 FIC: "Helen's Metamorphosis" (1/1) "Of bodies chang'd to various forms, I sing: Helen of Troy sat before her mirror, dressing her hair. She had dismissed her servant, wishing to be alone with her thoughts as she set about the task of embellishing her already rich physical gifts. She used jewelry and polished bands to set off her long, golden tresses, then lined her blue eyes and rouged her full lips. The efforts the former Spartan queen took to adorn herself were pointless, she knew. Her young lover, the Trojan prince, Paris, had turned from her in his own grief and self-recriminations over the death of his brother, Hector. The alliance of Helen and Paris had proven disastrous for the city of Troy and its royal family, and it seemed just a matter of time before the ultimate price might be demanded of anyone, including Helen herself. She sighed and walked to a window overlooking a small courtyard. Below she could see the handsome Paris, dark eyes intent and lithe muscles taut, practicing with bow and arrow. When the time came to defend the city, Paris would be prepared. And somehow he would find a way to avenge the noble Hector, who had fallen in hand-to-hand combat with the Greek warrior, Achilles. Achilles. Helen shuddered at the very name. Achilles was one of the only men in Greece who had never vied for her attentions; he had stood apart from her many suitors when her father sold her into what amounted to slavery at the hands of the King of Sparta, Menelaus. And then he had followed her to Troy, along with the vast Greek army of Menelaus' brother, Agamemnon. Paris had taken her away from her former existence, had awakened her long-dead sensuousness with his youthful beauty and tender caresses. Yes, she had been no better than a whore, turning from duty and honor and fleeing her home with a young lover to a foreign land. But what could she have done? Without Paris, she would have surely dried up outside as she had inside, waiting for nothing but the comfort of the gods. Now Helen closed her eyes and prayed, hoping that somehow both Paris and his city could be spared from the results of her folly. Long ago she would have atoned for her sins and returned to her husband and their stark, loveless home across the sea. But now it was too late for that. Menelaus was dead, and there was seemingly no power on earth that would stay his greedy brother Agamemnon's imperialistic quest. Reaching for a gilded pitcher, she poured herself a cup of Troy's rich wine. How much longer would the city be able to produce wine like this, trapped as they were behind Troy's high, impenetrable walls? So far the besieged city still functioned well, finding many ways to continue the trade and commerce necessary for its economic health. But what would happen when the Greeks began to refuse the Trojan bribes, and nearby tribes that currently ignored the proximity of the Achean army started fearing for their own safety and wisely keeping to themselves? Helen drank deeply, enjoying the warming sensation as she swallowed. The wine seemed to infuse her very limbs, and she was momentarily overcome with a languid contentment. Then the flush spread and concentrated in her core, and she stirred restlessly, suddenly painfully aware of her loneliness and her desire for companionship. She was a woman in the prime of her life, her senses first awakened by the hands and loins of Paris and now abandoned by them. If only she could have a baby! Hector's distraught widow, Andromache, at least had his son to comfort her. What comfort could Helen find, with Paris so near her physically but so separated from her emotionally? She was a prisoner of her own desires and of her lover's guilt. Nothing she did could capture his attention now. She could neither cajole nor demand, because she feared that one day he might look at her across the expanse of their icy bed with loathing. A tear escaped the corner of one eye and traced down her flawless cheek. Ignoring it, she took another drink of wine, wishing for drunkenness, wishing she could become a man for long enough to allow her senses to become roughened by wine, then reach between her legs and use her own hand to pollute the fleshy proof of her still-heightened passion. How lucky were men that their anatomy allowed for such easy solutions to difficult dilemmas! And how wonderful would it be to touch her own arms and feel thick sinews that would contract and swell with strength and allow one to beat away the enemy, to lift a sword or a spear and strike down those who might offend or threaten? Helen hugged herself, imagining. If she were a man, she would rise out of her chair, take up arms and run across the plain, screaming a challenge to the waiting Greeks! She would not sit idle, high in Troy's citadel, waiting for the judgment of the fickle gods. For a moment she wondered about the tales of the Amazons, the female warriors who severed one breast to allow for the unobstructed use of their bows, who set aside motherhood until they had served their tribe for years in battle. They said the Amazons took no prisoners and left no one alive on a battlefield in order to strike fear in the hearts of men who might be stronger but less ruthless. How ruthless had Achilles been when he came to the walls of Troy to demand vengeance on the noble Hector? Could anyone in history match his challenging cries, echoing still in her ears and heart? Hector had fallen, and all Helen could do was watch the tortured face of Andromache, praying the blame would not ultimately end up on her own head. "I am cursed among women," she whispered to herself. "My beauty is a curse, and this passion is a curse." If she were a man, she would find a way to end her suffering. She would challenge Achilles herself, and when his horrible fatal stroke came, she would welcome it, blessing him for his inadvertent benevolence in directing her spirit to the comfort and protection of the White Isles. "Aphrodite, why have you cursed me?" she asked. "Did you not find comfort outside your own marriage? Have you not loved a beautiful young mortal, as I have?" She dropped her head in her hands. "Help me," she said. A tingling sensation in the skin of her hands forced Helen to open her eyes. She stared at her fingers, wondering if she might have been burned by one of her cosmetics. Then she noticed the strange feeling was spreading up her arms and her cheeks, as though the wine that had warmed her insides was now flowing over her flesh. She stood quickly and walked to the bowl of water nearby, ready to splash the cooling liquid on her face. Then, out of the corner of one eye, she caught her own reflection in the mirror and stopped short, startled by its luminosity. Helen turned her head and drew in her breath at what she saw. It was not a reflection in the mirror that had caught her attention. It was another woman, far more beautiful and radiant, who stood across the room from her, clad in a shimmering white gown drawn at the waist by a fine, gold girdle. The woman was like an idealized version of herself, identical in height and form, but more lovely than any mortal could hope to be. It was the goddess. "Aphrodite," Helen whispered. The vision stepped forward and smiled. "Helen, I have wronged you. My own love for Paris has blinded me to your plight. I have come to make amends." Helen threw out her arms. "But how?" she said. "Will you endow me with your beauty so that Paris may once again look on me with desire in his eyes? Will you lend me the magic girdle that has ensnared so many?" Aphrodite approached, and Helen found herself forced to look away, her eyelids squinting to shut out the blinding reflection of the goddess' glowing skin. "Come to me, dear Helen, most beautiful of mortal women. We must comfort one another, for I too find myself caught between a husband and a lover, and I fear no one but you may help me." Reaching out a bejeweled hand, Aphrodite raised Helen's face and kissed her. The goddess' soft lips felt to Helen like the plushest pillow pressing against her mouth. She reached out to stroke the skin of Aphrodite's face -- skin as smooth as the purest silk, one hand reaching into the luxuriant coils of golden hair. The touch of Aphrodite's mouth was gentle, yet ardent, and Helen felt herself so moved that she feared to lose her footing. When the kiss ended, Helen gasped for breath. The goddess guided her to a nearby couch and eased her down. Helen's thoughts swirled excitedly in her head as she rested it on the soft cushion. She gazed up at Aphrodite's beautiful face, and for a confused moment believed she saw the outline of Paris' fine jaw and the glint of his dark eyes. She blinked, and then before her face beheld only the golden goddess, the mistress of love and marriage and fertility. Aphrodite leaned over Helen and caressed her neck with long, soft fingers. Helen's flesh shivered as lines were traced along her collarbone and down her chest. The goddess pulled Helen's gown open, lowered her head and kissed the sensitive skin of Helen's bosom. A soft tongue darted out and flicked at one nipple, and Helen gasped and reached for the woman above her, whose divinity was suddenly belied by her own sensuousness. "You have never loved another woman," Aphrodite said, allowing Helen's fervent, almost violent, embrace. "Like me, you have given yourself over to men, enjoying the pleasure they could bring. Isn't that so?" Helen nodded, breathing hard, her fingers swirling in the goddess' hair. "You long to be taken, to feel the firmness of a man's flesh and the heat of his invading organ." "I was made to be loved by men, isn't that so?" Helen asked, using her own hand to encourage Aphrodite's fingers to continue their exploration of her body. Aphrodite laughed, the sound like the strumming of a harp in the airy room high above the city walls. Helen was startled at first, then remembered that this was the goddess of humor, whose love of merriment inspired comedic verse and song. "Does it amuse you?" Helen asked. "My dear Helen, men's organs are obdurate. They experience more feeling when hardened, but while hardened they are completely unfeeling. Do you understand me?" Helen sighed. "They are certainly most fascinating when hardened," she said. "I am also fascinated by the many shapes and sizes of the men and the gods I have known," Aphrodite agreed, pausing to softly squeeze the ample flesh of Helen's breasts. "My husband is without beauty, but his organ is ample enough. Still, it cannot compare to the ardent weapon of the god of war." Ares. Helen had heard stories of the liaison between Aphrodite and Ares, supposedly disapproved of by the Olympians. So, it was true! The goddess defied her husband Hephaestus and took Ares to her bed. If Helen had been made in the image of Aphrodite, how could she be blamed for her unfaithfulness to her own husband? "Beautiful Helen. Tragic Helen. You gave up your good name for the love of a young man, and now he forsakes you, and even his unfeeling organ lacks the metal to pierce your body and open you to his seed." "He mourns his brother. He regrets what we did," Helen said, allowing herself to weep. "He won't look at me." Aphrodite stroked the insides of Helen's thighs while she nuzzled against her neck, her soft mouth radiating sweet, warm breath. Even in her sorrow, Helen shivered at the sensations. "Paris has his own destiny, Helen, and you have yours. Yours is to be the mother of Troy, to continue its royal line." Helen pulled back from the goddess' embrace. "But how? How can I? Paris doesn't come to my bed, and Hector is dead." Aphrodite's smile was luminous. "It is your line that will continue, Helen. You will found a new race of warriors, and I will give you the seed with which to do so." Helen lay on her back, her head propped against the cushion of the divan, the face of the goddess pressed close to her bosom. Between her legs, Aphrodite's fingers continued their endless exploration. "Tell me what magic you will use?" "Inside I carry the seed of Ares. If my husband knew, he would find a way to punish me. I will transform myself so that I might give this seed to you, and you in turn will bear the son of the god of war." Helen drew in her breath. Divine seed! She would become the mother of a god. Closing her eyes, Helen reached out and clutched at the soft shoulders of the goddess. She allowed herself to be swept up in the sensuous pleasure of the touch of Aphrodite's lips and the pressure of her hands, rising up to meet the weight of the divine form bearing down on her. She lost track of time as the goddess strummed her flesh like an instrument, eliciting ecstatic sighs in place of music. Aphrodite leaned down and kissed the sensitive tissue between Helen's thighs, using her lips and tongue to redden and swell the longing flesh. Helen wrapped her hands in the thick, golden hair of the goddess, her back arched, her head flung back with abandon. Finally the body above her stretched out and covered her. When she looked up, Helen saw the face of her lover, Paris. And between her legs she felt the familiar warm sting of his manhood, pushing into her, filling her dewy depths with heat and rapture, and, finally, with seed. Helen was overcome with passion and overtaken by blackness -- blackness sprinkled with sharply sparkling stars. When she regained her senses, Helen was staring into the beautiful face of the goddess who was watching her with eyes the blue-green color of the Aegean. "My darling Helen, you now carry the seed of the god," Aphrodite said. "But what will he think?" Helen asked, worried. "He hasn't come near me. If I am suddenly with child, he will believe I have betrayed him." The goddess smiled. "He will never know. I will give you the means to excite him again." She reached around her waist and removed the golden girdle. "This has never failed, Helen. Paris will not be able to resist it." Helen stared at the magic belt, relieved and saddened at the same time by what it represented. She would seduce Paris that very night, and even if he never made love to her again, it would be enough to convince him that it was his son she carried. "You will call the child Aeneas. Remember it," the goddess commanded. "Aeneas," Helen repeated. Aphrodite gave a delighted laugh. "We will both be his mothers!" she said. "And he will be blessed three times over, what with you and I and the god who fathered him. What better hand to someday raise the sword of Troy!" Sighing, Helen reached for her cup of wine; she suddenly found herself parched with thirst and she drank eagerly. "Don't despair, Helen. Your days will be filled with delight in your son, and soon enough your nights will again be filled with passion. You must be patient." "I thank you, goddess, for your gift. I will do my best to transform myself from a lover into a mother." Aphrodite reached over and kissed her. "Both are natural for a woman, Helen. Never forget." Helen nodded and walked to the window overlooking the courtyard where Paris practiced. The young prince was nowhere to be seen; he might be on his way to their apartments. "I don't see him," she said, glancing back into the room. The goddess was gone; only the golden girdle remained, hanging on the back of the divan. Quickly putting her gown and hair to rights, Helen reached for the magic belt and tied it around her waist. As she did so, Paris walked in, still dressed for archery, long leather bracelets covering his forearms. He looked over at her, and for the first time in weeks, she saw a familiar spark in his dark eyes. "What have you done to yourself?" he asked. "You're more beautiful than ever, but you seem somehow changed." Helen stood and faced him, smiling to herself, the knowledge of her secret enough to comfort and strengthen her. She stepped forward and raised a hand to her lover's face, caressing his skin, tracing the scar on his cheek with her fingers. "Come to bed, Paris. I want you to love me again." He nodded, and Helen chose to believe his compliance was not compelled by Aphrodite's girdle alone. Ultimately, it didn't matter. She sighed and smiled as she pulled him to her breast. It was true, she was changed -- forever changed. But no one besides the goddess would ever know just how. "Man looks aloft; and with erected eyes The End |