The Rise of the Demon King's Consort

“The lifeline can be restored. The spirit of the unborn child waits by its remnants, forever chained, waiting for his father to come for him. The child may only manifest itself within the womb on the place where its life ebbed out in the first place, and it would require an honest effort of lovemaking from both of you. But know this: One life in exchange for another. The Thyrion liveth and the Thyrion dies. There can be but one Demon King. There will be no other children than this one” Sakias said. He then turned to his demon father and said:
“We go because we must. Our hate for you will forever burn in our hearts. You alone took from us the one thing that kept our innocence intact. Your desire for power has destroyed us. You will never again know such love, and neither shall we” Saieros told him.
The Demon King lost his smile, and he let his arms fall dejectedly to his sides.

“You are not our father. You simply spawned us, and you will find no gratefulness. When we slay your enemies, we will picture you in their stead. Rectifying your error will take thousands of years, that is, if he ever finds it truly in his heart to forgive you. I will not weep when you die” Sakias said, watching his brother fly away and out through the window. He cast one last glance at Paris, then took off as well.

It was morning when Paris finally went to sleep. He nestled beneath a table in the living room, curling up in foetal position. The Demon King hadn’t even bothered to stop him. The King remained seated on the floor, staring out into the air. His children, his perfect warlords had disowned him. The thought was so unreal he had trouble adjusting, and their words echoed through his head time and time again. It wasn’t going according to plan. Sakias had adored his demon father. When had it all changed?

Paris was dreaming of his children. He was dreaming a memory, dreaming of how he’d once attended a celebration with the Demon King. The demons had been invited, and Paris had been sitting next to his lord’s feet, trying to avoid the gazes of two certain brethren kings who’d also attended. The kings had been sitting next to each other on each their thrones, gazing at them with grim stares. Menelaus’ right arm was hidden. A thick fur coat covered the withered arm which the Demon King had given the king in retaliation the very night he’d come for Paris. Both kings looked grave. No smiles, only frowns and seemingly lost in thought. Paris remembered how he’d been startled to look how both kings’ appearances had changed. They’d grown so old, their hair gone greyer, their bodies diminished, their eyes more vacant, like that of really old men. They did not look like the kings who, only a year earlier had conquered Troy and burnt it to the ground in triumph. Paris had been enraged to find himself forced to go, and he knew very well the reason why. The Dmeon King was showing his slave off, not to mention the ripe belly.
Food had been served, and as protocol would have it, Paris had gotten up and made for the table, helping himself to a plate and then begun to litter it with food.
He’d felt everyone’s eyes at not him, but his jutting belly, as he had been carrying Sakias at the time, the pregnancy almost at an end. He’d been big as a house, staggering around like a goose, earning himself respectful glances from the other demons, wherever he turned. From the living he was met with contempt, fear and disgust. To them he was a whore. Carrying demon spawn up to no good.
He had been in the process of putting the serving spoon back in its place when Menelaus had all of the sudden exploded, and the old man had staggered down from his throne, walked straight up to Paris while he shouted: “Away from the food, slave!”
Paris had failed to see Menelaus’ left hand come striking down at him, and as he was struck, he lost the plate. Everything blackened for a brief second, and he fell to the ground. The Demon King had gotten to his feet, baffled and enraged. He hadn’t seen it coming. None of them did, at least Agamemnon who also stood, shouting for his brother to pull himself together. But Menelaus was beyond reason, shouting to Paris: “All of those countless nights I’ve been awake while your shadow refused to let me have my rest! I still *feel* you, you Trojan bastard! I still feel your insides on my cock, feel—“ Menelaus wavered, “—still feel that hole of yours squeeze so tight, a virgin’s hole—, I can’t help but to dream—“

Paris had been trying to shake the dizziness away, backing away as best he could, trepidation seizing him. His legs had refused to bear his weight, and he felt like a stranded tortoise, his belly being in the way. There had been no easy way to get up, and he feared another blow which might strike the belly.

“Menelaus!” The Demon King’s angered voice had resounded, and Paris had found himself surprised to see the Demon King getting out of his chair, placing himself between Paris and the Spartan king. “You dare strike down upon the child bearer? The very Prince Consort who, in his kindness brings food for the Demon King Thyrion? Look at him, look how ripe he is with child. *My child*. If I find that harm has come to it, then I shall come for you myself, Menelaus. Your days will be numbered.”
“Then why don’t you?!” Menelaus had answered boldly, casting a glance at Paris who’d finally made it to his feet, “why don’t you end my torment so I will not have to spend another day in this wretched ghost city of Troy, daydreaming about beautiful, deceitful Prince Paris! I should have kept you to myself, Paris! I should have chained you on hands and feet to my throne—“

“—enough!” The Demon King cut him off furiously, “he will never be yours. He is mine to have and enjoy for eternity.”

Enjoy eternity. For all eternity. Eternity.

The words fluttered inside Paris’ head. In his half sleep he felt Hephaisthos’ strong arms come to pick him up. He was carried away, and put down on pleasant silk. That awoke him, for silk was only to be found in the royal bedchamber, and if he was in the royal bedchamber, then he was in danger. He awoke and sat up. Hephaisthos was just leaving through the doorway, but he noticed Paris stirring, and stopped to turn. Paris immediately looked down all the while removing the sheet from his body.

“I’m sorry” Paris began, climbing out of the bed on weary knees, “sorry, I shouldn’t be in the bed without his consent, except by his orders maybe possibly—“ Paris snivelled, barely able to keep his eyes open.

“The Demon King will not be returning for a while. He said you were to sleep here, for as long as you wished. Then you must eat. You are expected to show yourself at court tomorrow” Hephaisthos dragged the words out of his mouth.

“My children?!”

“Warlords all grown, flown to the north and the east to meet up with the armies of darkness.

“I want my children…!” Paris wailed like a child, got up and walked past Hephaisthos, walking to the children’s room, hoping it all had been a bad dream. But the cradle was empty, stained with dry blood, an occasional feather here and there. A piece of torn babyskin. A lock of brown hair. The torn pyjamas. Paris felt sick and doubled over, falling into blissful darkness. Hephaisthos picked him up and carried him back to the bedroom. He then went back outside into the living room, over to the king who stood gazing out of the window.

“He dreams of happier days, Hephaisthos, did you notice? He dreamt of the time he was with child, with Sakias, and the ordeal on Earth, with Menelaus. He dreamt of me, and his feelings back then. He felt love for me, back then. Love, gratitude because I stood up for him” the Demon King mused, “love”. He sighed, then folded his arms across his chest.

“I told him you were gone, my liege, like you told me to”.

“Good. Let him rest in that belief. I need time to think. Have the children’s room cleaned. Burn the…, the remains.”

Hephaisthos bowed deep and made to leave.

“Tell me, before you go Hephaisthos, what must I do? How do I…?”
“—you are the Demon King Thyrion, my liege. You will achieve whatever goal you set for yourself”.

“Yes. I know what I must do” the Demon King nodded to himself, gazing out to the north, then to the east.

The very next morning, Paris had breakfast served on the bed. The Demon King was no where in sight, and after several attempts from Hephaisthos, explaining to him over and over that the food was actually for Paris, Paris ate as much as he could. He had to store up energy. He was to serve the court and its members, wasn’t he? Wasn’t that what Hephaisthos had said last night? He gazed up as a servant along with Hephaisthos came in. The servant brought forth a light blue cloth in Hellenistic design for Paris to wear, placing it idly on the bed next to him. The cloth was brand new, with beautiful gold embroideries along the hems. He surveyed the embroidery, following the straight lines, forming squares and triangles in an intricate pattern. He’d sown cloths like this for his children, had spent hours pouring over the intricate embroidery, trying to learn the secrets of the stitch. He’d been quite good at it. The Demon King had been pleased to see the variety of his skills, for he’d trained much with weaponry as well, mastering the difficult art of fighting with two blades at once. Someone he’d known had used to know how to do that. Someone who’d been very familiar. In family. A brother. Had Paris had a brother? He couldn’t remember.
As he came to himself he was standing inside the children’s room. It was clean and empty, yet the few wooden toys he’d made for them still lingered. The sheets were gone, yet the smell of children still remained. The smell saddened him, wrenched its way inside his heart, and he moved away and out, stumbling backwards and bouncing straight into Hephaisthos. The sudden touch of another man’s body made Paris jump, and he retreated, startled from being lost in deep thoughts. He didn’t look up at Hephaisthos, but the encounter made Paris assume the giant wanted something. Paris turned in sheer reflex and descended, adjusting until he was somewhat comfortable on hands and knees, spreading his thighs. ‘Please, be gentle’ he wanted to tell Hephaisthos, ‘please be gentle for you’re so big. I can hardly contain you”. But Paris refrained from begging. They never listened anyway.
Hephaisthos had a front row view of Paris’ backside, his perfectly rounded buttocks, the balls dangling between his thighs, the flaccid member. He said: “Paris, you must dress. You are to attend the court”.

Attend the court? Yes, attend the court, Paris thought; getting up as if nothing had happened. As usual, he repressed the feeling of not wanting to. He repressed it, telling himself again and again that it was nothing to worry about. It was all about satisfaction, yet he couldn’t help but to feel a little lost without his mask. Back in the bedroom, he dressed in the beautiful blue fabric, felt its smooth surface caress his bronzed skin. He draped a golden cord around his waist, wondering if it would be used later on to strangle him. Perhaps they would let him drink their sperm, so he wouldn’t have to go thirsty. It was nutritious, he told himself, the only food he could be getting, save breakfast. He made a point of relieving himself first, then preparing himself with some ointment, making his hole slick so it wouldn’t hurt too much. There was always pain. Paris wished he had his mask.
He focused on his hands as he followed Hephaisthos to the large receiving hall. Paris hadn’t set foot in there ever since the Demon king had declared him a traitor and a whore. He felt nervous, peering up now and then to see who would assault him first. As they walked into the hall, the crowd parted, bowing deeply. Paris stopped, unsure of what to do, his nervousness only increasing as he failed to realize why they bowed. There were so many enemies around, so many people he recognized that had had him at one point or another. He looked around, trying to find the reason why they were bowing. He decided it was best to disappear into the crowd, to find a wall and then skulk away as fast as possible. He started to his right, trying to slip in between people. They parted, bowing their heads, and he walked to the wall. But the crowd didn’t fold back in. They continued to stay parted, their gazes directed at him. Paris felt chills on his back, wringing his hands in despair. What did they want? He saw that Hephaisthos had stopped on the reception floor, and was looking at him expectantly. Paris made for his belt, thinking that the solution was probably in removing his clothes. They were expecting him to remove his clothes. That was it, it had to be. He prayed they’d be gentle, but they were so many. This would be a long day, with no rest at all. He looked up as a familiar voice spoke his name. Paris had just undone the knot on his belt. The Demon King had come to stand in the midst, next to Hephaisthos, and he was beckoning Paris to come to him.

“Come, Paris” the Demon King spoke softly yet demanding. Paris quickly redid the knot, and walked towards him with unsure steps. The Demon King took his right arm, then lifted his left hand to direct Paris’ lips to his own. Paris flinched; avoiding what he thought was a slap to the cheek. There was a gasp through the crowd, then a murmur, and some bystanders shook their heads. Paris immediately felt he’d done something wrong, that he’d caused the stir. He had trouble breathing, had to remind himself to breathe, felt a lump growing in his throat. Had Paris dared to gaze up at him, he would have seen that the Demon King’s face was unreadable, despite the accusing looks thrown at him. He brought Paris with him to the thrones, guiding the boy to his chair, seating him in it before he then sat down in his own seat.

“As you all can very well see, the Prince Consort has risen to take his place by my side once more” the Demon King rose from his seat in a grand, demonic throne carved out of a single block of ebony. Paris stole a glance over at the king, as comprehension was beginning to seep in, ever so slowly. A servant brought forth a crimson pillow. On it was placed a golden crown made from hand forged gold, twisted and bent to form a beautifully made slender pattern. It had belonged to Paris before his demise. In the happy days. When he’d played with Sakias, lending away his crown so Sakias could try it on and feel royal.

“The days of the Prince Consort are to come once more. The beginning of a new era. The beginning of The End” the Demon King spoke contemplatively. Paris watched with troubled mind as the Demon King lifted up the crown and took a step over to Paris. Paris kept wringing his hands. The court members held their breaths, and they gasped again as Paris shied away when the Demon King attempted to place it on his head. The entire court room was silent.

“Paris” the Demon King asked him while trying to hold his emotions in check, “do me the honour of accepting this crown upon thy head. I hereby ask thy forgiveness. Please Paris. Look at me” the Demon King’s voice was trembling. An official request for forgiveness was not something the king did every day. Paris looked up briefly to meet his gaze, then quickly looked down again. “I was wrong to, to bestow such a fate upon you, my dearest Paris” the Demon King said, swallowing hard. Paris heard the words, but they wouldn’t quite fit inside his head. There seemed to be an invisible wall between the words and his head somehow. Maybe they’d all line up soon, forming a queue, and take him while he was in the chair? Maybe that was how he was supposed to attend to them, Paris mused, his thoughts trailing off as he was unable to handle the impact of the humble words coming from the Demon King. He felt cold, wishing he could wrap up in a not too flea-infested blanket somewhere down in the servants’ quarters. Paris sighed. He felt tired, and kept wringing his hands. He heard the Demon King sigh. If he’d looked, he would have seen the Demon King turn and gaze briefly at the members of court, before tending to Paris again.

“Paris, most beloved Paris, I admit to have done you wrong. Because of me, we lost our child. But I have a hope that we might restore it, so we may go on, and that it may be born into the love it should have had”.

Paris heard the word child, and turned his attention to the Demon King, listening to his words. He wanted to say something, but refrained out of fear of retaliation. Perhaps the king would attempt to hit him again? A moment of silence progressed, before Paris realized the Demon King was waiting for something. Paris looked up again, assuming that he was probably waiting for Paris to leave. That Paris had overstayed this strange reception or whatever it had been. He rose slowly from his chair, reliving the past, looking up to see if their faces still held contempt and desire, greed and lust like they had the last time, expecting them to grab him and pin him to the floor, stripping him of his clothes, revealing their blistered erections, laughing in his face and then chain him and muffle his screams by hiding his head inside a heavy golden mask. Then the endless rapes, one demon after the other until Paris had been lying there like a log, motionless, his tears had moistened his curls in endless, salty streams, his mind poisoned by the horror of being had against his will, unable to escape the knees bruising his wrists with their weight.

Hephaisthos came to stand next to him immediately, and it startled Paris, expecting to be thrown to the crowd immediately. He winced as he saw Hephaisthos at the corner of his eye. Paris was shaking in fear, sighing quietly in an effort to calm down, but he was about hair’s width from panicking. He did the only thing which seemed logical, and that was to kneel in front of the crowd. He opened his lips, he tried to speak, but no words came. Paris tried to form the word ‘please’, he tried to ask them to fare easy with him, understanding only that he was probably still to be punished. His lower lip quivered, but the lump in his throat was too big for words to pass. He shut his mouth, trying not to sob too loudly. He folded his hands in prayer in front of his chest. A whimper was all that escaped his lips.

The room was silent.

They would probably charge at him any moment now. And there was no shelter to be had any where. Just like last time. Oh why? Why had he blundered out in the desert, catching the Demon King’s attention again? If only Paris hadn’t begged Hephaisthos for some warmth back then. He should have made do with the cold sand and a rock. Perhaps sleeping at the outskirts of a campfire..!

Paris started as there was a loud clonk. He watched the crown roll into a spin before landing onto the stone tiles. The Demon King moved, came swiftly and lifted Paris up by his arms. Paris’ feet felt numb. He had trouble standing while trying to escape the Demon King. The King lifted him up and carried him off, much to the court’s wonder. The King hurried out through the back door, through the corridor and back into his living quarters. He sat Paris gently down in bed, brushing away dark brown curls with nimble fingers.

“Get the Viceroy” the Demon King demanded, and a servant left immediately to do his bidding. Paris tried to crawl out of bed, but the Demon King restrained him. Paris ended his futile attempts after a while, and lay on his stomach and closed his eyes. He was so utterly tired.

The viceroy came in, huffing and puffing, talking to himself. A human/spider hybrid, he was, and the Demon King immediately hushed him as he realized Paris had fallen into a slumber. He got up, gesturing for the viceroy to get a hold of his eight legs and turn about and go out into the living room, leaving Paris behind to sleep under the watchful eyes of Hephaisthos.

“My king, the people are appalled to find the Prince Consort in such a state. They’re shouting in the streets, demanding your head on a plate” the viceroy’s fangs clacked, “there’s talk on every corner, a thousand different stories of the lost child and how you murdered it. They say they’ve seen its soul, and witnessed its anger. Its fury over your betrayal of the Prince Consort is so great it melts everything it comes in to contact with, turning it to gold! The Golden Child, a Treasure Ch—“

“—What ever, what ever!” The Demon King brushed him off, “you must run my empire for some days” the king continued.

“Days?”

“Some weeks maybe. Or perhaps a month. Or two.”

“A—a month? Sire, where are thou going?“

“I have business to attend to. And I must not be interrupted.”

“What about the Prince Consort?!”

“He comes with me. No one but Hephaisthos and my children are allowed to visit. I do not wish to know of any state matters at all. That’s your job.”

“Where are you going?”

“Here and there. Mostly there” the Demon King said, then motioning for the viceroy to leave. The viceroy couldn’t quite believe his eyes and ears.

“What will I tell the people?!”

“Tell them whatever you like. I don’t care how long my absence will be, but I vow not to return with Paris until I have regained his love. That is my quest.”