The Rise of the Demon King's Consort

Tasting Paris was like tasting heaven. Thyrion felt as if he lived a dream, burying his nose in the thick curls of his Prince Consort. It was like rediscovering an old territory, stopping by every valley and every peak in the landscape that was Paris’ body, remembering what it was about that specific spot which he’d loved so much. He felt so utterly alone and helpless, now that the last of his demonic powers were slipping away. Every movement was painful, and it weakened him just to reach out and caress Paris’ backside.

This was it.

Nine months had passed, and they’d spent the months struggling to make ends meet in their relationship, to find back to what they once had. The circle had come to a close. The Demon King of the Seventh Plane was dying.

The birth was progressing. The canal had begun to open and Paris felt regular contractions. His forehead was beaded with pearls, and tears of sweat cascaded down his temples, soaking his curls which Thyrion had come to love so much. They’d spend the moments in between contractions kissing and caressing, touching and staring into each other’s eyes. The time of lovemaking had long since passed, and the last of the Demon King’s semen ever was flowing out of Paris, mixed with birth blood.

He held his hand. Another contraction came, and Paris parted the kiss to focus on the pull of muscles in his abdomen, breathing and breathing again. Thyrion helped put hot towels on Paris’ swollen belly, easing the pain there, as Paris was forced to push again. The Prince Consort was uneasy because of the pain, and wanted to shift his position, getting up on his knees, clutching the trousers of Thyrion. His lovers lifted him up to a squatting position, making gravity aid Paris as he pushed again.

Not once did they speak, for all had been said during the last months, and the goodbyes had been made. The crackle of the fire and Paris’ toiling and breathing, along with an occasional whimper was all that could be observed. Sakias and Saieros had been told to wait outside, and they’d grudgingly obeyed. They kept watch instead, gazing at the crowd of Trojans waiting outside the castle entrance in anticipation. Waiting for news of Paris and the labour.

He felt so tired, and Paris was so heavy, but he forced himself to support the weight of the Prince none the less. He would be there until the very end. He felt Paris trembling between his arms, felt the Trojan exert himself to the fullest, groaning between gritted teeth, fighting the pain, ignoring the sensation of something way too big ploughing its way through his entrance, pushing in rage to help it on its way out, as Paris was tired of his big belly, the sleepless nights and the constant pressure on his bladder. He wanted his body back.

Paris all of the sudden laughed, and pushed again.

“What’s so amusing?”

“I’d forgotten how much I loved to hate having my belly occupied the last month” Paris moaned, gasping for air.

“I cannot hold you anymore, Paris. I’m growing so weak” Thyrion told him absentmindedly, letting go of Paris. The young prince complained over losing his hold. He immediately turned around though, to hear Thyrion speak again: “All has grown so dark. All I see is but you and the fireplace. I’m so tired”. Paris shifted his weight and crouched next to his lover, groaning again, ending it with a scream. He took hold of the Thyrion’s right hand, and squeezed it tight, pushing again. He heard Thyrion’s breath hitch time and time again, and Paris felt the head of the child finally come out. He reached between his feet, waited for another contraction, before he pulled at one side of the child’s neck a little, just enough to loosen the hold, feeling the baby slide out of him and onto the floor between his feet. The boy coughed, drew his first breath before he peed on Paris’ right foot, and peered up at his father with curious, clear yellow eyes, squeaking a little.

Paris felt Thyrion’s hand go cold inside his palm. Then it went limp, and Thyrion’s breath hitched one more time. He did not have to look up to know Thyrion had just died. Instead, he picked up the little infant boy and wrapped it in a clean cloth. The boy only blinked tiredly with his eyes, falling asleep cradled up in his father’s arms. He remained there while Paris felt compelled to push again, concluding the aftermath, ridding himself of the placenta. His tears would not stop, and he lay down afterwards, sobbing for his sons to come and help, for he could not move, and he was shaking from fatigue and sorrow. They carried him over to the bed of pelts on the floor, and Sakias went to urge Hector’s widow upstairs to help dress Paris’ wound.
Paris watched Saieros pick up the cold body of the Thyrion. He turned to his father, and Paris only nodded, knowing it had to be done all though inside he screamed for Thyrion to stay. He did not want to watch as Saieros took off through the window with his dead demon father, flying away into the dawn of autumn’s last sunrays.

*

The Prince Consort stood at the shore, gazing at the horizon. For an instant, he thought he’d seen the silhouette of a ship with black sails. Then it was gone. No matter where he searched, he could not find it again. Not that it mattered. He turned and shifted his focus to the never ending chatter of his five year old son. The wingless, brown haired boy played happily with twigs and sticks, playing fetch with the village dogs and playing tags with the other children. There was nothing setting him apart from his friends. Paris made sure of that, so he would be included and accepted. He often felt he was training a wolf to be a sheep, but the wolf in the boy had never shown, not once in those brief five years. Paris had hope. He turned to watch the maidens of Little Troy dance, singing melodies from their homeland. There came members of the council, and Paris sighed as he saw them. Now what? Another trifle on their agenda to be sure. It didn’t stop him from greeting them with a smile, bowing respectfully as they came to stand infront of him in a half circle.

“Your Highness”, the elderly white haired councilmember began, “there is a small disagreement between two neighbours, and we could very much use your counsel in the matter” he huffed, muttering.

“Of course” Paris replied diplomatically, glancing at his son, “just a moment and I’ll be there” he said. A monarch’s work was never done.