Chapter Text
“Work with me, work with me! Come now!”
Penelope’s eyed darted between perhaps the two most stubborn people she had ever known. The mighty King of Sparta, tight-fisted warlord controlling along the Evrotas and stretching to the coast, and the sharp, darked eyed snarling soul born to be a Fury, but instead stuffed inside the mortal shell of a Spartan Princess.
Penelope was used to them going rounds. In fact, as her clever, stimulation craving mind often preferred to do, she kept an ongoing count of who won after every little spat. A King was a King, but Clytemnestra burned with enough fire to turn a throne into nothing but an indiscernible pile of ash.
“I think this idea is stupid,” Clytemnestra narrowed her swan-like eyes, focusing on him. “I think this will never work , I think they will tear themselves apart as men do, and I think there isn’t a single , single decent man down there!” Clytemnestra leaned over his map, hands slammed down as though to brace herself. Like she was going to eat him, Penelope thought. Unhinge her jaw like some sort of freakish, angry snake.
“These are some of the richest, smartest, strongest men from every corner of Greece!” Tyndareus almost laughed. “There must be one . And he will be found.”
“They,” Clytemnestra spoke between the clench of her teeth, every syllable tight like a bow string drawn taut, “Are all. Shit. You think any of them are good enough for her?! You think a single one of them could ever be good enough for her?!” Clytemnestra let out her own laugh, a sharp bark unbefitting a princess, more like a feral dog. “You should have asked me before making such stupid decisions, fuck…see what you’ve done? We have… men , living in our house! Do you realize how disgusting that is! Castor and Pollux are already enough, I hope you’re ready to deal with a house filled with pregnant maids. And what stops them from running off with her again, huh?! Like that fucking bastard of an Athenian—”
“Xenia will prevent them from doing so!” Tyndareus yelled back just as loudly. “As long as they are under my roof , they will behave themselves.”
“They are men! Living in our house! You think that will stop them?! MEN!” Clytemnestra slammed a fist into the table, making the map shift and shake like an earthquake had hit Greece. “In our HOUSE!”
“I HEARD YOU THE FIRST TIME, CLYTEMNESTRA!”
“Helen,” Penelope laid a hand on her cousin’s shoulder as she sat in the window. Her veil was folded up and over her head, curling down over the red of her hair like frost laid over autumn leaves. “You’re alright?”
“Oh…fine…” She said in that absentminded way. She could never trick Penelope, Penelope was never tricked by anyone. Her father had taught her to look for things like that. How someone’s eyes fluttered as they spoke, how they shifted their arms and their legs and played and tugged with their fingers.
“People have their own language, Pearl. They don’t speak it, you have to see it.”
“...Did you like anyone?” Penelope prompted gently. She tried to radiate calm, a sense of peace. Everything will be alright . Though the logical part of her, the worry that usually shined through her eyes knew better. Penelope would not scream or yell or slam fists into tables like Clytemnestra, but she too was worried. Young kings , living under one roof , fighting for the same woman was a political nightmare, for logic went out the window when a man thought with desire. She learned that from her father too.
“Men are stupid, illogical, foolish dick-headed—” He’d sigh, combing through her sleek strands of hair with his fingers. “ Never trust a man, they look out for themselves. For their treasuries and bedsheets. You’re too clever for it…except for me, Pearl. You trust me in everything, I would never forsake you, not as long as I lived—” When he said that, combing through her hair, she’d close her eyes and remember the breeze of being held above a cliff.
“There were certainly…many of them—” Helen swallowed. “...why me, and not you or Clytemnestra?”
She looked so…small. Like when the thunder roared outside. This was not so different. The lightning was men . Showing off, trying to appear bigger and stronger than all the others. Better . And their thunder was their loud boasting and yells and promises of safety and comfort. Penelope trusted none of them.
Men looked for themselves, their treasuries, and their bedsheets. They wanted Helen for all three of those purposes.
“Because you are kind. Kinder than any one of them,” Penelope lied. Her father taught her that, too. Clever politicians lied all the time. Though lies grew more transparent the closer the listener was to you. It was hard to lie to someone who knew your soul. “...you must have liked at least one?” Penelope smiled faintly, reaching down to gently adjust her veil. “Handsome men, hm?”
“I didn’t notice if they were handsome or not…” Helen sighed. “They were all… loud. And you cannot hear anything else when they are loud they’re just… loud —” She hesitated a moment. “They were like Theseus, very loud—”
“I understand.” Penelope said smoothly. Tyndareus did not wish for her to discuss it, he had practically banned the subject. He was smart enough to know that, at least. That thinking of Theseus, what he had done, when men of just his caliber lived right within the walls, well…Penelope was glad he recognized it, at least. “It is okay, Helen. You are not making any decisions at the moment. It is okay to not know…do not be afraid of them. They have nothing of substance, all talk.”
“If you would have asked me—” Clytemnestra shot back, slamming her hands again.
“I know how you would have acted!” Tyndareus shouted back.
“How?!”
“LIKE THIS!”
“...the last one, who spoke,” Helen hesitated. “...Who was he again?”
Penelope thought back, flipping through the memories of the night to reach the last suitor. Average, seemingly. So indiscernible…except for the man who stood firmly behind him, and the air that surrounded them, and the words exchanged between her father and…
Mycenae . They had spoken of it in council, once. A shame. An awful, terrible shame. For King Atreus of Mycenae, may he rest in peace. For those poor boys he leaves behind…they did not kill the boys, did they? Oh, it is hardly a surprise. The Gods always hated Atreus’ line…cannibalistic murders—
“Menelaus, of Mycenae,” Penelope answered. “And his brother…” her mind searched for the fleeting mention of his name. It had been an odd name. Too many A’s, too many M’s. Resolute, it meant. Steadfast…who was Penelope to judge, when her own name meant of ducks? “Agamemnon.”
“Everyone looked at them so oddly…” Helen mused. Behind her, Clytemnestra yelled something else. “...why does everyone look at them that way?” she asked.
Penelope searched for an answer. Helen had been kept inside all of her life, kept in happiness, comfort. What had happened in Mycenae, to the somber Princes of it, had been, well… unpleasant .
“Just boring political matters,” Penelope said. “...nothing to worry about, Helen.”
“...oh ,” Helen sighed.
Creeeeek.
Penelope’s head shifted just so, to see the opening of the door. A familiar eye peeked through. Melantho had very distinct eyes. Brown and green, like algae over driftwood. Penelope always liked to look under driftwood, for little sand crabs to let climb over her fingers.
“I’ll be back,” Penelope managed a smile. She nudged Helen’s cheek with her knuckle. “Tell me who wins, between your father and Clytemnestra. Alright?”
Helen just sighed glumly, slumping in her window seat. Penelope slipped outside. Before she could even get a word out Melantho was tugging her in by the front of her chiton to whisper in Penelope’s faintly pointed ear.
“You require word?” Melantho glanced around as she whispered, her smirk just barely hidden. She was well versed in the ways of whispering, she and Penelope had exchanged hundreds of whispers. Back when they were just children, Penelope the fidgeting princess, and Melantho the clever, fair-cheeked maid she had been given. The very first time Melantho had whispered; “... you wish to hear what I heard?” and they had been doing it ever since. “I have been watching them all evening—”
“Always, Mel.” Penelope huffed softly, raising a hand as though to stop the surge of Melantho’s words before they rambled out of control. She had a way of going into things headfirst like that. It had a tendency to drive Penelope crazy when she did. “What did you see? More importantly, what did you hear ?”
“Well, first of all, they drank like Dionysus himself was amongst them—” Melantho snorted softly. She laughed like a mare did, those little snorts accompanied by a roll of her eyes “Gods, I think the wine cellar is empty with how much they indulge themselves.”
“Mm…” Penelope barely held back a scoff herself. She was hardly surprised. Men could drink their weight in wine, especially when they celebrated like the Suitors of Helen no doubt celebrated. After all, perfection lay just down the hall.
“The man who looks like an ox, you know the one, he was getting scammed, I think. By the short one, with the eyes,” Melantho whispered back. Short one, eyes…Penelope once again dug back into her memories, though this time she did not have to work so hard. It was hard to forget him. Short, yes, so much so that she had been forced to lean forward a little to see him. But the eyes were what were most memorable. One the color of plowed dirt, the other like blue sea glass. Something about them made your brain tickle, like when Penelope furrowed her brows too hard when thinking. “He was cheating, at their gambling. I saw him. We locked eyes as I filled his goblet.”
“What exactly did he do?” Penelope’s brows furrowed.
“He kept switching dice out, but he got them too drunk to notice…he looked at me, like…” Melantho struggled for the whispered words, “it was odd. He looked very pleased with himself…he asked me to play. Probably wished to scam me out of these.” Her fingers reached up, brushing along the pearls in her earlobes. Penelope huffed softly. She wore them openly, without worry of questioning. Clever as Melantho was, she also had pride , and she liked her pretty things. She liked people to see her pretty things, even if considered above her station.
“Mm…” Penelope murmured in thought. “...what of the two from Mycenae? The red-headed boy, and his older brother, what were they doing?”
“Them ?” Melantho blinked. “I didn’t dare get close enough to see, their… air is…” She grimaced slightly. She could not put a word on it, but Penelope understood. “...I have yet to see them not next to each other. They are practically glued. Always with that hand on the freckled one, guiding him around like a lost calf—” Melantho rolled her eyes a little. “It reminds me of you and your father…it is hard, though. To hear all they say, see what they do. Some things stay between men no matter how hard I listen.”
“Just keep watching,” Penelope sighed. From behind the door, she heard Clytemnestra and Tyndareus’ continuous yelling. The arguing, over how they were all vile, disgusting, self-serving— “They will be tested, tomorrow. If there is a decent man down there, anyone at all, I will find him. For Helen.”
“Good luck with that…” Melantho murmured. Penelope glared, and all too quickly did it make her bow, with a flourish of her hand. “I will look, listen, diligently, my Lady Penelope.”
“Mhm . I trust you will, Mel.”
Some things stay between men, no matter how hard I listen .
Penelope refused to believe it. If there were words to be heard, things to be said, she would find them. She just needed…a foothold.
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Bearing riches wasn’t enough. No, no, no . If material wealth was all that mattered, the richest amongst the Suitors of Helen would win by default. No. Skill, strength, power , were just as important. Helen was a precious treasure, a rich hunk of wealth that needed protecting. There was always someone looking to swindle you out of your most valuable things, and sometimes the only way to stop such a thing was to know your way around a spear, a sword, or whatever method of violence made your heavy King heart swell with satisfaction.
And, of course, Sparta always had an affinity for those violent methods. The way of the sword, the spear, was as sacred as worshipping the Gods.
Clank, clank, clank.
Agamemnon shoved Menelaus’ freckled hands away from the straps of his armor, and instead tightened them himself. Properly. Menelaus didn’t know how to do it, and if he kept it the way it was it would have slid off right into the sand of the Spartan arena, and then what? They’d laugh at him? Mock him more than they did already?
Agamemnon had no love for anybody here. He knew what they thought, it is what every single person he’d ever met though. Cursed . They could fuck themselves. Every single one. Agamemnon hoped they choked on his air.
“I was never good with a spear—” Menelaus confessed quietly. “At least, not as good as the others here.” His eyes glanced around briefly, his head shifting along and making a copper curl tumble over his forehead.
“You leave the others to me. You worry about looking presentable for Helen, and not getting your face pounded in.” Agamemnon fastened the leather strips, before letting them fall out of his grip.
“...What if she doesn’t like me—”
“She will.” Agamemnon rose back onto his feet.
“When will Tyndareus let us see here, huh? I wish to know what I fight for!” From somewhere behind them, that monster of a hulking man talked loud like a war drum. Another person Agamemnon wished would shut the fuck up. It gave him a headache.
“But what if she doesn’t . She is perfect, and I am… average at best, cursed at the worst—”
They had gone back and forth in the same whispered argument a hundred times. Agamemnon hated when he called himself that. It didn’t fit Menelaus. Agamemnon still remembered peering down at him, curled up in a baby blanket like a bird in a nest, some kind of funny little newborn sparrow. His eyes had been caught by Menelaus’ faint wisps of red hair on his head, far lighter than then they were now, but still red.
“Red, hm? Blessed by the Gods… ” his mother had smiled as he laid in the crook of her elbow, “maybe this time is different. Don’t you think so? ”
“...Tidy yourself up. You look like a mess,” Agamemnon replied, flicking the copper curl back in with the rest of Menelaus’ hair. It never wanted to sit right, had a mind of its own. It made him look boyish still, while he was surrounded by men with full beards…well, for the most part.
“Princes of Mycenae! I thought I’d find you, on the outskirts of everyone else.” Odysseus had no beard, not yet. He had some sort of… fuzz on his face, though. Over his chin, the beginnings of what might have become a beard.
“Odysseus!” Menelaus straightened himself in slight surprise, metal clanking against itself. “Hello.”
“Hello, Menelaus.”
Agamemnon didn’t like the Goat King at all. Not that he liked anyone, but especially not the Son of Laertes. His smile was too quick, his eyebrows too swift in their expressions. Agamemnon had swore he had seen him practicing them, in a mirror in the Suitors quarters as he had tugged on his chiton and his sandals. When Agamemnon glanced in mirrors himself, oftentimes the glass shattered.
He didn’t like his brother receiving such a quick smile, especially with how quickly Menelaus was known to return them.
“Don’t waste my time.” Agamemnon tightened his own gauntlets. He had heard Odysseus last night, talk, and talk, and talk until he wanted to rip fucking hair out. He caught Menelaus’ glare from the corner of his eye.
“Please don’t mind him,” Menelaus urged. He was always like that, likeable. Well-mannered, respectful of people. His personality was pleasing, hardly offensive to anyone. “He’s…uh….”
“No, no. I get it. Punctual,” Odysseus gave him a quick smile too. Trust me, won’t you? I’m a likeable, charming King aren’t I?
Agamemnon was not likeable, well-mannered or pleasing. And the son of Laretes, harboring from piss-poor Ithaca, practically had bastard written across his forehead.
“Listen,” Odysseus lowered his voice as he spoke, as though speaking a secret just between the two of you. “I’ve been… thinking . Of an alliance, between some of these princes. To look out for each other, in times where it is needed. You can never have enough friends , can you?” His eyes gleamed. Menelaus almost smiled, glancing between Agamemnon, then Odysseus, then back to Agamemnon again. He had never had many friends in Mycenae. He was pleasing, but people overlooked him. Or thought he was cursed enough to not want to touch him. Even Odysseus, he noticed, did not lay a hand on his shoulder. Afraid it would rub off.
“No.” Agamemnon slid the helmet provided to him over Menelaus’ head. Copper curls stuck out underneath the bottom curve of the bronze. He wasn’t here to associate with any of them, get buddy buddy with the King of Ithaca, or any other whining, privileged soft-cored Prince. He was here for Mycenae. Here for Menelaus. That was it.
“I ask you to reconsider,” Odysseus kept his smile, though his mismatched eyes narrowed a little along the bottom. One brown, one blue, peeking out from curls dull brown like wood left out in the sun. The Gods touched him too, but in a very different way then Agamemnon himself.
“We can manage fine on our own,” Agamemnon said dully. What he really wanted him to do was leave. He was tired of looking at him.
“...I appreciate the inclusion,” Menelaus said. He sighed a little.
“Of course. Best of luck, to the both of you. May the best man come out on top.” Odysseus walked back to the other suitors, to whisper back and forth with the Prince of Argos on their clever tricks and shit.
“The last thing we need is everyone hating us here , too,” Menelaus murmured. “Couldn’t we have just—”
“You don’t need them. They’ll stab you in the back…or the front. Or the side . Or the neck. ” Agamemnon thrust his sword back into its sheath. One of the only things he managed to bring with him from Mycenae. A family heirloom. He wondered if the curse, the cloud around him, had sunk into the very metal itself. “Don’t be an idiot.”
“I’m not one.”
“Then don’t act like it,” Agamemnon replied sternly. It was his job to look after Menelaus, since he had peered down into that baby blanket at that red haired, wriggling little lump, and decided you’re different. You’re different from me. “You don’t need them. Don’t forget why we’re here.”
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The Spartan air was filled with the sound of metal-clashing, of shouts and battle cries. This was not the usual training of soldiers, no. This was Peacock-ing . Each suitor trying to look his best, draw in Helen’s gaze.
Me! Look at me!
This way! This way!
No! Here!
They all had their own tricks. Prince Diomedes rode horses so quick they flashed like lightning. Prince Ajax lifted a stone large enough to be a foundation. King Odysseus shot an arrow through 12 axe heads.
“Pathetic,” Clytemnestra practically snarled to herself. Every single one. Pathetic, just as she had screamed at her father.
“Marry her?! No. NO! You CAN’T! You must revoke what you said, you have too! I demand it!”
“It’s already been done…I need you, now. More than ever do I need—”
“YOU THINK THERE IS A MAN ALIVE WHO DESERVES HER?!”
No. Clytemnestra knew that was the correct answer. Not a single fucking one. And yet, she was stuck watching the few cocky enough to think she was wrong.
“Ow…” Helen winced slightly. She could hardly watch, things like that always made her squeamish, so Clytemnestra often had to remind her which Kingdom she called home.
Below, the others were practically getting squished like bugs . They would all run to the one in the middle, only to be knocked back so far Clytemnestra could hear the rattle and clanking of metal, and their cursing in pain, all the way from her perch above. They had been doing this all day. Peacocking. Racing horses, which Diomedes of Argos won swiftly without comparison. Archery, when Teucer of Salamis had hit every single target before him. And now, wrestling. Or, really, watching poor princes get their bones crushed one after another.
“Duck,” Clytemnestra narrowed her eyes, to better see down below, “who is that?”
“Prince Ajax, of Salamis, off the coast of Athens…” Penelope bit her tongue to prevent any more rambling from coming out, as Prince Ajax slammed his opponent once more. “And, um… Menelaus . Of Mycenae.”
“He’s a monster —” Clytemnestra mused, reaching back for her goblet of watered-down wine. She was half aware that the servant woman Pollux had insisted on bringing back, the Mother of Theseus, was standing behind with her pitcher, ready for refilling.
“I could take him,” Pollux boasted as he leaned back in his chair. “Easy.”
“He’d squish you flat,” Clytemnestra huffed, “imagine that, a Pollux shaped stain on the ground…” She glanced behind her, at Aethra. “ You would be picking that shit up.”
She did not answer her.
Clytemnestra leaned further over the railing, gazing down at Prince Menelaus as he flung his body at Ajax, only to get knocked aside like an annoying pest to him. The other one, Ajax’s brother, laughed from where he sat amongst the other suitors, sweating with sand sticking to their skin. It was hard to believe they were siblings, Ajax and Teucer. When Clytemnestra first laid eyes on Teucer she thought he was a girl. She wished he was…then he opened his mouth and surprise! Another arrogant asshole.
“They’re like you and Helen. One’s pretty, the other is a monster,” Pollux cocked his head to the side. “Funny, how that works.”
“Shut up ,” Clytemnestra barked at him. “ Never compare me to a man down there. Fuck is wrong with you ?”
“Would you, um…like anything to drink, Helen?” Penelope asked gently.
“Hm… ” Helen did not answer her, instead leaned slightly over the rail to get a better view. “He is not very good…” Helen murmured. It was not unkind, as Clytemnestra was as she answered after her.
“Does it matter ?” Clytemnestra snapped. “They are all useless. They’re all getting utterly destroyed…” She huffed. “Where is father? I would like him to see how his best men in Greece are faring.”
“Council,” Penelope replied dully. “...Where they have been since yesterday’s evening.”
“Ugh, ” Clytemnestra rolled her dark eyes. “Debating over who is the least awful. A hard competition.”
“Oh, he grabbed him—” Pollux grinned. He nudged his knuckles against Clytemnestra’s arm, as he drew her gaze back down into the sandy dirt of the Spartan arena. Down below, in his monstrous fist, Ajax had yanked up one of the suitors of Helen like one would pick up a young dog; by the scruff. His captor squirmed, the red headed, tanned Prince of Mycenae, who tugged and clawed relentlessly at his arm. It was of no use as he was slammed into the dirt again. Even from so far away, Clytemnestra could see his grimace.
Ajax roared, holding up a mighty fist as his eyes traveled eagerly up to the balcony. He had done that every time, eyes hopeful as though wishing Helen would be there, swooning , stripping off her veil.
“Tell them to send in the next one,” Clytemnestra grumbled to Pollux. She barred an arm over Helen’s chest, pushing her back in her chair. Out of view.
“Do you think he’s alright?” Helen frowned.
“Who?”
“Menelaus, of Mycenae. That did not look nice.”
“It’s fighting , Helen.”
“The next one!” Pollux yelled down from the balcony, slamming his hand upon the stone railing in impatience. “It’s not like we’ve been here all of the day! Fuck.”
The next challenger stood, dusted off his hands, and walked into the sun. Even from above, bathed in shade, Clytemnestra could see the sweat as it clung to his shoulders, down his back. But more than that, what poured off of him was…some kind of anger, that you only really got when a misfortune happened to you. Someone wronged you. Clytemnestra knew it well. In the barn, with her father, any time her eyes landed on Pollux’s gods’ damned ugly face . That is how he gazed at Ajax.
“And that ?” Clytemnestra asked. She watched him again, when he cracked his knuckles against his palms. She could not imagine what it would be like to stand beside him, rather than so far away. It would probably be enough to start choking on that aura of his, like ash in the air, going into your lungs .
“Agamemnon.” Penelope answered, “Of Mycenae.”
“Bet Ajax crushes him in a second ,” Pollux leaned back in his chair, waving his goblet in the air expectantly. “ AETHRA ! Do your fucking job, won’t you?!”
They said something, back and forth. No matter how Clytemnestra listened, the sweeping of air ate up their words until it was just a part of the rustling of far off leaves.
Agamemnon of Mycenae wasted no time after that, before throwing himself at Ajax with enough force to knock them both to the ground.
“Oh fuck —” Pollux leaned forward in his seat, eager for anything after an afternoon of boring, boring, boring. He moved with such excitement about him that, as Aethra poured, much of the watered down wine went to the floor. Dionysus could weep.
“He is going to rip off his face —” Clytemnestra surged forward as well, a hand blindly reaching behind to cover Helen’s veiled eyes. Agamemnon’s fist slammed into the plane of his face sharply, his knees pinning Ajax’s great chest down into the dirt as he pummeled and pummeled. He attacked not with precision or accuracy, just an onslaught of violence and bloody knuckles slamming into his jaw, into teeth, into his nose, any bit those fists could break.
It took him a moment to regain his bearings, but as he did Ajax shoved him off. Agamemnon was large, but Ajax was far larger. Larger fists, larger chest, larger legs which he planted on either side of Agamemnon, hands flocking to grab at his face, his neck. His large back bent over him, and Clytemnestra was sure if Ajax placed the entirety of his weight on him, he would be crushed. Anyone would. Another reason to wish him not to be Helen’s husband. By the fucking Gods’, those hands could snap her in half. Agamemnon’s own hands shot up, ruthlessly tugging at and ripping at anything he could find. The curly dark of his beard or even just the skin of Ajax’s shoulders as he yelled.
“...Give me your goblet.” Clytemnestra reached her hand out blindly.
“... Me ?” Pollux stared at her.
“Yes you, give it to me,” she snapped. Someone yelled from down below. Who exactly, it was hard to say.
“I’m fucking drinking out of it,” Pollux sneered at her.
“Gods shut up—” Clytemnestra snatched it from his hands before he could argue further. The continents split onto the stone with a splash, making Penelope yelp and tug her skirt out of the way to avoid the seafoam green being stained with the purple of grapes. She turned back to the arena, eyes trained on the broad extent of Ajax’s back. It was still bent over in its work, driving Agamemnon’s face into the dirt. “ He is not winning again . Your husband is not going to be fucking that —” Clytemnestra drew back her arm. Back when she was still allowed to participate in girl sports, spending long days in the sun, she had played discus quite often.
It hit right in the middle of his broad back. Ajax lurched forward with a start. His head spun on his neck, looking over his broad shoulder. It left an angry red mark behind, an imprint in already tanned and sweaty skin. “ Who ?!-” He began to roar. Agamemnon’s feet hit his gut before the words got out, thrusting him back into the sand.
“You wish to see cursed? ” Agamemnon yelled at him, and this time Clytemnestra heard him as clearly as though he sat beside her. He slammed Ajax’s face into the dirt. “You have not even begun to see cursed! Do not call him that, EVER —”
An older sibling. Clytemnestra recognized one when she saw it. That fierce, all-encompassing, head-smashing protectiveness which only came from being first hatched. It was a heavy responsibility to carry. Though Clytemnestra would be lying if she claimed she wouldn’t do the same, if Helen had been thrown around like a sack of barley, as Menelaus of Mycenae had been.
It took quite a few moments for Agamemnon to finally be yanked off of him. Perhaps it was because Sparta reveled in its violence…or, more likely, they would have to touch him to do it, and that cloud of misfortune hung over him so heavily they feared to do so.
“I shouldn’t be surprised you’re a cheater, Clytemnestra,” Pollux rolled his eyes. He was quite bitchy now, without his wine. Clytemnestra thrust her own cup into his hands.
“Well I apologize for not wanting our sister to get snapped like a twig,” Clytemnestra snapped back at him. Down below, Menelaus rushed to the side of his brother. Agamemnon did not return his frantic words immediately. Instead, he gazed up towards the balcony, trying to squint through the light of the sun.
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When Penelope slipped into the room of council, after a day spent watching, observing, piecing things together, she found them in just as much disarray as the rest of the house. Icarius ran a hand over his face in his exasperation, even as Penelope sat down in her spot beside him.
“Prince Diomedes is your best option,” one Ephor insisted. Penelope knew him well, he had been in the company of the Kings of Sparta a long time. One of those old men of pristine, who stayed around until inevitably, Thanatos came for them. “Argos would be a great ally to us, he comes bearing the greatest wedding gifts, his father was a man of renown-”
“If we speak of fathers then Telamōnios is the best choice of them yet. A great man Telemon is, and his eldest son is strong as an ox ! Princess Helen would be protected.”
“What of the sons of Atreus? It was Agamemnon who came out on top today, I hear.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” another snapped. “You believe the Daughter of Sparta should be married to the son of a cannibal? A dead man cannibal! Mycenae is beyond help, I hear.”
“Enough!” Icarius shouted over them. “When you all speak over each other I cannot understand a word . All noise , noise, noise—” He flailed his hand around in the air, only to sink back with a sigh. It was only then he glanced, finding her sitting in her usual chair at his side. “Oh, Penelope dear…” he mused, in that dramatic way he often had, as though the very world was screeching to a halt and only Penelope could keep it going round for him. He reached to adjust her veil.
“Hello, father.”
“What is it you think of this racket, hm?”
Penelope thought of it, for a moment. She was thoughtful with most things, especially being asked for an opinion. It was a precious thing, an opinion, and not many women were asked about it. What they thought. Who they thought of . Her father took the things she said quite seriously. Penelope knew better than to speak the name of one of them to her father, even as the oddest tingle in the back of her head, like a mantra, repeated; Odysseus . Odysseus of Ithaca. Speak his name for me.
“...No,” she replied.
It was Epiphanes who spoke up next, took the words clean from her mind as that brief tingle in her head slipped away.
“What of The King of Ithaca?” He asked, leaning forward in his seat. He glanced at her briefly, brown eyes peeking out from behind curls of a burnt blonde. She quickly averted her gaze back to her father.
“Ithaca…” Icarius’ nose wrinkled. “It has more goats than men, Ithaca does. No gold or great army lies there.”
“Riches are not of importance to me,” Tyndareus finally spoke. “It is Helen who is important. Helen who is to be considered above all else. I will never have something occur to her, again. Gifts are worthless without strength to protect her, and the character to do so as well. I will not pass my daughter off to a man without any thought. I come to no decision today.”
Icarius, once more, pinched the bridge of his nose, and with the sweep of his hand expelled his Ephors and generals, and men of trust. “Adjourned.” Then, as the two Kings of Sparta often did, Icarius turned to his brother to have his own murmured meeting.
“Let me walk you,” Epiphanes offered as they dispersed, shifting past them by turning his broad shoulders at an angle.
“Oh, uh…” Penelope adjusted herself in turn. She wished to leave before he got to ask such a question, but when his eyes got trained on her it was hard to escape them. He was a soldier, after all, raised in the brutal way Spartan boys were, to be focused . He had sharp eyes, awkward and rigid as he was. “Thank you, Epiphanes.”
“Of course.” He inclined his curly blonde head. “...It is important to do so, especially now with…guests, so rampant in our home.”
Penelope began to walk. He always let her walk before her like that, a sign of respect so seemingly out of place for herself that other soldiers would no doubt furrow their brows at it. Perhaps if she was with her father, sure. But by herself?
“You think Xenia is not enough to keep them in check?” Penelope asked.
“No, no not at all—” He fumbled quickly for his words, “of course it is, it is just…well, better to avoid… that entirely.”
“Hm…” Penelope barely shrugged, focusing more on a swoosh outside the window. A mighty sweeping of feathers and— “Have you noticed?”
“What?”
“Owls. Seemingly everywhere you look…well, I look at least. I saw one at Helen’s feast, I saw one even before that and…owls . They are not in nesting season…” Penelope murmured to herself. She knew they weren’t. If they were, the ducks would be preparing, ensuring the safety of their ducklings.
“... what?” Epiphanes gave her that look she got often when she talked, not around Helen or Clytemnestra who were used to her. It was an odd kind of look.
“ Owls…” Penelope played with her fingers as she walked. “Epiphanes?”
“...Lady?”
“Do you ever feel watched?”
“I can’t say I understand what you mean,” The junior most Ephor spoke slowly. Poor man. He tried, but…well, even then he looked lost.
“Watched. Like something is observing you…” Penelope let her head swivel about. She didn’t like being watched. She liked being the watcher . The observer. The owl.
“...no,” Epiphanes said slowly, awkwardly.
She sighed.
“Have you noticed your head feeling strange? Like in there?”
“Is your head feeling strange?” Epiphanes looked at her as though she spoke pure nonsense. Babbling like someone cursed by the gods into madness.
“Forget it…” Penelope murmured to herself. Owls . How odd it was. And how odd it was to feel so watched, like the sand crabs she’d study on the beach after picking up shells. And how strange her head felt, and how very charged the air was and how even now her brain churned it all over like water current tumbling river rocks. She chewed the inside of her cheek as she thought, and for quite a long while as they walked, Penelope did not speak. Epiphanes, in all his awkwardness, especially at Penelope’s…thought process, didn’t either.
Owls.
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“They will not even show us her face!” Ajax complained. “All of this for what ? What if Tyndareus has tricked us all! How are we to fight for something he does not show?!”
“I agree,” Teucer drew his hair back against his neck as he splashed water from the basin over his face, washing off sand and dirt from the arena. Not that he really got that dirty. “Anything could be under there!”
“Exactly !” Ajax threw his large arms into the air. At his words, a murmur of agreements and approvals went around the bunk of the suitors. They had, after all, flocked to Sparta for one reason; a promise of perfection. What they were given was a veiled, shapeless form squished between two other veiled and shapeless forms.
“Fucking —” Agamemnon began to grit out between clenched teeth.
“Don’t ,” Menelaus sighed. He barred an arm across Agamemnon’s chest. Not that it would really stop him, if he truly began seeing red in rage. But it was enough, and he stayed planted firmly in his seat.
“No hard feelings. It’s a competition,” Menelaus reminded.
“He beat the shit out of you.”
“You beat…the life out of him. That makes it even.”
“It doesn’t work that way.”
“You and your grudges…” Menelaus drew a hand over his slightly bruised, freckled face. “You would hold a grudge forever, if the Gods would let you…”
“And you would forgive someone even if they slit your throat.” Agammemnon gave that faint grimace he often gave, hands resting upon the hilt of his sword. Sword of Atreus, not that he had much use for it anymore. “My will is mine. I won’t soften it, and I will nurse my grievances.”
“You’re so difficult, all the time, ” Menelaus deflated into a slouch, chin resting in his hands.
“You’re too damn easy.”
“You only won against Ajax, because someone helped you up on the balcony!” Menelaus hissed back. “I saw it, clear as day!”
“Help I never asked for,” Agamemnon grit out. He hated help. Asking for it, receiving it. Even giving it, though oftentimes that left people in debt to him that he could cash in later…but it made him feel pathetic. Agamemnon hated feeling pathetic, he wasn’t .
“Well you got it, someone up there had a good arm…” Menelaus perked up a bit, “you think it was Helen?”
“I have no idea, Menelaus.”
Worst of all, Agamemnon hated owing someone. Being in debt . He was stubborn, bull-headed, maybe. But it pissed him off.
“I say we demand to see her!” Ajax spoke up again, voice loud and booming, though it grated on Agamemnon’s mind like high pitched squealing in his ear. A murmur of agreement went around the room, the nodding of heads. They wanted leadership, as most large crowds did. Agamemnon scowled to himself.
“Ajax, come now—” From his corner, the short King of Ithaca sighed. “Going forth demanding things from our host like that is no way to get along .”
“Quiet Goat King!” Ajax scoffed. “I refuse to be tricked!”
“Of course. Never,” Odysseus nodded thoughtfully, a hand smoothing over his chin. “I am just saying . Picking fights already, hardly wise. Don’t you think, Prince of Mycenae?” He smiled at Agamemnon, as though they were the oldest of childhood friends. Buddies . Agamemnon wanted to shake him back and forth for it. I. Am not. Your friend.
“Sure ,” Agamemnon sneered.
“See! Unwise,” Odysseus smiled, quick and wolfish with the wave of his fingers in the air.
“Do as you wish,” Ajax glared at him. “ I demand to see what I kicked all your asses for!”
“You did not —” Agamemnon began, though Menelaus clamped a bronze hand over his mouth.
“Quiet please quiet, Agamemnon I swear—”
“If you insist,” Odysseus simply shrugged. “Merely offering words of advice, between friends, Ajax. I’m sure Helen appreciates being treated like a statue, rather than a woman…you have had a woman, haven’t you?”
“Have I—?!” Ajax laughed, loud and booming. “More than you could dream , Little King!”
Odysseus made a show of looking him up, and then down, and then up and down again. Focused particularly on his lower half, head tilted to the side. He had the greatest gift of making people deeply uncomfortable if he wanted to.
“And…they’re still alive, right? I can’t imagine that’s comfortable for anyone involved.”
“Shut up!”
Odysseus cackled, almost falling back in his chair. He had the oddest laugh, a mix between high pitched, airy giggles and something low and barking from his gut.
Agamemnon rolled his eyes. He had his hands full with one brother. One responsibility. Rooming with them was like sharing a room with 50 at once. Constantly joking, arguing, saying crude bullshit to each other.
“...Huh?” Menelaus’ brows furrowed in confusion.
“Don’t ask,” Agamemnon insisted.
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The Spartan hall had never been so full since the marriage of Tyndareus itself. Tables stretched, lined with Princes and Kings and every man in Greece who believed he had a chance. Or, who simply couldn’t resist the possibility, the slim chance that he would be the lucky one.
They whispered, and laughed, but Helen, squished between her cousin and sister, felt more nervous than anything. With every sharp and barking laugh, or slam of fist into the table, she saw dark blonde hair, impossibly dark eyes and a face like a statue. “ You will learn to love me, I think. ” She never realized just how close every man seemed to be to Theseus. It was true. There were a hundred Theseuses. And they clawed, and they roared and they were insistent and—
Helen wished they would all go away. More than anything she wished them to go away. There were just so…many. Too many. Why her, and why not Penelope? Or Clytemnestra? Or—
She felt an olive hand rest on hers. Clytemnestra always noticed when she fidgeted. Helen always got a little fidgety when she was nervous.
“Good men of Greece, guests of mine—” Tyndareus stood behind them, cup raised in his hand.
“Do not be frightened of them,” Penelope leaned over to murmur. “They’re not as scary as they look.”
“Mightiest among us, here for my daughter. Sparta welcomes you—”
“And even if they are ,” Clytemnestra murmured on her other side. “I could take them. Easily.”
“You are not alone in this, Helen,” Penelope continued. “We will help you through it. Always.”
“You could not be rid of me if you tried,” Clytemnestra snorted. “Neither of you could.”
“...I just…they…. frighten me,” Helen confessed in a murmur. Her eyes trained on a particular face. Freckled, surrounded by red hair, and quite glum looking. The boy, bad at wrestling, a little bruised from it.
“Then be frightened. We’ll be frightened together,” Penelope reached for her other hand, her fingers wrapping around her own.
“Come on!” A voice yelled from within the crowd, cutting Tyndareus’ voice short. He looked quite annoyed at the fact. “Do we not get to see what we’re fighting for?!”
Tyndareus glared into the crowd.
Odysseus sighed. He had told him, but no. He wouldn’t listen, would he?”
“Odysseus .” A familiar tingle in the back of his head.
“Athena .”
“I know how you may gain an upper hand.”
“Oh?”
“Come on!” Another suitor shouted. “Where is what you promised us?!”
“Yes!”
“How could they yell at her like that…” Menelaus murmured to himself. Agamemnon did not answer. He was looking at them, but for different purposes. Which of them had sent that cup, glinting in the sun, slamming into Ajax’s back?
Agamemnon hated owing someone.
“Helen, as she is now, is…unapproachable. I have been watching Sparta for some time. I have found an in for you. ”
Odysseus felt something of an invisible hand on his chin, tilting it to look to the right of Helen.
“Do what you do best. Make…friends.”
Pawns , is what she meant. Athena had no friends. Even when he had smiled and proudly proclaimed them so, she had given him a look as though he had done something foul.
“Enough,” Tyndareus raised his voice. “ Enough !” They grew rowdy. He feared them, as they grew rowdy. Anyone with half a mind would. Spartan guards clenched hands over their weapons. Epiphanes glared into the crowd.
“Let us see her!”
“You can’t hide her forever!”
Then, from the middle, she stood. Rigidly. Helen was frightened. Even veiled, it was clear she was frightened. Frightened together , is what Clytemnestra and Penelope promised her. She felt them stand at her side, and as they did, voices hushed and died down. Suitors, Kings, and even the Gods themselves
“...if you must,” Tyndareus finally bid her. He swallowed. He was frightened too.
The fabric shifted aside. Torchlight danced across hair, red like autumn leaves, or freshly cut gemstones like rubies. It played on the plains of her face, on pink, anxious cheeks and the sky blue of irises. For a moment, no one spoke. Beside her, Clytemnestra had unveiled as well, letting curled, slightly frizzy hair puff around her face. Penelope had also, showing worried eyes, pale skin. Helen wondered if they looked at them, as well. If they even noticed, as they looked at her.
The hall of Sparta erupted into a chorus of glorious yells and cheers.