiful Mankind, wallowing in their lusts.
The Demon King looked at his sleeping beauty. If he left the Seventh Plane of Hell, his Kingdom, then it would all buckle. The Viceroy would never stand to keep it going. He was a pawn in the game, and certainly no chess player, content with being a dreadful apparition, feeding on the fear of the dead, paying no heed to political struggles.
Lucifer would overtake him. And with the Lord of the Sixth Plane on the other end, the two Lords would squeeze the Seventh Plane in the middle, tearing it apart stone by stone. If the Demon King stayed and ruled, the kingdom would survive. He could see it before his mental eye, his kingdom prospering, expanding the Sixth Plane. But Paris would be the one paying the prize, withering away, crumbling until his light would extinguish, and he wouldn’t even notice. For the Lost Ones do not know they die. They simply exist, and keep on existing long after their bones have rotten away and only a faint whisper of the souls remains.
The Demon King closed his eyes, a flash of insight racing across his mind. A boat with red sails with a crew of Lost Ones. Lost in time. He opened his eyes again, looking down at Paris. The tears on the boy’s face had not yet dried. Even in his sleep, his sorrow haunted him.
He had seen it in a vision while court had been in session. He had seen the crossroad of the future forming while watching Paris sitting on his throne, a stranger to the court, rigid with fear of being raped. The Demon King had been a fool to believe that Paris would go on as nothing had happened, that the Trojan Prince would be able to sit there and boldly look each and every who’d laid a finger on him, straight in the eye as he was made Prince Consort again.
Back in present time, the Demon King rubbed his face in his palms, calling for a servant.
“I need something. Something…strong” he said to the undead, “get me a bottle of Fine Blood”. The servant nodded, leaving shortly after.
He’d seen a glimpse of a possible, alternate future. A future with Paris. And the glimpse alone had been enough for him to abandon all other plans. It meant leaving with Paris, for Paris’ sake, allowing the Demon King to quench his guilt. He drummed his long nailed fingers on his knees absentmindedly, watching Paris move slightly in his sleep, tears falling towards the pillow as he did. Where had his mind been? Why had he gone to such lengths in the first place? Paris could have been killed. Abandoning Paris like that? Whatever possessed him?
Jealousy. Betrayal. Loss.
Lucifer, and his father Baal’ial. With someone on the inside, acting as their instrument to get close to the Demon King and Paris.
Mesthaphus, Lesser Demon of Despair.
The Demon King’s tears fell to the stone tiles. As they touched the stone, they immediately became gold, and shattered into dust. He wept in silence, weeping in anger, and soon gold seeped from the creaks and cracks of the corners of the room, turning every tile, every foundation into solid gold. Upon seeing it, the Demon King rose, startled to find the room turning into such a state. That wasn’t his doing. He didn’t have such erratic powers, did he? He waded into the bed and picked up Paris. Light as a feather in his arms all the while he wasn’t with child, the Demon King mused. He watched in horror as the bed sheets which still were warm from Paris’ body, stiffen and turn to hard golden metal plates. He got out of the room, just to stand face to face with a blazing ball of light hovering just outside the doorway.
His legs nearly gave way as he recognized the light for what it was.
The Seventh Plane of Hell was under constant attack because of Paris. Ever since he’d first set foot in among the undead, his light that was life, had been the target of all the Demon King’s enemies. The Eight Plane below, Absolute Hell as it was called, from where all creatures cast down, were constantly trying to flood the Demon King’s borders. Because of Paris, they could now see which way was up, up towards the surface, past Earth and from there onwards to salvation. The daily stream of dead, depraved souls had both advantages and disadvantages. The flow of souls desperate to find a way out of the Eight Plane, was food to the Demon King’s soldiers, literary running straight into their maws. The soldiers were actually growing fat and lazy because they didn’t have to work to get their food anymore, and that led to more stray souls than ever making it across the border. And Lucifer, Lord of the Eight Plane, grew more and more envious day by day, assaulting the borders, stretching the magic perimeter day by day, for Lucifer, gorgeous golden haired fallen angelus Lucifer, was the embodiment of envy, and had singled out Paris from the very day he learnt that the Trojan Prince was giving birth to a warlord. All by himself, willingly giving himself to the Demon King Thyrion. Lucifer was dangerous. He was a demon with ambitions. And like all of his creatures, he yearned to reach the surface, to be ruler of pitiful Mankind, wallowing in their lusts.
The Demon King looked at his sleeping beauty. If he left the Seventh Plane of Hell, his Kingdom, then it would all buckle. The Viceroy would never stand to keep it going. He was a pawn in the game, and certainly no chess player, content with being a dreadful apparition, feeding on the fear of the dead, paying no heed to political struggles.
Lucifer would overtake him. And with the Lord of the Sixth Plane on the other end, the two Lords would squeeze the Seventh Plane in the middle, tearing it apart stone by stone. If the Demon King stayed and ruled, the kingdom would survive. He could see it before his mental eye, his kingdom prospering, expanding the Sixth Plane. But Paris would be the one paying the prize, withering away, crumbling until his light would extinguish, and he wouldn’t even notice. For the Lost Ones do not know they die. They simply exist, and keep on existing long after their bones have rotten away and only a faint whisper of the souls remains.
The Demon King closed his eyes, a flash of insight racing across his mind. A boat with red sails with a crew of Lost Ones. Lost in time. He opened his eyes again, looking down at Paris. The tears on the boy’s face had not yet dried. Even in his sleep, his sorrow haunted him.
He had seen it in a vision while court had been in session. He had seen the crossroad of the future forming while watching Paris sitting on his throne, a stranger to the court, rigid with fear of being raped. The Demon King had been a fool to believe that Paris would go on as nothing had happened, that the Trojan Prince would be able to sit there and boldly look each and every who’d laid a finger on him, straight in the eye as he was made Prince Consort again.
Back in present time, the Demon King rubbed his face in his palms, calling for a servant.
“I need something. Something…strong” he said to the undead, “get me a bottle of Fine Blood”. The servant nodded, leaving shortly after.
He’d seen a glimpse of a possible, alternate future. A future with Paris. And the glimpse alone had been enough for him to abandon all other plans. It meant leaving with Paris, for Paris’ sake, allowing the Demon King to quench his guilt. He drummed his long nailed fingers on his knees absentmindedly, watching Paris move slightly in his sleep, tears falling towards the pillow as he did. Where had his mind been? Why had he gone to such lengths in the first place? Paris could have been killed. Abandoning Paris like that? Whatever possessed him?
Jealousy. Betrayal. Loss.
Lucifer, and his father Baal’ial. With someone on the inside, acting as their instrument to get close to the Demon King and Paris.
Mesthaphus, Lesser Demon of Despair.
The Demon King’s tears fell to the stone tiles. As they touched the stone, they immediately became gold, and shattered into dust. He wept in silence, weeping in anger, and soon gold seeped from the creaks and cracks of the corners of the room, turning every tile, every foundation into solid gold. Upon seeing it, the Demon King rose, startled to find the room turning into such a state. That wasn’t his doing. He didn’t have such erratic powers, did he? He waded into the bed and picked up Paris. Light as a feather in his arms all the while he wasn’t with child, the Demon King mused. He watched in horror as the bed sheets which still were warm from Paris’ body, stiffen and turn to hard golden metal plates. He got out of the room, just to stand face to face with a blazing ball of light hovering just outside the doorway.
His legs nearly gave way as he recognized the light for what it was.