The Rise of the Demon King's Consort
folder
S through Z › Troy
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
19
Views:
12,281
Reviews:
34
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
S through Z › Troy
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
19
Views:
12,281
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.
Prologue
----Thank you to Masquerade for inspiration through her wonderful yet sad story called The Torture of Paris----
* * * *
The great King Menelaus of Sparta had won. He stood in the middle of the town square, laughing triumphantly, though his laughter could not be heard through the roaring flames and cries of the dying people.
Troy had fallen. King Priam was dead, and with him his eldest son Hector, the general of Troy’s armed forces.
The great King Menelaus glowed of pride and vindictiveness as he watched his traitorous wife along with that insolent royal whelp of a prince being led down the stairs from the royal palace. They were struggling, and bottomless fear emanated from their faces as they both saw him across the square. And a few seconds later, they came to stand face to face with him.
“Take a good look around, prince of Troy. I dare you. Look at the bodies of the men and soldiers who has died here today, for you and her. Gaze into the faces of the Trojan women we will sell as slaves, and hear the cries of their babies as we throw them from the city walls. This” Menelaus paused, “is all your doing. And for what? A few nights between her thighs? I hope it was worth it!”
Helen died after a week of torture. Menelaus and Agamemnon had forced her to witness the torture of Paris, made her watch as they’d reduced him from a prince and into a plaything, stripped him of all dignity and exposed him to cruel sexual tortures. They’d coated him in with honey and subjected him to bees, forced him to endure the nights with a wooden cock in his entrance. But the worst of it was, that Paris had drawn away from her, unable to look her in the eye, refusing to acknowledge her. He clearly regretted his affair. She could see the burden of the fallen people of Troy in his eyes. She saw his conscience weighing him down. The inadequacy, the hopelessness, the regret. His father’s blood as well as his brother’s were on his hands.
So she’d died, leaving him behind, and the last thing she saw before her vision darkened, was the accusation in his wonderful yet tearstained eyes. They’d both been given to the soldiers, and Paris had watched in rage as they’d raped her over and over before someone had decided to impale her on a spear. He’d watched them plunge it into her vagina, blood spurting from her mouth, driving it all the way up until the tip of the reddened blade emerged through one of the ribs on her right side. Paris had screamed from the very top of his lungs, his rapist only laughing ecstatic as he felt Paris clench his abdominal muscles in the effort, prompting him to come right there and then.
Menelaus had obviously something else planned for Paris, as they fared well with him compared to the treatment Helen had been given.
The following night they tied him to a pole which had been rammed into a open green spot of Troy’s once magnificent garden. Paris recognized it. He’d been playing there as a child, secretly kissing servant’s daughters, fondling their early rosebuds. Perhaps death would come quickly now. What else were there?
Three hours after midnight came a small band of robed people, and they were chanting, bearing small bowl with incense. They stopped to form a circle around Paris, and while the others kept chanting, Menelaus and his right hand priest unhooded themselves, revealing their faces. Menelaus lifted his arms up in prayer, speaking with clear authoritarian voice:
“Mighty Father Hades, ruler of the eight planes of the Netherworld, as promised, I present to you the spirit and body of the prince of Troy in deep gratitude for your help with bringing down this impregnable city.”
Just as Menelaus had spoken the very words, they were answered by thunder in the sky. It rolled across the city, and black clouds concealed the moon, leaving everything in darkness.
Paris watched in horror, straining to keep his head lifted to see the spectacle, as the priest, a lean looking Spartan with red, black and gold paint in his face, produced an old cow skin scroll which he laid out on the ground, covering the four corners with pebbles to keep the scroll from rolling up again. It contained a drawing, an unholy symbol.
“Mighty Father Hades, ruler of the eight planes of the Netherworld, I entreat Thee to inspire the Demon King Thyrion to manifest before us, so that he may carry off this sacrifice to You, Our Lord.”
The priest held his arms high in prayer, like Menelaus had done just minutes earlier. Then Paris began to scream as something sizzled and he felt pain shoot through his right hand. The bystanders smelled burnt flesh, and Paris continued to writhe in agony until the pain finally ceased. Paris went limp. The priest went to examine him. The young man had slipped into unconsciousness, and the priest bent down to examine him closer.
“May the eight planes of Hell be blessed! There is a sign. The boy is now marked with the sigil of the Rex Phenex Thyrion in his right palm! He will be claimed by the King at a later time. From now on” the priest turned to face the Spartan king, “the prince’s body is to be considered the holy temple of the Rex Phenex Thyrion. It must not be desecrated.”
Menelaus nodded in solemn agreement, and the exhausted Paris was carried inside and down to the servant’s quarter where his hands were rebound to a pillar in the midst of the room. The servants, the enslaved young men and women of Troy, gasped as they saw their young prince still alive, battered and abused. It gave them hope, for it meant that the heart of Troy, the good royal family, still prevailed. When the guards had left, they dared to move over to the prince. The women wetted the ends of their dresses and gently washed his body, while the young boys looked out for guards and felt their hearts fill with confidence and hope, sensing a turn of events. As long as there was an heir, then there was a Troy. They worked quickly and silently, their innocent tears dripping on the scar on his stomach, healing the flesh scorched by candle wax. Another evidence of Menelaus’ wicked, torturous imagination. Then they all went back to their small confines, preparing for the coming day’s hard trials, what ever it would bring. And as they slept, the unborn children unbeknown to their Trojan mothers, dreamt of a skull-white demon, its wings brushing heavily through the air, the herald of a different, darker time.
* * * *
The great King Menelaus of Sparta had won. He stood in the middle of the town square, laughing triumphantly, though his laughter could not be heard through the roaring flames and cries of the dying people.
Troy had fallen. King Priam was dead, and with him his eldest son Hector, the general of Troy’s armed forces.
The great King Menelaus glowed of pride and vindictiveness as he watched his traitorous wife along with that insolent royal whelp of a prince being led down the stairs from the royal palace. They were struggling, and bottomless fear emanated from their faces as they both saw him across the square. And a few seconds later, they came to stand face to face with him.
“Take a good look around, prince of Troy. I dare you. Look at the bodies of the men and soldiers who has died here today, for you and her. Gaze into the faces of the Trojan women we will sell as slaves, and hear the cries of their babies as we throw them from the city walls. This” Menelaus paused, “is all your doing. And for what? A few nights between her thighs? I hope it was worth it!”
Helen died after a week of torture. Menelaus and Agamemnon had forced her to witness the torture of Paris, made her watch as they’d reduced him from a prince and into a plaything, stripped him of all dignity and exposed him to cruel sexual tortures. They’d coated him in with honey and subjected him to bees, forced him to endure the nights with a wooden cock in his entrance. But the worst of it was, that Paris had drawn away from her, unable to look her in the eye, refusing to acknowledge her. He clearly regretted his affair. She could see the burden of the fallen people of Troy in his eyes. She saw his conscience weighing him down. The inadequacy, the hopelessness, the regret. His father’s blood as well as his brother’s were on his hands.
So she’d died, leaving him behind, and the last thing she saw before her vision darkened, was the accusation in his wonderful yet tearstained eyes. They’d both been given to the soldiers, and Paris had watched in rage as they’d raped her over and over before someone had decided to impale her on a spear. He’d watched them plunge it into her vagina, blood spurting from her mouth, driving it all the way up until the tip of the reddened blade emerged through one of the ribs on her right side. Paris had screamed from the very top of his lungs, his rapist only laughing ecstatic as he felt Paris clench his abdominal muscles in the effort, prompting him to come right there and then.
Menelaus had obviously something else planned for Paris, as they fared well with him compared to the treatment Helen had been given.
The following night they tied him to a pole which had been rammed into a open green spot of Troy’s once magnificent garden. Paris recognized it. He’d been playing there as a child, secretly kissing servant’s daughters, fondling their early rosebuds. Perhaps death would come quickly now. What else were there?
Three hours after midnight came a small band of robed people, and they were chanting, bearing small bowl with incense. They stopped to form a circle around Paris, and while the others kept chanting, Menelaus and his right hand priest unhooded themselves, revealing their faces. Menelaus lifted his arms up in prayer, speaking with clear authoritarian voice:
“Mighty Father Hades, ruler of the eight planes of the Netherworld, as promised, I present to you the spirit and body of the prince of Troy in deep gratitude for your help with bringing down this impregnable city.”
Just as Menelaus had spoken the very words, they were answered by thunder in the sky. It rolled across the city, and black clouds concealed the moon, leaving everything in darkness.
Paris watched in horror, straining to keep his head lifted to see the spectacle, as the priest, a lean looking Spartan with red, black and gold paint in his face, produced an old cow skin scroll which he laid out on the ground, covering the four corners with pebbles to keep the scroll from rolling up again. It contained a drawing, an unholy symbol.
“Mighty Father Hades, ruler of the eight planes of the Netherworld, I entreat Thee to inspire the Demon King Thyrion to manifest before us, so that he may carry off this sacrifice to You, Our Lord.”
The priest held his arms high in prayer, like Menelaus had done just minutes earlier. Then Paris began to scream as something sizzled and he felt pain shoot through his right hand. The bystanders smelled burnt flesh, and Paris continued to writhe in agony until the pain finally ceased. Paris went limp. The priest went to examine him. The young man had slipped into unconsciousness, and the priest bent down to examine him closer.
“May the eight planes of Hell be blessed! There is a sign. The boy is now marked with the sigil of the Rex Phenex Thyrion in his right palm! He will be claimed by the King at a later time. From now on” the priest turned to face the Spartan king, “the prince’s body is to be considered the holy temple of the Rex Phenex Thyrion. It must not be desecrated.”
Menelaus nodded in solemn agreement, and the exhausted Paris was carried inside and down to the servant’s quarter where his hands were rebound to a pillar in the midst of the room. The servants, the enslaved young men and women of Troy, gasped as they saw their young prince still alive, battered and abused. It gave them hope, for it meant that the heart of Troy, the good royal family, still prevailed. When the guards had left, they dared to move over to the prince. The women wetted the ends of their dresses and gently washed his body, while the young boys looked out for guards and felt their hearts fill with confidence and hope, sensing a turn of events. As long as there was an heir, then there was a Troy. They worked quickly and silently, their innocent tears dripping on the scar on his stomach, healing the flesh scorched by candle wax. Another evidence of Menelaus’ wicked, torturous imagination. Then they all went back to their small confines, preparing for the coming day’s hard trials, what ever it would bring. And as they slept, the unborn children unbeknown to their Trojan mothers, dreamt of a skull-white demon, its wings brushing heavily through the air, the herald of a different, darker time.