The Rise of the Demon King's Consort

Paris ran.

He ran as fast as his feet would carry him, down the stairs, into the darkness, across the floor of the lower level, down another winding stair and onwards. More than once would he stumble into something, a hammer, bricks lying around, piles of sand and tools littering the floorboards. He’d just come up these steps not an hour ago with his blood cooking in his veins and his cheeks burning with rage. He knew now, that giving the Demon King a piece of his mind had been the road to redemption. The right thing to do. He’d washed his hands clean of the blood of his dead born child. The blame was finally placed, and his bad conscience over losing a child was finally buried. To think he could ever find happiness with a demon. Oh, Paris had indeed played with fire and gotten burned. So if there was nothing more to lose, then why was he fleeing?


It is only pain.

Pain tells you you’re alive. Pain tells you it’s time to do something about it. Pain is a fleeting state of emotion. It’s only pain.

They say that when you cut of a man’s arm, he doesn’t feel pain once the arm is severed and falls to the ground. It’s the shock and the loss of blood that kills him.

And then the torturer had closed the lid of the iron maiden. It was the last Paris had seen of the previous Prince Consort.


He didn’t know why this particular memory came up as he ran, feeling his feet go numb again from the cold. His lungs screamed for warmth, and the icy cold down his throat was like a thousand searing needles. He wore nothing. The cold of the air wrapped around him as he ran outside, down the stairs and out on the hillside, downwards until he reached a staircase, a million small steps hammered out of the very rock. They were icy, and soon he tripped and fell, sliding and bumping downwards. He reached out for anything that would slow him down, anything. And he soon found roots sticking out from underneath the snow. Paris shook from cold and exhaustion. A movement above caught his eye, and as he looked up, his heart was caught in his throat as he saw the Demon King making it to the top of the stairs. He still wore the chain around his neck, and he was breathing loud and laboured, his eyes glowing red in the dark. The Demon King was naked also, and his wet hair had already frozen in tangles.

“Daddy...!” his hoarse voice cried out to Paris, beckoning him to stop, “don’t leave me again!” the Golden Child spoke, using Thyrion’s vocal chords. The words cut deep into Paris, cut so deep he lost his grip and found himself sliding downwards until he could find another branch to grab. Paris could barely move anymore from the cold, and his fingers were so numb he couldn’t hold on. He was bruised and battered from falling down from one step to another, and he could but shield his head as he continued falling.


It’s only pain, only pain, he tried telling himself. He fell down on a large, flat rock and remained there. Unable to move or do anything. The cold was killing him, wrapping him in its icy embrace, and Paris began to feel his consciousness drift.

He was lying in a meadow, of green, green lush grass. There were horses grassing nearby, whinnying now and then. There was a small river nearby, and the leaves of the large birch trees sparkled emerald green in the sunlight above. Still, Paris felt cold. So utterly cold. He looked up to see a person standing next to him. It was his Thyrion. Naked, warm and without his crown.

“Lend me some warmth?” Paris asked, smiling at his love, “I’m so cold”. He frowned upon seeing Thyrion in such a weird state. His skin taut and shiny, hard sort of, like it was made out of porcelain, and his face was a rigid mask. A perfect porcelain white taint, a slight colour to his cheeks. His thick, dark, doll-like lashes fluttered briefly at Paris before Thyrion smiled stiffly and replied softly: “Of course. Here, I shall share my golden fire with you, and you shall burn, burn forever like a golden light for all to see” Thyrion continued, smiling seductively, kissing Paris on his forehead, smelling his dark brown curls. He lay down between Paris’ legs, pouring chaste kisses all over the Trojan youth’s cheeks, gently pushing himself inside. Far away, someone screamed and wailed in agony.

Paris closed his eyes, attempting to will the screams away, for surely they sounded like coming from him, didn’t they? He opened his beautiful brown orbs again, and looked at Thyrion. He said: “It’s only pain. Only a little. Just a little”, Paris flashed a brief smile, widening his thighs to let Thyrion dig deeper, pumping in and out of his birth-hole in what could only be described as reverence. He looked closer at his lover, watched the red eyes move behind the mask that was Thyrion’s face. Something was out of place but he couldn’t remember what it was.

Then his body went from icy cold to hotter and hotter. Paris’ body was on fire, and he bucked beneath Thyrion, writhing with delightful heat. It came shooting from Thyrion’s groin and over into him, immediately manifesting into his nether regions, spreading like flames in dry grass until his very fingertips were glowing. The heat grew, and the grass beneath him took fire, spreading through the lush grass with high flames, reaching for the horses, burning them alive until they were but charred caricatures of the once beautiful beasts. The flames reached the river and the trees, drying up the river and burning the birch trees to cinders. Thyrion fell on top of him all of the sudden, startling Paris, and it woke him to reality as he opened his eyes, finding himself on the icy ledge again, sprawled in the snow with an immobilized demon king between his thighs. He gasped from the shock, fighting the weight of the demon, pushing him aside, feeling the rapidly decreasing erection of the Thyrion slide out of him, and he rolled to move the dead weight next to him. Paris sat up. His whole body was electrical, and despite his nakedness, he felt warm. The air down his lungs no longer hurt to breathe, and the snow he was standing on, melted right below his feet until he was standing on the very rock. The snow filled wind was simply nice and cool, like a summer’s breeze, tickling between his thighs. He looked down to see what the tickle was, finding the Thyrion’s semen running down from Paris’ insides, running down his thigh, down past his kneecap and dripping into the very snow, turning to gold. His belly felt like a small size furnace, and his hips felt heavy, already adjusting to the weight to come in the future months.

There was blood on the ground.

Virgin blood, Thyrion had called it the first time Paris’ magically shaped birth canal had opened. It poured with blood for days, leaving Paris faint and weak as the canal opened itself up, making him ripe for the taking. It had only been a dull pain back then. And it had remained a dull pain the second time around, when he was ripe again, leading up to Saieros’ birth. He could stay open for months, and the bleed would diminish but never entirely stop, and the Demon King would be all over him like a cocky stag in spring heat.
Then Saireos got stuck during birth, stuck with half of him being on the outside of Paris while the other half remained inside, and they struggled and pulled to have him released before he suffocated. They had to handle Paris rough, forcing fingers inside him, stretching his entrance in order to help Saieros before it was too late. His birth canal didn’t close properly after that, and for a long time Paris bled heavily. The bleeding would never properly stop, and the walls never closed back up again like they should have. In the end, Paris accepted it, and wasn’t able to tell the difference when he once again was ripe for the taking, bleeding more and less the entire time. That’s why he didn’t know, didn’t see that he was with child until it was too late to tell the king. Had he known, then it would have saved him, bought him time to explain, to clear the king’s vision. Paris chose to contemplate over this as he made his way back to the castle, half dragging, half supporting Thyrion as they went.

There was no torment anymore. No internal struggle. All was at peace, and no wind howled through the castle towers. A newly fallen blanket of snow had fallen to conceal the ungodliness, the misery and the memories surrounding the castle. The night held a new tint.

“This shall be our home, then” Paris told Thyrion as he lay him down on soft furs back by the fire in the only properly finished room. He covered Thyrion in furs, watching the demon shiver with cold and exhaustion. The golden glow in his eyes seemed to be fading ever so slowly.

“Promise me, my Prince Consort, promise me..” he coughed, “—I know I have lost you. Never again shall you be mine, you belong to our children now, and the future generations of our kin. But I ask this of you, only this, that you must promise to love this child with all of you. Love and lots of it, for I fear that if you don’t, you will give birth to a monster” Thyrion said, coughing again.

“Nay, let it be a monster so he remembers to kill me in the process as well, so I can finally have peace” Paris replied grimly, kissing Thyrion softly on the lips out of old habit.

They both stopped to stare dumbfounded at each other.

“Why ever did you remove my mask?” Paris asked out of the blue, leaning close to Thyrion.

Thyrion opened his mouth to speak, but no reply came. Paris did not wait either, and bent down to kiss him sweetly again. “You have no power over me no more”, Paris then whispered as their lips parted, “I am free of you” he continued.

“Let me honour you these last months now”, Thyrion replied, also whispering, getting up on his elbows, “let me be the husband I should have been for you. Let me help you make this into a castle worthy a Prince Consort!”

“I—“

“—I’ll be your slave! Your lover! A simple worker, a servant! Anything just let me spend every waking minute next to you, watching your belly grow. I will help you love him, I shall! If you would just—!”

“—let it be a place for Sakias and Saieros, upon their return. Dead or still alive, I shall move back to what remains of my people out there by the coast in this forever winterland. Be I but a ghost, I will not leave them again. They must know someone still cares” Paris said strongly, glancing at the Sword of Troy, then kissing Thyrion again, a little more passionately.

“Forgive me...!” Thyrion whispered, “Please forgive me, for I cannot rest until I have your pardon” he wailed, taking Paris’ hand. He watched Paris hesitate a little before he answered:

“You look cold, my Lord. Let me lend you some warmth!”