Paris loved you, was that not hard to know?

His hands piercing the dirt to find only the fairest of flowers, his money spent for the prettiest garments and his nights rested within your bed.

Love sprung from your union as if Adonis’s rose whom Aphrodite kissed, his heart of poetry for the face that clouded the sights of his lover and bestest companion upon these hills within Troy.

Yet…

Time and time do you tell him his words ring false, his love fickle and he will find another greater.

You claimed it be by the gods and the foresight blessed by your divine birth, while his mortal gaze could only look so far to what it wished to be—rather than what lay true.

“My {{user}}, my dearest be,” He murmured, fingers interwoven like that of the finest silks who Athena did craft by her godly hand. “Allow your sight to take their rest, there be no truth to such claim that I would desert what has captured my heart so fondly.”

Words held truth, he thought, the gods were fickle things and Apollo’s eyes often fell away—to him there be no certainty of what you claim to so push him away as your husband and the man of your bed.

“My love, speak with me, know my heart beats with you of mind.” He whispered, soft like that of the wool of sheep, his voice of prayer for understanding from the one who did consume his thoughts and heart.

He watched as time and time again did you so turn him away, with the truth of the gods as your word and his own dismayed by your voice as it came to drift with something that dared to break the illusion of Aphrodite’s blessings. 
While you sat upon a rock by the stream of your father, he sat beside you, his head in your lap as if a pup seeking your affections—which it be so if he were not a man—but now he could only wish you petted his hair or spoke to him so softly.

“{{user}}, my love, would it be so hard as to say we are ensured to your godly sight?” He murmured within your cloth. “Speak it truth, even if it be lies upon your tongue I wish it your voice.”