The Rise of the Demon King's Consort

For days it was only Sakias who visited them. He patiently taught Paris that he would dress again, telling him over and over that he was to stay warm. Paris spent the days wondering why those –who ever they were – downstairs, who kept hammering and sweating over large chiselled granite, didn’t seek them out. Why didn’t they act like demons? Why weren’t they seeking him out, sniffing for human flesh, coaxing him with obscenities?
Sakias was making an effort to bring his parents together, his harsh tone towards The Demon King lessening somewhat, as he told them to help each other. He finally sensed hope, as he came flying in one morning, catching Paris in the middle of showing Thyrion how to build a fire.

“If I only had my magic”, the king replied silently, coughing and sniffing. He was not doing so well, his health deteriorating day by day. As they saw Sakias, Paris immediately backed away from Thyrion, keeping his distance from both of them. Sakias scorned him for not wrapping himself in fur, keeping warm. Paris silently obeyed. The meals however, was the worst, for Sakias would have it so that Thyrion was the one to prepare Paris’ meal, always making sure Thyrion would cook or roast the fresh meat he brought in every morning.

“Where does the bread and cheese come from?” the king once asked Sakias.

“From the villagers” Sakias replied, “each morning they set out a basket with freshly baked bread, still warm from the fires of their cooking ovens. And each morning, as I touch ground to retrieve the basket, they pray to me that I bring them back The Prince Consort of the Seventh Plane of Hell, their Prince of Troy”.

“Villagers?” Paris replied, looking confused. But then he remembered. In his glory days as Prince Consort, he’d saved so many Trojans he possibly could. It was his people, enslaved by the Spartans after the taking of Troy, and he’d persuaded The Demon King to help him set up gateways, sneaking the slaves out whenever he found himself escorting The Demon King to dinner celebrations by invitation of the Spartan kings. Paris had gladly endured the hungry eyes of Menelaus, allowing the king to undress him with his eyes, just so Paris could help one more Trojan escaping. He’d helped his people set up camp at the shores of this northernmost Earth, helped them build a settlement, teaching them to cut down trees and make boards out of the wood, hammering, setting up longhouse after longhouse all the while Sakias had grown inside his belly, taking form of an infant. The Trojans all knew, all accepted his fate, his decision to stay loyal to The Demon King. And they had stayed loyal to him, looked to him for advice, for the strength of leadership which Paris had failed to display as a Prince of Troy in the days of King Priam, had bloomed as Paris was made Prince Consort. He had taken responsibility, shown himself worthy as a ruler, and spent every available moment with them, keeping Troy alive in their hearts. His efforts with the small band of displaced Trojan villagers had not gone unnoticed.
An elder Trojan had died, and on his way through the planes of the Underworlds, attempting to make his way up to the gods, to sit at their feet, he’d stumbled into King Priam. King Priam had managed to be reunited with Hector, Paris brother, and they were dumbfounded and delighted to finally hear news of their youngest brother and son. The elder Trojan spoke fondly of Paris and his merits, explaining to Priam about Paris’ fate as a Prince Consort. It despaired Priam that his son would have to endure such a fate, yet it brought proud tears to his eyes to hear that Paris was taking responsibility for what was left of his people. His son was keeping up the tradition, becoming a good ruler.
Hector was beyond with joy to hear that Paris had managed to find his wife and child also, ushering them away through an open portal to the dismay of Menelaus. Hector’s wife had done a good job hiding from the kings, concealing the child among other children, acting as a servant wench, improvising as she went along. A typical feature of those of Priam’s family.

When it had become known who Paris had helped to freedom, both Menelaus and Agamemnon had demanded Paris’ head on a plate. At that point in the story, the elder Trojan had chuckled, explaining both father and son that Paris had The Demon King in such a grip by the balls that if he’d squeezed any harder, his nuts would have shot out and probably hit the Spartan kings right between the eyes.

After the encounter, Priam had been trying to seek out his son. But upon learning that the Seventh Plane of Hell was the bottleneck of the planes of Hell, and that going up was easier than going down, he’d accepted Hector’s conviction that their parts in life were over. Those who were dead, were dead, and those who lived, lived. They could at least now rejoice in knowing their loved ones were safe, and that it would take quite longer to be reunited with them, than first expected. And that was a good thing. So father and son had been on their way upwards, continuing the perilous journey, dodging monsters and soul-eaters, in search for the waiting light above, by the feet of Apollo. Paris never learned of this encounter.

He’d been so busy surviving those past six months after his fall, that he’d completely forgotten about the villagers. The more time he spent in the world of the living, as a living among the living, the more his senses returned. It was like slowly waking from a heavy drug abuse. Being himself, and not having anyone forcing themselves upon him, was at first good and a relief. The Golden Child seemed to find peace in watching his parents learn how to be around each other, making relaxed conversation, however brief it was. Yet its resolve to once again be inside his father was still undiminished, and whenever the brilliant soul went on a rampage, possessing Thyrion again, bending his arms and legs in unnatural positions until they almost broke, forcing him on Paris, it would be a setback for all of them for a while.

The Demon King clearly feared the child. He felt weak and powerless, understanding more and more the overall depth of what he’d done to Paris and how his bad judgement had affected them all. Now, he knew he was no longer king. Only Paris held that belief, and that was only because he’d been scared into believing it. Thyrion was slowly dying, his skin growing cold and losing its brilliance. He was becoming a mere mortal, and as the Treasure Child one day would pass on from him and into Paris, the last of his demonic soul would cease to exist. He would die. The very concept of dying, to not exist anymore, was almost incomprehensible. He was The Demon King. He was forever. At least in Hell. Or until some other Demon King slayed him and drank his soul and thus his strengths. And this? This was the sad beginning of the end, a flash of a possible future he’d seen in the blink of an eye. The only possible future. For here, Paris would have a chance at life. A worthy life.
Understanding what Sakias was up to, made him make an effort to reconcile with Paris, throwing aside his pride, his haughty manners. If Paris could eat cooked meat (however disgusting it looked at smelled), so could he. For Paris’ sake. His chain would only allow him to get so far, but he tried to aid his lover whenever he saw Paris tidying and cleaning. He could hardly move though, before Paris jumped and retreated.

Paris cleaned in frustration. He would pick up every little twig and splinter which fell, dusting the same spot on the floor over and over. If he saw Thyrion move, he would retreat, back away to the furs at the opposite end of the circular room, which established it as his spot. A small makeshift den. No one had yet attempted to rob him of the furs. It was as if they all wanted him to keep them. Whenever Sakias scolded him for not wearing furs, Paris would feel relieved and thankful for a sort of attention he knew how to relate to. But it had been two weeks, and still no one had even attempted to take pleasure from his body. It was frustrating. He did not understand this new game, and he hated it whenever the sphere above their heads possessed Thyrion, forcing the king to act like an animal.
Paris dreamt of lovemaking, starved as he was for body contact. He tried offering himself to Sakias. But Sakias declined politely, focusing Paris’ attention elsewhere, urging him to boil some water. Paris scrambled to obey, hoping it would lead to something more. Perhaps, all though the demon’s member was undoubtedly very long and it would undoubtedly be a painful experience, Paris could derive some warmth and comfort from the demon’s skin, again forgetting he was actually hoping to give pleasure to his own son. Paris didn’t understand, didn’t feel that he was tired, and failed to see that he wasn’t thinking straight. He got the water boiling over the hearth, and found a jar with animal grease. Squatting, he coated his index finger and put grease on his entrance, much to the dismay of The Demon King. The king looked from Paris and to Sakias, and then back to Paris.

“No! I forbid it! You can’t…!” he implored Sakias, straining to reach Paris.

“Father” Sakias began, “take the cloth and the water you just boiled. Make it a comfortable temperature. You don’t want to scold your lover now, would you?” Sakias said, inclining his head towards The Demon King. Paris did as he was told, thinking he was proving his worth to Sakias, so the demon would have him and end his loneliness for a brief moment. The king was after all…the king. He would not want to have Paris, no matter what. Why else had he been cast out into the cold. Abandoned and left into the rough hands of strangers?
He sat down next to the king, and as he did, the pelt of soft fur fell from his shoulder, revealing bronzed flesh. Thyrion could smell Paris all the way over to where he was sitting, smell the flesh on his shoulder. He wanted so much to touch him. Just once. With the same love they’d shared so long ago. If Thyrion only could be alone with Paris! He’d make the young prince see that he still harboured beautiful passion for his beloved childbearer. He glanced nervously up at the Golden Child, watching it move slightly underneath the roof, hovering. Watching. Anticipating.
Thyrion let Paris take the initiative, and he only blinked slightly as Paris endeavoured to clean away the dried blood from the king’s forehead, moving closer still in order to get into a better position. The Thyrion spread his legs, allowing Paris closer, nearer, and the smell of the young Trojan prince’s chest, a sweet musk from being covered in crafted fur which had been rubbed in with delightful smelling ointment in order to stay soft, drove him mad with desire. His erection awoke, yawning and stretching quickly, standing to attention just seconds after, yet Thyrion did his best to conceal it. He’d learnt that Paris no longer held his manhood in any particular regard, only fear. And fear wasn’t getting him anywhere. Paris was kneeling between his legs. He’d dropped the fur around his torso completely, and put it aside. It was getting in the way, and he needed his hands free. It was quite a task to remove the blood which had been allowed to dry up for two weeks.

“I really could use a bath, don’t you think?” Thyrion told Paris. He flashed a smile, trying to keep still, trying to remain nice and not say anything stupid which would scare his young slave off.

“If that is what His Majesty requires, then I’ll—“ Paris was replying, but as he moved to regain his balance, his thigh brushed against the king’s groin. What he felt made him falter, and he immediately put the bucket and cloth down, attempting to retreat. Thyrion grabbed his wrist before he could, restraining him.

“Paris, I beg you! Have courage. I will not harm you. Do continue. It was so refreshing” Thyrion begged, trying to keep from sobbing openly. He watched Paris hesitate, then regain his composure, relaxing and then coming closer again. Thyrion let go off his wrist, and felt his heart hammering wildly as he watched Paris come between his legs again, a little more cautious this time. He washed Thyrion’s throat, cleaned him inch by inch downwards, rinsing his hair while boiling more water. They hardly spoke to each other, only stayed in each other’s company, taking restrained delight in being near the other, almost like they used to. A desperate need to return to normality was what drove them both, and Thyrion found the entire situation, as tense as it were, refreshing and extremely rewarding. His patience was paying off, and Paris seemed to relax, seemingly accepting the slight touches to his shoulders, holding his hand while cleaning it, his thighs brushing against those of Thyrion.

Paris unclothed, warm from working and staying tense, and to Thyrion’s delight, Paris’ erection jutted out slightly, shy and evasive, standing to attention, touching Paris’ stomach now and then. Thyrion said nothing, made no show of it, but rather surrendered completely to Paris’ ministrations, ignoring the prince’s proud member as the prince himself seemed to take no notice of its presence. He hoped that, by keeping his hands off and being modest, Paris might warm up to him and perhaps finding back to his king. He was disappointed as Paris moved away to make some more tempered water, pouring it in to his clay bowl. He returned to sit behind his king, and began to rinse his hair again, rubbing his shoulders now and then.

The Treasure Child above was amazed to see his parents to be in such harmony, wondering if what he was looking at might be a future.

Paris moved closer, boldly brushing his erect manhood against his back, kneading and rubbing Thyrion’s shoulders with his fingers. Thyrion resisted the urge to turn around and throw himself at Paris, instead rejoicing at feeling the young prince’s body close to his. The contact of the prince’s skin against his was swiftly becoming a fire coursing through him. Thyrion arched his neck, moaning quietly, but loud enough for Paris to notice. He let a satisfied smile play across his lips in an attempt to show Paris his appreciation. And as Paris bent down and kissed Thyrion’s left shoulder, Thyrion understood he’d made the right choice, feeling grateful for being able to enjoy such a special moment. A moment of bliss. It was a chaste kiss, followed by a warm left hand which caressingly slid over Thyrion’s shoulder and down across his left nipple before the movement arched and ended on his shoulder where it first had begun. Thyrion moaned, a little louder this time, feeling himself growing an instant erection. Sparks continued to shoot from wherever Paris’ fingers moved, and Thyrion shuddered at the emotional heat wave crashing through his body.
A bold move from a slave. But not just any slave. Paris of Troy. Thyrion sensed that his Paris was still inside that abused, hallucinating living creature who’d fathered him two offsprings. Perhaps Paris’ sanity could still be saved. If Thyrion could just be given time, time to re-establish the relationship between them, the passionate intercourses, the team that they were together. For each time The Child possessed him and forced Thyrion on Paris, it only resulted in bringing them apart. He looked up pleadingly at the golden sphere that was his unborn child. If he could just have this moment, he pleaded silently, then maybe- just maybe it would help opening Paris up.