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Chapter Text

This is now the original Ladies of Sparta document, kept up for nostalgia :)

The NEW Ladies of Sparta (under the same name and in the same series) has newly rewritten and edited versions of the original loosely connected one-shots present in this document, as well as new additional chapters/one-shots. The primary reasons for re-editing are numerous, but are mainly the following;

1. I legit just got some stuff wrong, and looking back on it now, it bothers me ngl💔

2. I want to go back to the more one-shot kind of style, as it keeps me from getting burnt out faster (especially with how busy I find myself nowadays)

3. I adore the writing for Clytemnestra, Penelope, and Helen, and I think this will help me continue

The current plan is to split up The Ladies of Sparta into two different works, The Ladies of Sparta (just the girls) and The Suitors of Helen (with the suitors and far more focus on them), and just kind of add to both periodically. All related works will be in the "The Ladies of Sparta & Other Such Stories", where I just kinda keep all the Penelope, Clytemnestra and Helen based stuff.

But yeah trying desperately to get out of a hiatus and turning to the Ladies of Sparta because they're silly and I like them, and in times of stress and uncertainty, go forth and write goofy ancient fanfiction ig 💔. I will be keeping up the original one-shots up ofc (despite their flaws), but uhhh yeah :) Thank you so much for reading, thank you so much for sticking around, and you guys are so sick >:)

-Rxd

Chapter Text

“She must come…” Penelope murmured. Her eyes were cast up to the sky. Waiting, waiting, waiting. “She swore to me she would, she must.” 

“Penelope.” Clytemnestra sighed, rubbing her hands over her sister Helen’s perfect shoulders to keep the warmth there. She leaned back to avoid the spray of the sea. “She should have been here hours ago. She is not coming.” 

“I must have miscalculated then,” Penelope added quickly. Her dark eyes still followed the clouds.

“You are far too clever to ever do that,” Helen mused as she batted away her sister’s hands, “I am fine! Why must you baby me all the time?!” 

“My gods, you practically are a baby.” Clytemnestra glowered at her sister, the kind of look a Spartan Princess could only get away with when surrounded by her confidantes. And that is what they had been since the day they were born. 

Clytemnestra and Helen were proud-born daughters of Tyndareus, King of Sparta. Or that was what was said; what was announced when they were presented to the court. When hidden behind their veils of modesty, obscured, it was almost easy to believe. But it was harder to accept when they were as they were now, bare-faced and being sprayed by the chill Mediterranean. Though Clytemnestra shared the slope of Tyndareus’ nose, the dark intensity of his eyes, and the strength of his jaw, her sister was quite different. No sharpness. No strength. Just pure, ethereal beauty. Warm, rose-gilded hair framing a face as soft as clouds, with eyes blue like skies after thunderstorms.  

Penelope, daughter of Tyndareus’ brother King Icarius, was much a mix of both of them. With a grounded mortality like Clytemnestra; dark hair in tight ringlets, and a long nose her cousins would jokingly flick and call her “duck-bill.” But once you looked close enough, you could see hints of divinity. In the highness of her ivory cheeks, or the brown of her river agate eyes. Or maybe the way she smelled, like the salt of the sea. 

“Penelope, stop this. It’s cold, it’s getting late–” Clytemnestra sighed, placing her hands on her hips. “Cease this. Before you catch some dreadful illness and are ridden to your bed.” Clytemnestra carried the usual demand in her tone, her hands shoving back the strings of hair that slipped out from their nest on her head. 

When Leda, wife of Tyndareus, laid the miraculous swan eggs that bore her children, Clytemnestra was the first to peek out her head. The first to let her cries ring through the palace of Sparta, and so it made her the responsible one. The one to watch the rest. It was a responsibility she resented at times, but who else was to do it? “Come along .”

“Well, perhaps we can just wait a moment longer…Penelope said she would come,” Helen noted in her usual timbre, rich and sweet like hot honey. She wrung her perfect hands and leaned further on her sandaled feet to gaze at her cousin. “She will, Penelope. I am sure of it.” Helen smiled, showing perfect teeth behind perfect lips. 

“Mother said she would…” Penelope barely heard them. Her eyes were too busy, cast down into the churning water of the sea. It was there she had come from, and she knew somewhere below with the other naiads, her mother resided.

Many years ago, from the rolling bubble of the sea came her mother, and in her arms a bundle. When presented to Icarius, he stared upon it in horror. 

“ It’s pale like the creatures from under the sea! Ugly! Not soft and pink like the children of my wife, not divine like the children of my brother. Away with it, and away with you! ” 

Periboea, daughter of Oceanus, merely cast her sharp glare upon him and thrust the wiggling lump into his arms. “ It is not as though I want it. It stinks of you , of mortal. It belongs here.” With that, she melted back into the waves. 

Enraged and disgusted, Icarius flung the child back into the sea. Just as his regret crept forth later in the night, he was met with the wiggling bundle atop the backs of ducks. Saved, flown back onto Spartan land. He held the child and wept. “ I am so sorry. Never shall I do such a thing to you, my dear child, my Penelope. Never will you want for anything. ”

But Penelope did want. She wanted her, to see her. 

She had to come. She swore it last she was here. She must -

“Duck,” Clytemnestra softened her tone as she spoke, taking a step to rest a hand on her shoulder. “You know I cannot let you stay here this late. Your father is expecting you, and so is my own. It’s time to leave.”

A frown formed on Helen’s face, though even her frown was beautiful. “Penelope, why wouldn’t she come?” 

The question was enough to earn a glare from Clytemnestra, a silent “ Shut up ” Helen was used to receiving, usually followed by a; “ Helen, is your head full of air ?” or “ Where Aphrodite blesses you, Athena leaves you to rot, Helen.” Helen wished Clytemnestra was kinder sometimes, not so… brash . She merely asked a question she did not know, and she did not know why that was so bad . Besides, seeing Penelope frown made her frown in turn. She never wished that. Helen wished to fix that if she could.

“Come along.” Clytemnestra guided Penelope by the shoulder, her grip firm and sure as she spun her around to face the hill. “She is not worth it anyway, Penelope. Anyone who rather frolic in the depths than be with you seems quite stupid to me. Don’t you think?”

Penelope nodded, though her face was still clouded by its perpetual worry. 

“Helen!” Clytemensta yelled over her shoulder, “Come along!”

Helen cast one look over the churning water of the sea, her frown still present. Penelope had said she would come, so why wouldn’t she? 

“ HELEN !” Clytemnestra yelled. If she was born a man, Ares would have favored her by her battlecry alone. But she wasn’t, so its only purpose was to rein in her sister.

“Coming!” She tore her gaze from it, and ran down after her sister and cousin, as she had been beckoned to.
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Dinner was as it always was. Clytemnestra scolded Castor and Polydeuces as they grabbed eagerly for bread and grapes. Servants whirled around with filled plates. Tyndareus sat and leaned back in his chair, sipping wine as his brother fussed over Penelope. Icarius fixed her hair and rubbed his thumbs over her cheeks as though to warm them, as his plate remained untouched due to his constant fiddling and fixing.

Helen had sat in her usual chair, ate her usual food, and received her usual stares, though she did not feel usual. What had happened still gnawed at her, even as she was ready to be tucked into her bed later that night. 

“Come.” Clytemnestra wagged a finger at her as she sat on the floor, “Let’s brush out that hair.”

Penelope sat in the window, dark hair cascading down her back like water as she gazed outside over the sea. 

“I…I am going to go pray to the gods. Before I sleep, sister.” Helen nodded as she rose, chiton swirling around her feet. Clytemnestra snorted. 

“Helen, you can do that here. Now come on, let me brush it out.”

“Oh, um…no. I would like to go by myself.”

Clytemnestra gave her a look, dark brown eyes narrowing into suspicious little slits. Sometimes it amazed Helen, Penelope’s cleverness, and Clytemnestra’s cunning. Perhaps Athena truly did leave her behind. 

“Oh, what? Have you taken a lover or something?” She finally asked bluntly. 

“Clytemnestra! I have not!” Helen insisted. It would have been impossible to do so, even if she wished to. Men of the palace were strictly forbidden from even stealing glances at her, and for good reason. Helen had found that her beauty often made their heads swirl, their pupils swell with a hunger that they could not keep to themselves. “ It’s for the best to keep them at bay, daughter. A hungry man will do what he must to feed himself ,” Tyndareus had said. 

“Mm. Then why are you so eager to be rid of the Duck and I?” Clytemnestra smiled that cat smile, eyes still narrowed. She would sneak out at times, and meet with a servant boy or two. She never got caught. Again; cunning. 

“Let her go, Clytemnestra,” Penelope’s voice, though still gloomy, was as reasonable as ever. “Just be safe, Helen. Be quick.” Her ivory fingers traveled over the stones around the window. 

“Oh fine, Helen . Go–” Clytemnestra waved her off, though her brush soon snapped to point at Penelope. “You then. Time to groom some feathers.”
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Helen kept her steps light, her hands gripping the torch like a vise as she weaved through halls and went through towering archways. She knew if her father could see her, he would be very disappointed, disgusted even. “ Sneaking around? For someone to gaze upon you? ” It was the one rule she had to follow. Inside, in the presence of her sister and cousin, she was safe. Anywhere else, she was not. 

But this was important, important enough for her to break such a rule. Helen slipped into the courtyard, letting the cool wind brush back her hair and tickle her ears. A storm was coming. Storms always made her nervous, as nervous as her mother. Helen was not as smart as Penelope or Clytemnestra but she still noticed the flinch Leda would give every time lightning lit up the sky. 

Helen drew her chiton around her legs, before kneeling upon the ground. She clasped her hands tightly together and squeezed her blue eyes shut.  As she prayed, the sky crackled with lightning. 

“Message?” 

When Helen’s head shot back up, she thought for a moment her perfect soul would leap out of her perfect body. She was skittish even around men she knew, but strange, unusual ones standing before her in the rain set her even more on edge. 

His hair was soft and blonde, not all that different from her own. It swept up like down feathers around his face, which was sharp and impish with eyes so light Helen could see no irises. She did not like how he eyed her, how his lips were stretched into a smirk as his arms were crossed over his chest. 

“Who…are you?” 

“I collect messages. You have one, Helen of Sparta?” He tilted his head to the side, as a bird would admire a gleaming object. 

“Oh, um…well, I was hoping that…” Helen thought back to the recesses of her mind, to the tutors who would sit in the middle of their room, trying to yell and gain the attention of the girls over Penelope and Clytemnestra kicking and play fighting on the floor. She did not remember much of what they said, but enough. “You are…I know you! You are Her-”

“Ah.” He held up a finger, “Let’s not speak of it, hemitheos . You’re lucky I came at all, but your call has been-” he stopped as he really looked at her, eyes narrowing like a falcon swooping for a fish. “You really are as they say, aren’t you?” 

Such words used to make her blush and turn away, giggling to Clytemnestra as she rolled her eyes at her. But they had no such effect anymore. She heard them too often. “I suppose. I wish…I wish for Penelope’s mother to arrive, to see her. Periboea, naiad of the sea.” 

“The only one who could make her do such a thing is the God King.” He chuckled at her words, shaking his head as though they were stupid, “Believe me. You could never make the divine do something they do not wish.” 

“Well, then tell my father to ask her.” Helen rarely thought of the Thunder Bringer as her father. It only flashed in her mind during the storms, as her mother’s face grew uneasy. Tyndareus was her father by the law, but the sheen of her soul was undeniably divine. 

The God gave her a look. “That is what you wish? Ask him ?” He chuckled again, light and airy like flight, though there was a bitterness chasing his words. “He has too many children to bow to all their requests, Helen of Sparta.” His empty voids of eyes inspected her again, and his feet carried him closer as though he rode the air. “No matter how lovely you are.” 

Helen swallowed the lump in her throat. Gods made her nervous. But her love for her cousin made her jaw set regally, her eyes train ahead in a way that made his brows furrow. “I am Helen of Sparta, and I ask him for nothing. I do not ask him to bend the clouds or come down to me himself. I ask, merely,” she forced herself to breathe, “that he speaks one word with Periboea, that she comes to the surface for merely an afternoon. That is my message.” 

She would have held his gaze for longer if it did not make her blood feel like it was boiling. Above, the storm crackled, and it made her chest seize. When Helen looked up, just barely, she caught his smile. 

“Then I shall carry it,” He said. His voice was back to its lightness. “Perhaps you carry more of him than we thought you did, Helen of Troy.” One of his hands rose up and brushed the soft high of her cheek like the kiss of the wind. “My father carries his own message for you…” his voice seemed to drop low and shaded like a thief speaking of spoils. “He really does find you to be quite…lovely. You do not escape his gaze. Even now.” His hand dropped to his side, and his strong jaw tilted up to the sky. “Afraid of storms, Helen?” 

She swallowed. Her skin seemed to prickle where a God had brushed her. His words had a hunger that did not seem to be his own, but merely just a message. A delivery from another. 

“Helen of…what did you call me?” She finally asked. Her brows furrowed. 

He laughed it off. 

“Ah…excuse me. I’ve been spending too much time with the Fates.” He shook his head again, as though to force the thoughts that resided in them away. 

“Goodnight, Helen.” He melted into the wind, as the howling of air took on his laugh. 

Helen never cared for Gods.

When she arrived back, Penelope's hair had already been combed, flowy as the current. She smiled when she saw her, though Clytemnestra groaned. “ Helen . You’re getting the floor wet.” 

“Sorry,” she smiled, apologetically as she went to discard the damp chiton. 

“You should be. Do you know how hard it is to comb out wet hair?” Clytemnestra sighed. “I hope it was worth it.” 

Helen’s heart still raced, but Penelope’s soft smile was enough. 

“Very worth it.” She nodded, her perfect hair of golden red shifting with her perfect head.

Chapter Text

Crack!

Boom!

Clytemnestra groaned, shoving her pillow over her head. With every crack of lightning or harsh boom of thunder, she heard a whimper from across the room. A pitiful, small little thing that, if it belonged to anyone else, would have caused her to shush them But no. She was the first hatched, expected to be the keeper of the nest.

Clytemnestra propped herself onto her elbows and peered into the inky darkness of the chambers she shared with her sister and cousin. “Helen? Helen!” She hissed a whisper, letting it drift through the night. Quiet enough to grasp her attention, but not loud enough to wake Penelope. Clytemnestra swore her cousin could hear a pin drop, even as she was fast asleep exploring the depths of her dreams.

She was only met with a pitiful whimper, a small assurance that Helen was “fine”. 

Clytemnestra knew better. 

Since their hatching, Helen had always glowed with a light Clytemnestra did not have. The nursemaid who scooped her up from the broken eggshells nearly dropped Helen upon seeing her. Not because she was some abomination of feather and flesh, but because even then, there was not a flaw upon her.  She was divine, if Tyndareus announced it as official before his people or not. And every sharp crash of thunder was a yell of her father. Thunder Bringer. 

 Clytemnestra sighed, shifting her arm to lift the sheets. “Come here, Helen.” It was softer than she usually spoke. Perhaps just out of fear of waking Penelope, or perhaps something else. Clytemnestra showed softness for very little. Where her mother was soft, Clytemnestra prided herself on being hard. Firm and resolute…but there was something, in seeing Helen’s discomfort. The instincts of a firstborn. 

 Clytemnestra watched the form of Helen, how it curled in on itself as it crept through the darkness. It slipped under the cotton, and Clytemnestra ducked her head underneath to be with her.

“Are you alright?” She asked. Her eyes had not yet adjusted to the darkness, so she saw only flashes of movement. The faint darkened shadow that was Helen, her shoulders tensed in a familiar silhouette. 

“I do not like the storm,” Helen confessed shakily. There were many things she disliked, as her leash was kept short. It had to be when she was perhaps the fairest woman to ever be. A slice of divinity gifted to the rest of the world. But being hidden behind walls made the world outside of them quite frightening. 

“I know…” Clytemnestra said slowly, “I do not either.” That was a lie. She said it in a sad attempt to make her feel better, but all it did was make another crash hit the Earth. Helen nearly lept out of her skin. She probably would have, if Clytemnestra’s hands hadn’t clamped onto her shoulders to ground her. “Breathe, Helen. Slowly.” 

“What if he is here for me?” Her whisper was panicked, uttered quickly from between trembling lips. Never had Clytemnestra seen her so frightened. Besides the time she had turned a corner and seen a diplomat speaking to her, inching closer until Clytemnestra informed him he was “well close enough”. Clytemnestra gaze could make men falter as much as her sister’s but for very different reasons. “For us? Like he did with mother?” She continued.

“He is not here for you,” Clytemnestra reassured slowly, though it was not a promise she could keep. The Thunder Bringer knew no bounds in that sense; he was King of Gods. He took what he wished. Their mother was evidence of that. “Helen, no one is coming to take you. It is just rain. Rain is important.” Clytemnestra’s eyes slowly focused, gazing upon the fear on Helen’s face.

“I asked him for a favor,” Helen confessed softly. Even though the shadows obscured the bright colors she bore, Clytemnestra saw her grow pale. “I asked him…to speak with Penelope’s mother, just to ensure she arrived to see her–”

Clytemnestra processed her words, hands still gripping her in case the Thunder Bringer did descend to snatch her away in a swirl of storm clouds. At that moment, Clytemnestra decided she would not allow it. 

“He kept his word,” Clytemnestra noted slowly. She still remembered Penelope breezing back in after their speaking, hair windswept, and the bottom of her chiton wet with the sea. “Did he ask for anything in return?” 

“...No,” Helen said slowly. Another crash sent her squealing, and Clytemnestra sighed as she patted the back of her head. 

“Then you are alright, Helen. Father says, remember? We are safe as long as we are together, aren’t we? And am I not here now?”

“You are….” Helen whispered. “Nessie?”

“Mhm?” Clytemnestra combed back Helen’s reddish hair. It was an action she had done a million times since childhood, though Helen’s hair always bounced back to their perfect, golden waves. 

“Have you ever asked him for anything? Our father?” 

Clytemnestra made a face at her words. 

“...Tyndareus is my father, Helen.” 

Helen’s perfect brow furrowed. 

“No,” she said slowly, “you are my sister. And I am a hemitheos. So you are too.” 

“No, Helen,” Clytemnestra sighed. She had never explained it to her sister, for she thought she just knew. It was wrong of her to assume. "You are divine; I am not.”

“No…” Helen reiterated, and she shook her head. “If I am divine, then you must be too. We are sisters.”

“It does not work like that, Helen.” Clytemnestra was unsure exactly how it worked, but it was not that. “Look at me. We are not the same.”

“Well of course not.” Helen frowned. “You look like mother, you are very beautiful!” 

Clytemnestra held back a laugh. She wondered again, for the hundredth time, if Helen’s beautiful head was filled with nothing but storm clouds. Her, calling Clytemnestra beautiful? She almost pointed out the irony of it, before the blanket shifted above them.

Once more Helen jumped like a startled cat. Clytemnestra wrapped her arms around her shoulders to steady her, as she gazed at Penelope’s drowsy face. 

“Hello, Penelope.”

“You are loud,” she groaned, sleep practically making her slur. “Why are you loud?” Her words were directed to Helen, her eyes narrowed in a sleepy glare. 

“Oh, sorry,” Helen smiled apologetically. She shifted aside, allowing room for Penelope to clamor inside with them. Her lanky limbs moved drowsily with sleep, before folding in her lap under the safety of the blanket. She yawned. 

“Why are we hiding?” She let her head slump onto Helen’s shoulder, eyes fluttering shut and open again as they tried to choose between sleep and consciousness. 

“Helen was being a baby,” Clytemnestra said. 

“I was not!” Helen yelled sharply. The lightning crashed again, making her squeal. 

“Point proven.” 

“Helen, don’t worry about the lightning. I would worry more about a towering wave crashing upon all of us–” Penelope yawned mid-existential tangent, “Sea King willing.”

“Or…” Clytemnestra allowed a smirk to stretch over her lips, “A terrible earthquake!” Her fingers lept to action, tickling relentlessly into Helen’s side as she shrieked with laughter. It was the only time she seemed imperfect in her composure.

“No! Stop! This is not–” Helen let out a snort of laughter, trying to slap away the hands, “Clytemnestra this is not funny!”

“Well, I find it funny.” Penelope rubbed her eyes with her wrist, leaning aside as though she wished not to be caught up in the torture of Helen of Sparta. 

The next strike of lightning that came, Helen did not flinch, nor cower. She laughed.

Chapter Text

“There are three principle responsibilities expected of us,” Asterodia, wife of King Icarius, raised three fingers. Her eyes shifted down the line of three girls that stood before her. Each either playing with her fingers or, in Helen’s case, gazing out the window. “Of course, these are not all the responsibilities we have; as queens, as women, or as wives and mothers. The true responsibilities we carry cannot be summed up entirely, but can be briefly summarized as such.” The wife of Icarius pointed a finger to the first on the line. “Clytemnstra, what is one of these principles?” 

“Keeping of home, Aunt.” Clytemnestra straightened upon being called upon. She held her strong jaw higher, regal as though to demonstrate her point. “If your King is away, you manage things in his absence. As is your duty to him, and your people.” 

“Very articulate,” Asterodia noted. She wagged a finger at her, and the Spartan Queen’s eyes seemed to sparkle. “Excellent, Clytemnestra.”

“Penelope.” She turned next to her stepdaughter, tilting her head slightly as she was addressed. There was no blood between Penelope and Asterodia, but it did not matter. The water was thicker, fortified by the constant presence Asterodia had in the princess’s life, for it was Asterodia who had taught her to speak, to walk, and to write careful Greek characters. “Another of these principles?” 

“Bearing children?” At her own words, Penelope’s nose wrinkled. Asterodia laughed. 

“You are correct in that, but your face betrays you.” She smiled, patting a hand on Penelope’s ivory cheek. “It disgusts you?” 

“Not disgust , just…” Penelope, in all her cleverness, looked for the right words. “It seems… gross .” 

“Oh, it is gross. I will not lie.” Asterodia smiled, “Even after they are born it is gross. Gross, gross, gross–” she flicked Penelope’s nose. Penelope snorted a laugh, almost a sharp quack as she jerked her face away. 

“ Quack ,” Clytemnstra mimicked. A smirk graced her face. 

“Stop! I do not sound like that!” Penelope’s head jerked back to glare at her. 

“ Quack .” 

“Clytemnstra!” 

“See? Raising children is very difficult.” Asterodia waved her hand between the two of them. “Now…Helen! What are you daydreaming of?” 

“Me? Nothing!” Helen insisted quickly. 

“You wish to be outside? Climbing the trees and scraping your knees, hm?” Asterodia moved on to her next. She planted her hands on her hips and raised an eyebrow as she looked at her. Helen couldn’t help but smile at her aunt, and for a moment marveled at just how different she was from her mother. Where Leda was softly spoken and still, Asterodia was bright and sure in every word she spoke. 

“Well…that does sound nice,” Helen said, smiling sheepishly. Asterodia clicked her tongue, shaking her head back and forth. 

“Another rule! Queens do not climb trees, nor scrape their knees upon the bark. No matter how much we wish to,” Asterodia said. 

“Being a Queen sounds dreadful…” Penelope murmured.

“Only if you allow it to be. Now, Helen, what is the third responsibility?” 

Helen thought for a moment, and the longer she thought the more Clytemnestra seemed to roll her eyes. 

“Um…weaving?” Helen asked. Clytemnstra snorted. 

“ Snort ,” Penelope mocked back.

“Shut up .”

“I was looking for loyalty. Though yes , weaving is very important. Mending clothes, sewing–” 

“If we are Queen’s why would we do that?” Clytemnestra scoffed. “That is servant work.”

“Oh, you think you’re above the loom, hm?” Asterodia swiftly turned her attention back to her. “Tell me this, Clytemnestra. What would your husband do without clothes to wear? He could not conduct his business, could not rule. What about your children? Your daughters? What of them? Children freeze without blankets at night, without cloaks on chill mornings.” She spread her arms, twirling in her chiton as though to demonstrate her point. “Such work is vital to the way we do things. As Queens. As mothers. As wives .”
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As Asterodia left them, they sat before their looms. Penelope’s fingers moved with practiced ease, allowing her clever mind to wonder. Helen, though not as practiced and perfect, made due. Her life was one inside walls, so she grew accustomed to such leisure activities. Clytemnestra barely made it past the first line of weaving before she was groaning. 

“This is foolish!” She threw her hands into the air. 

“I quite enjoy it,” Penelope said simply. 

“Oh, but will you like it when men and children are flocking to you; Oh! Mother fix my cloak! Oh, Mother my dress next! Wife where is my blanket ?!” Clytmnestra glared at Penelope’s profile. “It is all foolish .” 

“Could you not just tell them no?” Helen asked. However, she was too focused on the careful movements of her fingers to give the question much thought. 

“Do either of you even know how a marriage works?!” Clytemnestra scoffed. “It is all doing things for others, suffering through the birth of children, being quiet–” She upturned her nose at Penelope’s weaving, a design embedded with rich blue patterns and little ducks. “For the Gods’ sake, stop .”

“I enjoy it,” Penelope repeated. “...not the other parts, but the weaving part.” Her face had a glumness now, a reminder of all the terrible things that came with marriage. Penelope was too clever to ever be married.

“Perhaps we should run away into the woods?” Clytemnestra suggested bitterly. “Become maidens of Artemis?” 

“Maidens are good,” Penelope replied blankly. 

“Oh, the two of you!” Helen groaned. “It cannot be that bad! You have someone to look over you, a constant protector and confidant–” 

“We are that to you already, are we not?” Clytemnestra scoffed. “Any role a man may fill, we may do ourselves.”

“Oh, you are so glum, Clytemnestra.” Helen sighed. 

“I am afraid I agree…” Penelope stuck out the tip of her tongue as she concentrated. “I am firmly on the side of maiden.” 

“No! Penelope why?!” 

“A man will wish me to be not myself,” she shrugged her thin shoulders, “a man sees a woman’s cleverness as conniving.” 

“ Thank you!” Clytemnestra exclaimed. “See? Penelope is smart enough to get it, Helen.” 

Helen huffed. 

“I think you are both awfully cynical of things,” she remarked mopily. 

“It is called being strategic. Now, may we promise? Love will never claim us? I for one swear.”

“As do I,” Penelope said absentmindedly, grabbing another color of string. 

“Why, aren’t you just pure Penelope.”

“Well, I do not!” Helen frowned. “I imagine Hera to be quite disappointed with the two of you.” 

“I am sure she understands, Helen.” 

“Do you think I can fit another duck?” Penelope asked

“No!” Helen huffed. “Love is not something to plan, it just happens! You cannot control that!” 

“Watch me try,” Clytemnestra countered. 

“Hm…I bet I could fit another duck.” 

“What of all your servant boys, Clytemnestra?!” Helen insisted. “The ones you sneak out to see, even with the risk it carries you?”

“You think I love any of them?” Clytemnestra looked almost offended. “I am not stupid Helen. They are something to excite me.”

“That is very wrong…” Helen grumbled to herself. “Love is between a wife and her husband. It is how things go.” 

“ You , Helen. Are painfully inexperienced, and naive in all things.” Clytmnestra rolled her eyes. 

“Can we not just weave ?!” Penelope finally snapped. She looked away from her ducks, her dark eyes narrowing. “ Please . I can’t let my mind wander when you bicker.” Penelope was used to their actions, the arguing of sisters. She knew the only way to prevent them from fighting one another, was to direct them to something else. 

“Oh, that was unneeded Penelope,” Helen pouted. 

“Oh, quiet! ” Clytemnestra insisted.

Chapter Text

Time between a girl and her father was not a sure, promised thing. It was something to be earned, something to be deserving of. Something that, when presented before you, was meant to be treasured. Of all the things a great king of Sparta could be doing, he chooses to acknowledge you ! How very lucky you are!

Penelope never had such a problem. She had much the opposite of it. 

There were times she wished her father would not acknowledge her. That he would let her slip by; unnoticed, uncared, unseen. That she would not summon his gaze with every movement, with every time she entered a room. But that was not Penelope’s reality. Rather, Penelope often imagined her father as a shroud placed over her. Suffocating. Sometimes offering warmth and reassurance, but mostly just smothering. 

There were, however, benefits to such a thing. Like being able to sit among the nobles of Sparta as they counseled. She enjoyed the political talk. The strategy . Where Helen would never be allowed, and Clytmnestra would never wish to go, Penelope found herself enjoying it. She sat at her father’s side, plucking a rather out-of-tune lyre in a lame excuse of absentminded melody. She was far more concerned with listening.

“ Never will we trade with them, not until misdemeanors payout in apologies—” 

“And what to do with Myncenae? King Arterus has fallen. Another has risen in his place, but our peace with them may change with the ruling hand—”

“And in Athens, The Prince grows bolder, believes himself to be—” 

“ Enough,” Icarius spoke with a sort of exhaustion, waving his hand at the rest of them. He was coldly intelligent as ever, acting as though hearing such things was boring to him. “They will apologize if they wish to reap what Sparta sows. As for Myncenae, we have no reason to poke a sleeping beast. Especially when their line is ripe with traitors and incestuous murderers. Leave them be. And why would we care for Athens, when we are Sparta ?” He was one of two Spartan kings, and at his words, the councilmen nodded amongst themselves. As though to say “ Yes, yes very wise .”

“Training of the latest boys finished a moon phase ago. If any were to try, they would feel Sparta’s might.” An Ephor stood, a man of council, and addressed the King with a face like stone. Epiphanes, Penelope recognized him as. A military man. Strong-faced, with neatly cropped hair and a substantial enough height that she needed to tilt her head back to look at him. 

“ One must ask which is more powerful, might or unbridled Myncenaian madness, ” Penelope murmured to herself, plucking an extra heinous out-of-tune string. Icarius’ head snapped to her, and in an instant, the cold had melted from his face. 

“Yes, Penelope?” He asked it with all the attention he usually owed her. “Do you need anything?” 

His words were so quick, that they brought the gaze of others. Men of council, trusted men like Epiphanes. She quickly shook her head no, as to banish their eyes. 

“Hm.” Icarius gave her a once-over before he allowed his eyes to be torn away. He rose a hand to absentmindedly pat the back of her head, like a loyal dog sitting at his feet beneath the table. That is at least how the other men in the room viewed her. Penelope knew it. She could tell just by gazing upon their skeptical faces. Any other woman in such a setting was unacceptable, and it was only through him she was granted such an invitation. 

“ Well ?” Icarius snapped at them as their gazes lingered upon her too long, his words sharp and cold. It was enough to send their eyes scuttering away, like staring at Penelope was equivalent to staring into Helios’ rays. Though it was Epiphanes, the military man, whose gaze remained longer than the others. A lingering that did not go unnoticed by Penelope.
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“Allow me to escort you back to your quarters, Princess.” It was Epiphanes who asked after the council was done.  

“That isn’t necessary,” Penelope assured. She put on the cordial air any princess must have when dealing with people, even as she felt Icarius’ glare on the back of her head. Cordial . 

The military man frowned for a moment, and it seemed odd on such a face of stone. However, he quickly regained himself and took another stab at his offer, as though taking another swing with his sword. 

“Please, I insist. As a man, and your guest. I must escort you to where you must go.”

“ Is that a rule of Xenia ?” Penelope asked. She knew it wasn’t, she was versed well on the rules of hospitality. “I could have sworn it was the host who escorted the guest…though perhaps I am mistaken.” it was a familiar caveat she added at the end of every sentence she spoke. Even a shred of cleverness needed to be accompanied by words of “ or so I assume. Perhaps I am wrong. So I heard from someone else—”

“Well…escorting you would merely be my pleasure, then.” 

Ah, a tricky corner to be in. To reject such an innocent request may be seen as rudeness, but on the other hand, the walk to the quarters she shared with her cousins from here would be a long and probably awkward one. And frankly, Penelope didn’t want to. 

“...Very well, thank you.” Penelope tried not to sigh in response. Wanted to do, and had to do, where two concepts that rarely converged. She thought briefly, for a moment, that her father would march over and put an end to it. He looked ready too, if he were not caught in conversation with another Ephor who seemed very intent on holding his attention. 

“Of course, the honor is mine.” He bowed his head, before glancing to the doors, “...shall we?” 

“We shall.”

Cordial .
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It was about as awkward as Penelope predicted, which was not a surprise to her. She was usually right about such things. Epiphanes looked ahead as any soldier would, and when she glanced at him all she could see was his profile. A strong nose like a steep hill, and a full curly beard. Pollux and Castor often bet with each other who would grow a beard upon their face first, and so far both had failed. Their peach fuzz was only further put to shame by this man’s face.

“I notice you…often,” he said. Rather ineptly. For a moment, Penelope considered sprinting down the hall. She was always a strong runner. Her father Icarius had been a strong runner. She could outpace him, couldn’t she? Especially after hearing something like that . She had been around Helen enough to know when men began speaking like that —

Instead, all she said was; “...oh.”

He grimaced. 

“I did not… mean it like—...” He forced himself quiet a moment, as though to reassess and regroup. “What I meant is, I notice you at our councils. Often.” 

She could tell he tried to play it off, and for the sake of the rest of the walk, she let him. 

“My father invites me. He enjoys the company,” she explained simply. Penelope looked ahead as she walked, focusing on keeping her feet straight. Clytmnestra often teased her about “ walking like a duck .”

“Ah…that makes sense.” 

The way he said it, she knew he did not really understand it. He still found it strange that she would ever be interested in such a thing. He was a simple man, she knew just by looking at him. Everything he said was just that. Simple, truthful. There was no digging that had to be done. Penelope was quite fond of the digging. 

“And Helen is your cousin?” After an exceptionally long pause, he asked, “Is she truly the most beautiful woman in the world?” 

Another question Penelope found mind-numbingly boring. Whispers of Helen’s looks had seeped out of the palace years ago, leading to rumor upon rumor. Penelope heard whispers painting her cousin in a million different ways: a dainty Spartan flower, a cunning enchantress, a huntress bearing arms and boxing in the woods. 

“I never noticed,” she said blankly. She glanced around the hall. “She is just my cousin.”

“Well…if she is, I suppose beauty runs deep in your family,” he offered–another stab at that metaphorical training dummy of conversation. 

“Uh-huh…” Penelope nodded along, though she turned to look out the windows as she passed them. Perhaps she’d race Helen and Clytmnestra up trees later. Or study more of the poems she liked to collect. Or weave. She did enjoy weaving–

“Princess Penelope?”

“Mhm?” 

“Has your father spoken of…have you been approached by any suitors, yet?”

Her head snapped back to him and she could not speak for a moment. If not already in such steady motion, her legs would have probably clammed up so much they’d root her to the floor. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, just barely, and upon seeing her face his mouth opened once more. 

“I know it is inappropriate to ask, forgive me, I just—...was curious , as to if he had spoken to anyone on the matter—”

He tried to rationalize it quickly, but he could not hide what he was. Everything he said was a simple truth, with a simple meeting. Penelope got the message clearly. Please, let him not try. Let him not even consider it — she pleaded, though to who exactly she was not sure. Hera, Goddess of Woman and Marriage? Perhaps Aphrodite, Goddess of Love who too understood what it was like to be tied to such a man? Maybe even Athena, in all her wisdom? Penelope would take any of the Olympic Pathion. 

“He has not.” She answered, and she let her silence speak the rest. And he does not intend to . Her father never would. For a moment, she thought back to Clytmnestra’s promise, her idea. Becoming a Maiden of the Moon did not sound so bad, if it meant avoiding such things.

Penelope had never been more relieved to see her door in her life. Her pale hands reached impatiently for the handle, and he finally turned to look at her fully. There was something almost odd upon his face, perhaps a shred of determination. By the Gods, get rid of it .

“I see…well, thank you, Princess.” He bowed his head, the image of chivalry. Penelope hurried behind her door. 

“Yes, yes, of course, thank you—” The second the words left her, she shut it behind her. 

Penelope slumped her weight against the door, dropped all her cordiality and promptness, and sighed. Please, let that be the end of it. Her hair hung over her eyes, dark and limp like seaweed as she brought her hands firmly together. Not him. Not Epiphanes, a military man of Sparta. She knew just by the way he looked at her. When she attended Spartan council, thought of ideas of her own. There was not a bone in him that understood her. 

Hoot !

Her eyes shot up, wide as they were drawn to the window. In the middle of daylight, perched upon a branch, a pair of yellow eyes stared back at her. The owl’s pupils were dilated, its gaze sharp and quick. As they locked eyes, it felt like an eternity. But all too soon, it was over. The leaves rustled as it flew away, leaving the space it had resided empty. But Penelope did not feel empty, she felt…it was impossible to say. She felt as though the prayers had been plucked from her head, taken as currency like a coin.
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“Quiet– Quiet ! All of you!” Tyndareus’ voice was enough to make the men of his shared kingdom fall groveling to their knees. Yet even as he yelled the four of them kept arguing. His time was a precious commodity. He was, after all, a King of Sparta. Of all the things a great king of Sparta could be doing, he was trapped between his four bickering children, watching them arguing like they were children.

“You wretched beast !” Pollux shrieked. His voice had yet to grow low and still cracked as it hit its octaves. Like lightning, but without the boom of thunder. “Father you see? You see what you have raised?!” 

“At least my balls will drop before yours, Pollux.” Clytmnestra smiled as she spoke, though her eyes were narrowed thin. She always liked to poke the easily upset bear of Pollux and his precious, demigod manhood. 

Helen all but winced as her perfect ears were screamed into, and she slumped in her seat as though to avoid the roar. Castor sat still as a statue, calm where Pollux was loud. 

“Shut up! SHUT UP ! I insist she apologizes to me! She defiled my honor in front of the men of this palace. If you were not my sister I would—”

“Would what ? You embarrass yourself enough. I needn’t do much, Polly .” 

Castor, still stone-faced like a sculpture of marble, slipped his hands over Helen’s perfect ears. She was quite grateful for her brother at that moment. 

“ ENOUGH !” Tyndareus roared. Like the Father of Gods himself, reining in his often angry and vengeful offspring. “You demand justice for things you do not even explain. Speak, Pollux. Not yell . Speak , if our Clytmnestra has damaged you so.” 

“She embarrasses me. Refuses to show respect, to bow to me before the men as I train.” Every word was practically spit out from between a sharp clenching of his jaw, and a gnashing of teeth. 

“Why should I? I am your older sister,” Clytmnestra countered. “I believe it was you who left the shell last, wasn’t it?” 

“It doesn’t matter !” Pollux roared. He slammed his fist into the table before him, and it shook like lightning striking the Earth. His eyes shined far brighter at that moment, the most blazing of blue. “I am your brother ! You are a woman! Your place is below me.”

Clytmnestra went to reply, to fire back with her own venom. Her father’s look stopped it. It was a look she was painfully familiar with, the; “ You are older. You should know better .”

“You’d say that to Helen?” She spoke it between grit teeth. His face screwed up, offended, almost. He cared for Helen far more than he did for her. With Helen he shared his half of divinity, with Castor he shared the tight embrace of brotherhood. But with Clytmnestra? All they shared was bullheadedness. A determination so sharp and rough it landed them here, before their father and King. 

“Helen knows her place,” he snarled. “As does Penelope, as odd as she is. They can adhere to their status.” 

“You dishonor him, Clytmnestra. Apologize.” 

Gods, sometimes Clytmnestra did not know who she wanted to strangle more. Pollux smirked, his handsome, godly face set in smugness so vile Clytmesntra wanted to claw it off. Her father’s face was grim, which was almost worse. “ You are mine, but you know what must be done to keep peace” , that grim face seemed to say. “ You are older. You know better .”

For once, Clytmenstra wished she did not know better. 

“I am sorry my actions are so damaging to you,” she griped. It was laced with bad temper, but that did not matter to Pollux. “ I am sorry” is all he wished to hear. 

“Yes, you are sorry aren’t you?” He asked. If Helen and Castor did not sit between them, she would most definitely strangle him. Tyndareus shook his head, almost as though he could hear her thoughts. A silent acknowledgment of her wishes, and a dismissal of them. For she was the eldest. The first hatched. And that meant being cordial, being the one to bow her head in apology. How very lucky she was.
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“So, what did you speak of?” Icarius asked over dinner. Penelope slumped in her chair. 

“Nothing,” she replied promptly, voice laced with cordiality.

“ Liar !” The cleverest King of Sparta hissed.

“Stop glaring at your brother,” The other King murmured back, his voice low and warning.

“Is that what I’m doing?” Clytmnestra asked in her feigned innocence, head tilted to the side. Her voice was sharp like Tyndareus’s could be, like the edge of a blade. 

“ Clytmnestra,” he returned it with his low demand, a silent question of “ You dare, child ?”

“I am not lying ,” Penelope inisisted. 

“If not, then just tell me. That should not be hard.” King Icarius ripped off a hunk of bread but did not eat. His eyes stayed trained on his daughter, not even daring to blink. “ You dare, child ?”

“What, I am not allowed to look in Pollux’s direction? He is my dear, little brother.” 

“I am not little to anyone!” Pollux began to rise from his chair, but Castor extended a silent arm across his chest to bar him. Helen was intent on staring into her broth, as though she was an Oracle and it fed her prophecies.

“All he did was look at me. We spoke of nothing.” 

“ Lies . I know what resides in the mind of a young man, now I insist you speak truth to me. Now .” King Icarius reached blindly for his wine goblet. His knuckles knocked into it and sent a sea of red spilling across the table. He did not seem to notice.“ Penelope .” His eye had the hint of a twitch.

“ Icarius ! Watch your damned limbs!” Tyndareus cursed his brother, rising harshly to his feet as wine dripped into his lap. “Gods damned idiot fool–!” 

Servants scrambled around in a frenzy, reaching for napkins and rags. 

“Fuck off,” Clytemnestra hissed once the noise could cover her voice. Pollux’s face began to turn purple in his rage, like an angry grape. 

“What?” Penelope asked, reaching for her own napkin. “Here, Uncle, let me–”

“I demand you tell me the truth! Men wish for one disgusting thing, and you fell for it didn’t you? I raised you to be smarter than to fall for the charms of a man . What have you done with him?!” 

“ Nothing !” Penelope finally snapped, slamming the napkin into the table. “Why can you not just listen to me?!” 

“ I am going to kill you ,” Pollux hissed between narrowed teeth. 

“ Not if I do it first ,” Clytmnestra snarled back. 

“ King Tyndareus, let me, let me –” 

Servants scrambled to clean him, all but one. She stood back, wine pitcher still gripped in her hand, and she chuckled. Fathers and daughters made Eris’ job easy. She barely needed to do anything. Merely sit back and enjoy the strife, the arguing. How lucky she was. 

Chapter Text

If Hera could rid the entirety of the world of her husband’s spawn, by the Gods she would. And by the Gods, did she try .

“A SWAN ?!” She had screamed, sending Olympic plates whizzing through the Hall of the Gods, crashing against ethereal walls, and breaking into ethereal pieces. “HE FUCKED HER AS A SWAN?!” Yes . And so Zeus’s newest bastards joined the world. 

It was not Pollux who bothered her. Pollux was like every other Olympian bastard. Prideful and brash, loud as though he owned the heavens and the skies. No. It was the other. That red-haired stain upon the Earth that boiled her ichor. For she was not just any daughter of Zeus, no. The Most Beautiful Woman in the World , they called Helen of Sparta. Would they find her so beautiful , Hera wondered, if she yanked out her golden red hair and burnt out her eyes? 

Probably not.

If Hera had it her way, she would have descended to the planes of man and smashed those damn eggs herself. Ended it before it had begun. But no . Killing bastards directly resulted in the whining of her husband. 

"YOU NEVER LET ME HAVE ANYTHING !” He’d thunder, sending lightning to strike the Earth. And Hera could not have such a thing, for as much as she wished to stick his master bolt through his godly head, she was a Goddess of Marriage . And the basis of marriage was the happiness of a husband. So she would not kill the bastards. She would not touch them. Not directly. 

So she watched from above, observed the days of Spartan Princesses without much to do. She watched Helen grow, from a perfect babe to a perfect girl. Her hair grew long, shining effortlessly even when the sun did not filter across her perfect face. Her eyes were blue like the sky, her face soft as the clouds. She was a slice of the divine stuffed into the soul of a mortal. 

And what did she do with it? Not a thing. 

It was what infuriated Hera the most. Children of Gods were meant to be ambitious, reaching earnestly to the stars with cries of “ Me! Me! When is it my turn?!” But Helen never had such ambitions. She never dreamed of being one of the Queens who called Hera their Patron, she never dreamed of any lofty goals or accomplishments as Pollux did. No. Hera’s husband had given to her the gifts of the Gods, and Helen of Sparta hadn’t the faintest thought to use them. She was content, content with this . 

Hera watched, mingling with wind, shielded by mist. Helen, the most beautiful girl in the world, laughed as her perfect hands reached up for branches. They took her higher and higher, up and up towards a heavens she had never wished to touch. 

“Helen! Careful !” From below called the other. This was one Hera enjoyed. Her eyes were sharp, her voice firm and commanding. Clytemnestra was different, so very different. Hera knew the ways in which she dreamed. Power excited her, and her potential to take it—

Zeus may have Helen all he liked, but Clytemnestra belonged to the Goddess of Queens.

“I am being careful!” Helen called down, “Besides, Penelope got up there just fine! If she can do it—” she reached again, legs kicking as she tugged herself up, “--as can I!” 

On top of the olive tree sat Penelope, her lanky limbs gripped tightly onto the upmost branch. Others could not hear her whisper, but Hera could. She heard the constant chorus of “ don’t look down, don’t look down, don’t look –” 

Hera had yet to know what to make of the daughter of Icarius. When a male God, like her husband, made babes with human women it was a source of celebration. 

“Congratulations! The making of another great hero! ”

But Penelope was much the opposite. A child of a mortal man and Goddess was not celebrated. They were a source of disgust and sorrow. A Goddess stuping as low as to carry a mortal’s babe?…well, it was disgusting. But Hera was Goddess of Women, and there was a gleam in those eyes that she could never deny. A sort of cleverness about her that made a smile grace Hera’s face.

Penelope belonged to the Goddess of Queens. 

Helen climbed higher and higher, the wind sending her red hair curling up and around her face. Her perfect, flawless face. Set in determination. A determination she gave to nothing else. Helen, ambitionless, tactless Helen, whose eyes were the same shade as her husband’s domain–

Hera’s jaw set, and with a sweep of a godly hand, a bird swooped upon her. Helen shrieked, her hands losing their tight grip. 

“ HELEN !” Clytemnestra screamed, and she was already beginning to climb up. Penelope scrambled down, nearly losing her footing in her haste. 

She fell, and for a moment Hera had an inkling of regret. But it dissipated, gone with the wind as just discreetly, a branch shifted. It caught Helen under the knees, giving her a chance to wrap her perfect arms around the harsh bark. Her chest heaved in panicked breathing, her eyes were even wider now. 

“So that is how things will be?” Hera mused. 

“HELEN ! Get down here this minute!” Clytemnestra screamed, in her roar that could cause castles to befall her. Penelope, lanky with all knobbed knees and bony elbows, dropped onto the branch above Helen. She peered down at her, face twisted in worry. 

“You are alright? Helen?” She asked quickly, and all the poor Helen of Sparta could do was nod. 

Hera, shielded by mist, glared at the tree. 

“So that is how it will be.” She confirmed to herself. Very well. 

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“Just how far will you go ?” Hera murmured. She was met with no answer. Not that she expected one. 

She melted into darkness, sneaking through the Spartan palace into the circle bedroom of its princesses. Her favorites lay on the floor, hair pooled around their heads as they spoke of all the things young maidens spoke of. 

“If Pollux looks at me again, he is going to fucking die,” Clytemnestra swore.

“You must be careful. I’d choose poison over axe murder,” Penelope replied dully. 

“Very clever,” Clytemnestra mused, resting her thumb on her chin in deep thought. 

“This is why you are my favorite ,” Hera murmured into the night. A woman with ambition was her favorite kind because it was the kind her husband reviled . 

“Oh, the two of you.” Helen sighed and reclined back on her bed as she combed through her hair with her fingers. “He is our brother, Clytemnestra.” 

“He’s an ass,” Clytemnestra glared, “and your brother…” she murmured, an afterthought.

“Pollux is just…” Helen searched to justify him and Hera’s eyes, purely white without pupil nor colorful iris, somehow rolled. “He is eager in his ambitions. That is all. He is just prideful!” She nodded her head firmly. 

“Oh, he is certainly prideful.” Clytemnestra glared at the ceiling, her thin brows furrowing. 

“You can be prideful too,” Helen pointed out, untangling her fingers from her hair to wag them in Clytemnestra’s direction. 

“Do I not have a right to be prideful?” Clytemnestra countered. “You are not the only fair one here. I think we may all agree we are all equally as beautiful.” 

At that, Helen laughed. Not unkindly, more of a hearty, joking giggle as Clytemnestra sent her voice into a sweeping aoidos- like timbre of sarcasm. She did not lie, Hera noted. She could see the beauty in every woman. Clytemnestra looked much like that girl whom her husband had descended on as a bird. Slightly taller than Helen, with hair thick and curled, and eyes dark and hooded. Her features were sharp, however, much like the mortal man who reared her. 

Penelope looked like most water nymphs Hera had seen sneaking down from Olympus, after spending the night in the arms of her husband. She was pale like a pearl, with long hair dark like undercurrent, and wide eyes. She was lankier than them, however. Far taller. Her elbows and knees were bony and sharp, everything about her tenuous and wiry. Her limbs, awkward and long, seemed to lay unsure of themselves. It matched her face, perpetually in thought, and a little worried. 

“Do not be mean! I think you are both beautiful.” Helen giggled. 

“That is sweet, Helen,” Penelope replied, though her voice was filled with the highs and lows of sarcasm. For once, Hera agreed with Helen. When she looked over the two of them, she saw the making of two beautiful, intelligent Queens…and then there was Helen , of course. 

Helen went to say something in turn, and Clytemnestra quipped back and occasionally Penelope would insert her own snippets of banter, but Hera stopped listening. She crept closer, mist swirling around her skirt and clinging to its scalloped edge. 

“Let us push the limits, shall we ?” She murmured, to no one in particular. She curled her divine fingers, stretched, and formed from the air a snake. She let it slip down from her hands, slithering and curling into the sleek bedding upon Helen’s mattress.

“I am serious!” Helen glared between the two of them. “Just because I look like… this , does not mean I cannot find the two of you pretty. You are my cousin, and you are my sister, and I think many a Greek man would find you both plenty lovely.” 

Clytemnestra gagged. 

“I am serious!” Helen whined. The snake disappeared within the sheets, its body moving in slithering silence. 

“Gods , never say anything like that to me again–” Clytemnestra retched, as though the words made her ill . “ Never would I wish that on anyone –”

“Just take a compliment!” Helen huffed.

“I will, just not that one!”

Hera could see upon her face as she felt it, bumpy skin against her perfect leg. She shrieked. 

“Hydros! Hydros !” 

She scrambled, her usual grace seemingly leaving her body for a moment as she fumbled from the bed. Water snake, water snake, water snake !

Hm . Hera almost tsked. When she sent such snakes to Heracles, he had strangled them with his bare hands. Helen merely screamed. How dull. 

Clytemnstra fumbled for her, grabbed Helen’s shoulders, and tugged her back with all the protectiveness of a mother bird. 

“Nono, you are all right–” She assured quickly, a frantic hand rising to stroke Helen’s head as her eyes narrowed at the covers. They shifted gently with the movement as the snake wriggled underneath. The dramatics of it all! A bite from it probably wouldn’t have even killed her…probably. 

Penelope rose carefully to her feet, hair shifting over her shoulder as she made her way over. She wrung her pale hands, leaning forward on her toes to peer at the covers carefully.

“Penelope ! Are you mad? Get away from that thing, let me call for Pollux–” Clytemnestra insisted, though Hera caught that little glint in her eyes. She wished it to bite him instead, clever young Queenlet. Even such a thought elevated her in Hera’s eyes. 

“He probably just misses the ocean…” Penelope glanced over her shoulder briefly. Her clever fingers unfolded themselves and with one quick motion dove under the covers. Clytemnestra tensed, and Helen gasped. 

“Penelope?! Do you wish to die ?!” Clytemnestra yelled. 

“Not particularly,” she said simply as she drew out the wriggling little beast. 

“Oh! Ew, ew, ew, ew–” Helen groaned, hiding her face in the familiar curve of Clytemnestra's shoulder. “Penelope! Take it away. Away! ”

If Hera thought it a threat to her second favorite of the Spartan princesses, she would have calmed the snake. But it appeared Penelope was doing just fine. It hissed, trying to curve down its head to bite her, but Penelope gripped it tightly. 

“Do not hiss at me. If Pollux had gotten you, you would be dead.” She held it a ways from her face and glared. “Be grateful.” 

Hera did not even need to calm it, for as the oceanid daughter spoke it shut its eager mouth. 

“Thank you,” Penelope said firmly. “I will take him outside to the water, where he belongs.” 

“Gods of–” Clytemnestra sucked in a breath, though continued to glare as Penelope walked to the door. “ Never do that again, ever. Do you understand me?! I don’t want Uncle Icarius to kill me !” 

“Be grateful!” Penelope called over her shoulder.

So, the Gods were not the only ones who were devoted to protecting Helen, so it seemed.
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Why ? 

It is what Hera pondered. Her husband had only ever stuck his neck out for children destined to be gods . But Helen ? Never would she see Olympus. Not as Hera breathed. Not as she lived, imortally, forever. So what was it exactly, that made her so attended to, by Gods, by mortals ?

Helen sat in candlelight, at Leda’s side. Leda, with skin fair and bright and hair dark as obsidian, with her neck long and slender as a swan’s. She had changed much from when Hera last remembered her when she was just that scared young girl with swan feathers still sticking from her hair. Now, she sat as a Queen of Sparta, threading beads along a string. 

“I feel such senses of dread all the time,” Helen murmured. Her head lay in her mother’s lap, hair shining like the Fates’ thread. 

“I know,” Leda murmured. Her voice, once shrill, was now low and melodic like lyre melody. Her eyes stay cast on her work. One hand slid another bead along the string as she soothed Helen’s hair with the other.

“Will I always feel like this?” 

“It is Fate. It hangs on you.” Leda glanced down at her briefly. “On all of us, but on some it hangs heavier.” 

“Why ?” Helen murmured. And Hera had much the same question. Leda smiled, just faintly. But it was not joyful. It was saddened. Hera saw her, as she saw every woman. Every Queen. Herself. 

“Because you are Helen of Sparta,” she replied softly, “and you are special.” 

“I do not want to be.” 

“Neither did I.” Leda smoothed her hair. “Run along, Helen. It is late. You must sleep.” 

Helen took a moment before she rose. She dusted off her sleeping chiton, and before she whisked away into the night she leaned down to kiss her mother’s cheek. 

“I love you, mother. ”

“I love you, dear.”

When she left, Leda’s gaze finally shifted. 

“Lady Hera,” She said. Her voice was soft, yet it was not the softness Zeus craved in a woman. For it was not a weak soft. Merely gentle. 

Hera dispersed the mist. No mortal could ever see her in her true form, it would boil their blood and explode their eyes from their head. Yet she offered what she could. 

“Queen Leda.” 

“You have tried to kill my daughter, haven’t you?” Her gaze turned back to her beads, as she guided more along the string. 

“It didn’t work,” Hera replied. There was almost a hint of bitterness there. 

“You may hate me, but do not hate Helen.” She spoke as though she was not speaking to a Goddess. She was respectful, yes, but not worshipping. She spoke as though Hera was merely someone older, wiser. Someone who understood. 

“I have never hated you, Leda.” It was the truth. How could she ever blame the girl, young and gentle, when the injured bird flew to her? Had the same not been Hera’s fate? “It is her. It is them. It is all they represent.” She could never punish him, but them ? She could punish them.

“She is his child. But…” she spoke slower now, her words chosen as carefully as her next bead. “That is the least important of things that she is. She is gentle, she is kind, she is my Helen…” She slipped the bead onto the string. “You love the fierce ones because they fight back against those who seek to hurt them. You love the clever ones because they can free themselves of anything. But the gentle ones, are they not owed your love equally in turn? Is that not how fierceness is made? By a gentle soul being broken?” 

For a moment, Hera did not speak. The sound of wooden beads knocking against each other was the only thing that graced the room. That, and the swirling winds from outside. A storm. 

“Please. Fate clings to her. And I am not enough,” Leda spoke once more. “She needs you.”

She needs you . For was she not a future Queen? A woman? 

“...Very well. Helen of Sparta belongs to the Goddess of Queens.” 

Hera melted away, once more swallowed by mist. Leda added yet another bead. 

Chapter Text

The first rule of being a King: your family was to be large. You were to have as many children as you could. And if you and your lovely Queen could not? Then it was her fault! Time for a second wife, and a third, until your halls were filled to their brim with heirs upon heirs upon heirs.

With two kings of Sparta, twice as many heirs were mulling about the palace.

Of course, it began with the godly offspring of Tyndareus. How lucky he was. Lovely, heavenly Helen. Fierce and spunky Pollux. And the…mortal two, plain yet fiery Clytemnestra and plain yet firm Castor. 

On Icarius' side, there was the, to a far lesser extent, minutely divine Penelope. His blessing from the heavens, so he loved to boast. His dear Penelope. The same one he had nearly killed upon throwing her down, down, down the rocky cliffs of Sparta when she was merely a babe. But that was in the past! All forgotten! All forgiven! She was his darling. That sweet, awkward little duckling of his he would sacrifice for nothing . A life of pampering was sure to make up for one measly murder attempt.

One would think that would be enough. Tyndareus, the lucky man, got 4 for the price of 2 simple eggs. And Icarius? His attention was destined to be solely focused on that precious little nymphling he kept around out of guilt. But, of course, societal expectations and pressure and such meant that it would never be enough. 

So more followed.

After the miraculous laying of swan eggs came the three youngest (and far less significant) daughters of Tyndareus: fussy little Timandra with ruffled hair-like feathers, curious little Phoebe who always loved weaving around your ankles as you walked, and that disinterested little Philone. 

"Bah! Daughters, daughters, daughters. You drown in them, Tyndareus. Thank the Gods for Castor and Pollux, or else you’d have to cut the girls’ pretty hair and call them boys!” An Athenian diplomat had laughed over a chalice of wine, practically drowning in his drunken jests. Tyndareus had not invited him back. 

The house of Icarius had far better odds. Perhaps because, quite simply, he preferred to grow his house at an…exponential rate. First, there was Penelope, followed quickly by Perilaos, stern and serious in seemingly every intellectual thing he did. Then the painfully awkward middle children of Thoon, Laodice, Amasichus, Imeusimus, Elatus, and Aletes. Each as forgettable in his mind as the last, as most middle children were. Then finally there were his younger children, the babes he and Asterodia had made. Each tanned little fleshy bundles with unruly dark hair, and one curiously pale one named Iphthime. Iphthime, with her oddly pointed ears and smell of salt water like her eldest sister, who liked to run down the halls at the full extent of her speed and slam her fists into Penelope’s door. Then, as per the game, Clytemnestra would throw open the door with cries of “Can you NOT ?!”

Penelope did not ask about Iphthime, but she noticed. Noticed how she looked nothing like Asterodia. Noticed her pearly skin and mischievous, divine little eyes, and how the day she had arrived the ocean had been at high tide. And she noticed the guilt on Icarius' face as he held her the first time, and how he seemed to have trouble meeting Asterodia’s gaze. She noticed. 

It was just the way of Kings. Children by anyone who would bear them…it made the idea of one day doing it themselves even less appealing. 

“Come along! All of you, all of you. Fall in line .” Clytemnestra spoke with all the prestige and firmness of a Spartan military man, training young Spartan boys to perfection. Instead of gangly young warrior hopefuls, however, Clytemnestra glowered at the royal children of Sparta. “I expect all of you to keep up, and no one to run off, or so help me—” 

“I believe they get it,” Penelope patted her forearm gently. 

“Where are we going again?” Helen asked absentmindedly. She held Phoebe up in her arms, fixing the flowers she had slid carefully into her braids. “You are so adorable, Phoebe!” 

“You think I am pretty?” Her tiny face lit up, her little legs starting to kick. “Helen thinks I’m pretty!!!”

“She said adorable,” Philone corrected. Instead of flowers, leaves and little sticks clung to her thick hair, like she’d rolled around outside. Which, she probably had.

“We are going down along the shore,” Clytemnestra explained once more, her voice firm. “Until you run yourselves silly and stop terrorizing the castle. Do you understand?” 

“I’ve never ter-....terr…–” Iphthime, from her spot awkwardly clinging onto Penelope’s back, frowned. 

“Terrorized ,” Penelope said slowly. 

“I know how to say it!”

“Why? The water is too cold to swim anyway,” Pollux rolled his eyes. Timandra sat perched on his knee like an awkward little swan. 

“Because I said we would.” Clytemnestra glared. 

“Hardly a reason to do anything,” Pollux countered. 

“It is too cold,” Penelope’s brother, Perilaos said. He had no older brothers, so chasing the affection and approval of his older cousins had become his pastime. 

“I think it will be fun!” Helen smiled, radiant like precious gemstones. Pollux groaned, but was far too weak to deny Helen anything. Most were. He grumbled, shoving Timandra into Castor’s arms as he rose to his feet. 

“Hm. Good. Your ears still work.” Clytemnestra said shortly. “To the shore, then!” She marched them off, much like the generals of Sparta going about their rounds. Pollux glowered at her for it. 

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“When the tide falls, and you look within the nooks and crannies of the rocks, you can find all sorts of creatures.” Penelope lifted her skirt, navigating the slick rocks with the ease of a nymph-daughter. Iphthime clung to her back, a small arm wrapped rather uncomfortably around Penelope’s neck as she peered out over the sea. Philone trotted behind, squinting at the horizon. 

“See?” Penelope crouched down on the rock, peering down into the clear, rippling tidepools that still smelled of seaweed. “It’s a starfish.” 

“Woah!!!” Iphthime leaned over Penelope’s shoulder, her eyes lighting up in pure wonder. “How did a star get all the way down here?” 

“It is a star fish,” Philone said matter of factly. “Not a real star.” 

“Well,” Penelope carefully dunked her hand into the chill water, “perhaps Poseidon was inspired by real stars then.” She carefully prided it from the rock, before offering it to Iphthime. “Here, feel. It’s bumpy, isn’t it? It keeps fish from trying to eat it.”

Iphthime reached out to touch it, but even just a brush of her fingertips sent her giggling and wiping her hand relentlessly against Penelope’s dress. 

“It’s wet!”

“It’s a fish,” Philone said blankly. 

“Very fun , Clytemnestra,” Pollux grumbled from behind his sister. He took careful steps along the slick rocks, eyes warily watching the sea. “You just do anything Penelope requests of you?” 

“Naturally. I like her better than you.” Clytemnestra murmured behind her. “Phoebe! Timandra! Careful!” 

“I wish I had more brothers. Fewer siblings…fewer girls ,” Pollux said coldly. “They’d make my life easier.” 

“Me too,” Perilaos said quickly. “If you and Castor were my brothers–” 

Castor stared at him, blankly. 

“I enjoy making your life harder, Pollux. It warms my cold, rigid heart, you know– PHOEBE!” Clytemnestra yelled across the beach, “ CAREFUL !” She hated that, for a moment, she agreed with Pollux. Not on the more brothers part, no. Just the less siblings part. Less people to watch, as the first hatched. But no . As it was the first rule of Kings; make your firstborn daughter’s life miserable with children to watch. 

“Oh, stop fighting,” Helen groaned. She had anchored herself on firm, sure Castor’s arm, to make sure her feet did not slip out from under her. “Why can you not get along? You are brother and sister and you love each other. Like Perilaos and Penelope!” 

Perilaos, always desperate to save face in front of his far more impressive older cousins, scrambled in his red-faced embarrassment. 

“I– no! Penelope has always been such a…pain and I never –” 

Clytemnestra rolled her eyes at him. 

“See what you are teaching these young men, Pollux? You’re teaching them to be stupid.” 

“I’m teaching them to be men ,” Pollux glared haughtily. 

“Careful, Helen,” Castor murmured, helping her down a particularly slippery step. 

“Here, Philone,” Penelope smiled faintly, offering up the starfish. Philone snatched it up curiously. 

“You are teaching them masculine foolishness,” Clytemnestra countered, yanking up her skirt to prevent it from tangling around her ankles. 

“You’re teaching my sisters to be bitchy,” Pollux snarled to himself. 

“ Pollux—“ Clytemnestra began, a snarled warning. That was one of the rare things they shared, a snarl like a mad dog.

Splash! 

With a sharp shove of Castor’s sure hand, Pollux stumbled into the sea. Clytemnestra roared with laughter, rich like a warlord rolling in his spoils. 

“CASTOR!” He roared, and for the first time since his sisters could remember, plain yet firm Castor cracked a smile.

“Whoops.” He helped Helen down once more. “Sorry, brother.” 

“Why are they yelling?” Iphthime frowned from her spot in Penelope’s back, too young, and perhaps not clever enough to understand what had happened. 

Penelope held back her usual snort, loud and quacking like a mallard. 

“He fell, I believe,” she forced out instead.

“Fell ,” Philone mumbled to herself, before throwing the starfish back into the sea with a far smaller splash . 

“WHY?!” Pollux shrieked, his arms flailing uselessly to keep him up. 

“Accident,” Castor said. He was like his father, Tyndareus. Of few words. 

“Oh, my gods—“ Clytemnestra gasped for air, “—I love accidents—“

“Pollux, are you alright?!” Helen called worriedly, though she stayed on the shore. She would jump in after him, but it was far too chilly. 

“HARPY!” Pollux shrieked at her. 

“Ah…” Clytemnestra stifled a giggle. She made a show of wiping her eyes with her sleeves. “I wish. Believe me.”

“He is your older brother!” Perilaos said incredulously.

“Accident,” Castor repeated simply. He watched Pollux drag himself back onto the rock, dripping wet like a cat dunked into a bucket. Perilaos scrambled to take off his cape, draping it over Pollux’s shoulders. 

“He seems very mad…” Iphthime frowned. 

“Accidents make people mad,” Penelope shrugged, “oh! Look a clownfish—“ her hands dove back into the tide pool. 

Chapter Text

The sun was bright. Painfully, fiery bright. If not for the awning covering the royal balcony, The Princesses of Sparta thought they would melt. Who, in the gods’ name, would put such an event in the middle of summer? 

Well…probably the gods themselves. After all, they enjoyed the entertainment as much as the Spartans themselves. Games were exciting; they were fast, fun, wildly violent, and intriguing, all the things that made the heat of summer bearable.

“Apollo spare us—“ Clytemnestra mumbled under her breath. She used the white veil that graced her head to fan herself, shaking it up and down and up and down to generate whatever breeze she could.

“Ughhhhh,“ Helen whined, slumping in her finely crafted, well-cushioned chair. “Too hot! Far too hot!” 

“Far too hot,” Penelope mumbled in agreement. The nymph's daughter stared at the water pitcher resting on the small side table wistfully, as though she imagined pouring it over her head for cool relief. She could dream.

“Stop your complaining,” Tyndareus said firmly. He reached a large hand forward, tugging the fluttering veil from Clytemnestra’s hand to arrange it back over her face, as was proper. 

“Poor duckling,” Icarius said, his voice laced with its usual paternal mush as he sent for more water with a wave of his kingly hand. He smoothed the hair back from Penelope’s forehead, but the same hand made sure the veil remained firmly over her face, even as he lifted the glass of water underneath it. “Drink.”

“Young men forget themselves when looking upon a fine, young woman,” Tyndareus had reminded them that same morning. His gaze had been focused on Helen in particular. Clytemnestra and Penelope had never driven a man mad before, never urged a man to become the drooling and stupid beast a woman could make him. Not as Helen could, with one glance and her radiant, diamond smile.

“I would if the sun was not eating me,” Clytemnestra leaned forward in her seat, casting the glorious sun an indirect scowl. 

“Stop offending him . I don’t want to die of plague,” Penelope said blankly. 

“Offend who?” Helen asked as she fiddled with the end of her veil. Helen’s was always extra thick over her face. 

“Phoebus Apollo.” 

“Maybe,” Clytemnestra began, “If he made the sun less bright–” 

“Enough !” Tyndareus snapped, banging his hand against the arm of his chair to snap their attention to him. Helen squealed. “ Quiet , and watch .” 

His words were enough to make the unmarried Princesses of Sparta slump down in their seats, swallow their words, and turn their eyes to the grounds below. Quiet and watch , as men beat each other into sad, senseless puddles of blood. As was the Spartan way, as was the Grecian way.
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And oh, what sweet entertainment it was. Icarius and Tyndareus drank their wine, leaned back in their plush thrones, and spoke of casual things, things that often eluded them as kings. They only drew their attention to the Games when they grew particularly bloody; a javelin impaling someone, a fist smashing against a head, a hand meeting a throat. They’d whoop and cheer and laugh, pointing at who had gotten the upper hand, and who had gained the unfortunate disadvantage. 

Icarius, the sprinter he was, leaned eagerly over the railing as the runners took off against the sand. “Penelope! Do you see that? There was a time when that was your father, duck. Oh, I miss those days…” 

Tyndareus preferred the swords. He’d cackle and shake Clytemnestra by the shoulder as he roared with cheers and advice, toasting his wine in their direction. “Haha! What do you think of that, Clytemnestra!? Oh, get him, right there, yes, yes! Ha!...oh, Helen, don’t look, dear.”

“Never did I think men beating the ever-living fuck out of each other could be so boring,” Clytemnestra murmured. She rolled her eyes beneath her veil, lifting her hand to her sharp gaze to check her fingernails. “Dull, dull, dull. ”

Penelope groaned, her head slumped against the railing in a tangle of white fabric. 

“I think Penelope has strangled herself,” Helen frowned. 

“Good. Spares her the torture of such boredom,” Clytemnestra replied blankly. Her sister sighed.

“Father, can I take it off? It's hot–” Helen began, but a hand of dismissal stopped her.

“Not now, Helen– YES ! Haha! What did I tell you?!” Tyndareus smiled in triumph, shoving his hand against Icarius' shoulder. “He was bound to win!”

“Luck ,” Icarius glowered into his goblet, “purely that. He’s dumb as a piece of lumber.”

“But he’s strong ! I drink to that!... Perhaps he’d wish to marry Clytemnestra…” he mused, swirling his goblet. 

“Do not,” Clytemnestra said coldly. Tyndareus cackled. 

“I’m joking , my dear.” 

“It is not funny ,” she grumbled under her breath. 

Penelope groaned again, her lanky torso still curved and contorted into a rather uncomfortable slump. Helen fanned her with her perfect hands. 

“Truly , I think she has joined Hades–” 

“Lucky her,” Clytemnestra managed between clenched teeth. 

“Ah , back to wrestling! Praise the Gods,” Tyndareus smiled down at the grounds. He leaned forward in his seat, eager like a child being presented with a prize; a shiny coin, a new toy, a colorful cloak. The drunkenness certainly made things more enjoyable, for kings and the peasants below who cheered just as heartily. Dionysus made hot days into roaring, pleasurable afternoons.

Clytemnestra turned her dark, sharp glare back onto the grounds, squinting at the small shapes that moved down below. They all looked the same to her; sweaty, bare men with angry faces and short cut, practical hair. If there was anything more there, Clytemnestra did not see it. And she did not care too. Dull , all of it. Painfully so. Just sweaty men fighting as richer sweatier men became drunkards in the crowds. 

“The blonde man…” Tyndareus’ drunken face grew puzzled as he drew up a hand to rub his chin. “We know him, brother?” 

Icarius, the smarter brother and thus accustomed to such questions, still rolled his eyes. 

“That is Epiphanes ,” he said, unable to hide his bitter distrust, “he attends council. A fine military man, I suppose.” 

“Well, how good is he?”

“Gods, how am I to know?!” Icarius snapped. Where wine made Tyndareus light, it often made Icarius rather aggravated. “Stop asking me foolish questions.”

“She’s alive!” Helen squealed, her hands jerking away as Penelope raised her head sharply. Her clever eyes focused on the arena below and squinted behind her veil, trying to see while blinded by the sun. 

Clytemnestra noticed. 

“You know him, duck?” She raised a faint eyebrow. She watched Penelope’s silhouette, just visible as light streamed through the thin veil. Her lips pressed together, and her brow twitched. And her face, in its usual perpetual worry, seemed to worry more so than usual. 

“No,” Penelope said smoothly. But Clytemnestra knew she lied as easily as water flowed. 

“Hm.” 

Below, they circled each other like starved animals, desperate to be fed. But it was not food they were after. Rather approval—crowd affection. Spartans loved a winner, after all. 

“Ohhh…” Clytemnestra held back a laugh, watching the blonde man tackle the other. “They look as though they are hugging aggressively. How romantic.” She urged a glass of water into Helen’s hands. 

“I wish they would. It would be far nicer to see people get along and be happy, rather than fighting,” Helen held the glass tightly in both perfect hands, drinking it greedily as though she were not allowed to. “Don’t you think, Penelope?” 

“Hm .” She grunted. Penelope’s eyes were cast down, unwavering, undistracted.

“Duckie is absorbed in this violence, isn’t she? I didn’t think she had a violent bone in her body.” 

Epiphanes grabbed the man by the scruff, slamming his face down against the Earth with the might he carried in those militarily precise arms. The crowd, the Kings, and the Gods themselves cheered. 

“What an awful thing to watch,” Helen frowned. “I’d never wish men to fight in my name.” 

“Helen, men would fight over far less than you,” Clytemnestra rolled her eyes. “Men would fight over the last fig at the table. Men would fight about who they would fight first.”

As they rolled in the sand, it was clear the other stood no chance. Epiphanes had that silent, stern determination about him. That might built by years upon years of training and honing and pain to become a man of Sparta; a warrior. It was all he was, and all he cared to be. He slipped a muscled forearm across his opponent's throat, and as he slammed him into the ground the crowd knew it was over. They boomed with cheers.

“You fight people all the time,” Helen countered with a huff, raising her voice to be heard over such excitement, “how is it different for you?”

“I don’t fight , I knock sense into people,” Clytemnestra scowled. “Sit up straight.” She snapped, and as though Clytemnestra was her mother, Helen scrambled to do just that. “See ?” she smiled, reaching over to pat Helen’s hidden yet pouting face. “Sense.” 

“You are so mean,” Helen grumbled, slumping against Clytemnestra’s hand. Only because it was cool, and the thickness of her veil made sweat bead over Helen’s forehead.

Epiphanes shoved himself to his feet, dusting off his skin as his chest heaved. Despite the distance to the ground, Penelope could see how hard he breathed. Yet still, his gaze turned up. He looked… sweaty , she noted. Very, sweaty. And covered in sand. That could not be comfortable.

“Maybe a little ,” Clytemnestra smiled. 

The cheers had yet to cease, yet to die. No one was ever applauded as such for their cleverness, Penelope recognized. No, it was only for sheer strength that one gained such an uproar. Epiphanes raised his muscular, sand-covered, and sweat-stained arm in victory, though his eyes were trained above. 

Let him be looking at Helen. Let him be looking at Helen or I will scream–

His hand, curled into a fist, let one thick finger extend. He pointed up to the balcony, carefully trained on the Spartan sitting furthest to the left. 

Penelope shrieked, scrambling back in her chair and drawing her veil tighter against her face. 

“Penelope ! What in the Gods–” Clytemnestra’s gaze darted to her cousin, worry plaguing her. Until she looked down at the grounds, “...oh .” 

“Oh! Penelope he likes you!” Helen smiled behind her veil, leaning forward in her seat eagerly. “He’s handsome too! Oh, you’re very lucky–”

Penelope shrieked again, mangled like a duck being shaken around by its neck.
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“There, there, dear,” Clytemnestra sighed as she sat at Penelope’s bedside, patting her sleek hair. Often her cousin was aloof, cool in her reactions. But, unfortunately, she was the daughter of a nymph. And when the tears came from a nymph, they rarely stopped. 

“Oh, Penelope I think it’s lovely ,” Helen smiled from her spot sitting in the window. “He seems very strong. And his gesture was very cute!” 

Penelope gave another mangled scream into her pillow. Her lanky limbs were curled up into each other, trying to compress herself like a pearl hidden away in a clam. 

“You are not helping,” Clytemnestra glared at her sister. “Shh, duck it is fine – I am sure no one noticed anyway.” 

“Oh they did,” Helen smiled, “I mean, how could they not ? It was so cute though! I think you’d be very handsome together! A warrior, and the clever Princess of Sparta–” 

“I am going to return to the sea -” Penelope choked out

“No, you’re not, Penelope. The ducks caught you to make sure that didn’t happen, remember?” 

“What is so wrong with Epiphanes?” Helen frowned.

“Well, they made a mistake!” She sobbed, her tears salty as the sea she threatened to dive back into. “Humiliated! Humiliated! Never in my life–” she groaned in annoyance, “I hate crying!” 

“I know,” Clytemnestra sighed, patting along the curve of Penelope’s head. “Cry it out.” 

“I liked Epiphanes…” Helen grumbled to herself. “You’ve seen his shoulders?” 

“I don’t CARE ABOUT HIS SHOULDERS!” Penelope cried miserably. She practically hid in the flowing currents of her dark hair. 

“His shoulders are dumb ,” Clytemnestra soothed, patting along Penelope’s back. 

“Nobody has courted you before, I thought you would…I don’t know, at least be slightly flattered?” Helen frowned. 

“I like it that way!” Penelope wailed, “I like it when I am courted by nobody! Gods, why Epiphanes– did the heat of the sun make him mad?!” 

“Well, I think a kind of heat drove him mad,” Clytemnestra shrugged as she petted her. Penelope gave a pained cry. 

“That is not funny!”

“Again, why do we dislike him so?” Helen frowned. 

“Helen,” Clytemnestra began patiently, “Our duck prefers mental stimulation, over…what Epiphanes offers.” 

“Ohh…wait, are you saying he is stupid?” Helen frowned. 

“Athena help her please ,” Clytemnestra murmured under her breath. 

“Nobody is better than Epiphanes–” Penelope murmured dismally, between her sniffles and tears. She would gladly take nobody over Epiphanes. At least with nobody, her wit would not have to be buried. 

“...well, his shoulders are not that nice, Penelope,” Helen offered in comfort. 

Penelope groaned once more.

Chapter Text

Leda sat in her usual chair, stringing beads along the twine. The sun streamed through the windows, birds sang outside, and her children laughed. It was a peaceful day—or so it would have been if Leda had not heard the creek of the floorboard in the doorway. 

“Must you disrupt my peace?” Even as she closed her eyes, hands working deftly, Leda could feel Asterodia’s smile in her veins. She felt it like the sun on her skin, or the breeze on her cheek.

“Walk with me.” She said simply, ignoring the question as though it were never asked. 

“I shouldn’t,” Leda replied, and it was not a lie. Queens were not social creatures. Their place was inside, where their husbands could admire them as he did all his other conquests. A sword from a fallen foe, a prized war stallion, and some princess he had married, from an island he cared not to remember.

Asterodia’s smile widened. The second queen of Sparta cared for a great deal of things, but deep-rooted Queenly tradition was never one of them. 

“And why? Afraid you’ll enjoy the company?” She shuffled inside, leaning on her toes like she often did. Leda wondered how she kept it all up. How that grin always washed ashore and never receded. “The children are taken care of, our husbands are quite busy with their kingly duty. I’m afraid it falls to the Queens of Sparta to entertain themse—” 

Leda rose from her chair, setting aside her beads in a handful on the table. 

“Very well.” 

“That easy?” Asterodia chuckled. 

“No,” Leda replied, her voice soft, yet not as careful as usual, “I just wanted you to stop talking.” She smiled faintly.

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The Wedding of King Icarius of Sparta and Princess Asterodia of Syracuse lasted not for three days, but for six. The marriage of any civilian man would have called for far less elaborate performance, merely to cart a young wife off to the soldiers' barracks in the dead of night. But Icarius of Sparta was a King, and, as Asterodia understood it, Kings were expected to show off at. least sometimes. 

The first five days were pure celebration. Feasts every night, burning of bulls in sacrifice, and elaborate games. It was the only time Asterodia had seen her husband-to-be smile, when the runners began their sprint. Besides that, he was distant, sour-faced, and looking around as though anywhere else would be more pleasant to him. 

“It is just how men are. No king acts a fool of himself by smiling, ” one of her brothers had murmured to her. Astrodia knew the facade men put up well. Well, enough to know this was not it. When she sat with her father in Syracuse, his face was firm yet resolute. But the Spartan King who would be her husband was different. He looked like he had eaten a fruit not yet ripened, and sour juice had splashed across his tongue where he expected sweetness.

“What he does now makes him look a fool… ” She mumbled, staring at that ugly look he had. It was almost childish and pouty, like when she ate the last olive her youngest brother wanted. Or ate a fig claimed by a middle one.

“I would make the same face if it was you I was marrying Dia. ” Her brother rolled his eyes.

At last, it was Gamos . A mighty bull was sacrificed, its muscled limps crumbling under their own weight as men of the Gods proclaimed its death in Hera’s honor. Then it was Asterodia and Icarius’ turn, to pay such respects to the Olympians. Asterodia knelt beside him on the steps of the temple, her veiled head hung low His eyes were closed in prayer, his lips moving in soft murmurs that remained between him and the Gods. He looked as sour-faced as ever, his hands wrung themselves and fingers curled as he prayed with more vigor. 

“Lady Hera, if you listen to me at all, ” Asterodia began, glad that the veil hid the movement of her lips. It was almost comforting to know her words were private. “ Please say he is not praying for my demise. Thank you. ”

After that, another feast. Men and women sat separate, and though the distance was small Asterodia felt hundreds of miles away from her brothers and father on the other side. They all tried to speak to Icarius, but he had none of it. His eyes drifted away, squinting over the horizon towards the sea. 

“King Icarius is handsome, isn’t he?” A Spartan woman tried to engage her, her voice whispered gossip. That was something universal so it seemed, no matter if you were in Syracuse or Sparta. Always would there be handsome men to gossip about.

“If ever he made a pleasant expression,” Asterodia found herself murmuring back. The woman giggled. “...I’m afraid he doesn’t like me much, does he?”

“Oh, that comes with time. People do not “like” each other overnight. And consider yourself lucky. Icarius is more handsome than Tyndareus. He is only more handsome when he has Leda upon his arm—” 

“Leda?” Asterodia questioned softly. It was a name she had not recalled. However, since she had arrived in Sparta, she had been bombarded by names of all sorts of people. It very well could have slipped through the cracks of her memory. 

“Queen Leda, King Tyndareus’ wife,” The woman sighed, and Asterodia watched as her face grew almost dreamy. “Oh…the most beautiful woman in the world, some would say, and I would be inclined to believe it. Never has there been such a finer face, I think…” The woman said thoughtfully, though her nose seemed to scrunch as she looked down upon the exposed skin of Asterodia’s tanned arms. They were freckled from days in the sun, like wet clay splattered upon a tiled floor.

“Well, why is she not here?” Asterodia asked. Perhaps she was just another of the Spartans who hated her, who thought her not worthy to sit among them as a princess of such a small island. Asterodia was almost offended before remembering her own husband looked like he rather be anywhere else. 

“Tyndareus never lets her out anymore. Beautiful women make men do crazy things…why, you don’t let your gold leave the treasury, do you?” The woman chuckled, shaking her head as though it was all a joke. Asterodia felt her stomach clench at the words. The wording, the imagery, the idea of herself being locked away somewhere within that tiered palace like this fine Leda was. 

Asterodia did not answer her, but instead, she rose to her feet. It was so sudden that the people sitting at the tables looked rather frightened of it, before melting into shock and suspicion. Women on their wedding day were to be like potted flowers. Beautiful, yet passive and quiet. Asterodia, the brash daughter of Syracuse, was never any of those things. Perhaps that is what inclined her to speak. Or rather, she just did it to get out of such a conversation with that woman. Either was true.

“Excuse me, yes? I just wanted to thank all of you, for being here at our ceremony. Sparta, you have truly been beautiful and I consider myself lucky to be welcomed into your city…Syracuse has long considered yourself our friend, and this only further proves that to us, does it not? Though, of course, we’ve always been more wealthy than you—” She rambled, and they stared at her as though she spoke nonsense rather than Greek. Or like she’d sprung another head or turned into some scaled green monster of Olympian punishment. It was only then Icarius turned to look at her, in soured intrigue. 

Her father, King of Syracuse who had been greatly enjoying the spoils of Sparta, a reward for his impeccable matchmaking, nearly spit out his mouthful of fine wine.

“And Icarius, thank you , it was lovely to sacrifice a bull with yo–” 

“Girl !” The Syracuse King sputtered and coughed as he rose to his feet, hobbling over with his old worn limbs. “Forgive her, please—such excitement on a young woman makes her quite exhausted, you know, odd in the head, and will you sit down -” he hissed as he pushed her into the chair.

“I was merely offering a thanks for the hospitality. I do not understand why such a thing is so bad .”

The Syracuse King glowered at her, shoving her back into her seat. From the window, of the Spartan palace, the already instated Queen of Sparta, found herself doing something she had not done in quite some time. As she watched, out of sight in the treasury of her home, timidly from the window, Leda could almost laugh. Almost.

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After the feast, Asterodia kissed her father goodbye. She pressed her cheek to his, and he gripped her forearms.

“By the gods, do not ruin this,” he begged silently. 

“You know me,” Asterodia answered. It was the last time she would see him, as the second their union was legitimized in the face of the Gods, Asterodia became a woman of Sparta. Her last words brought him no comfort. 

“You heard him, ” Asterodia once again prayed up to Lady Hera, as glowering Icarius of Sparta looped his arm through hers. He was rigid like stones were rigid, and indeniabley cold. In both body temperature and temperament.

Icarius’ friends leered at him as he took her to the wedding chamber, hooting and barking about conquest, shouting innuendos they probably thought went over her head. They didn’t. Asterodia was accustomed to the occasional vulgar joke. When she was around friends, in Syracuse, she’d even make a few herself. 

She was no longer around such people. 

Icarius shut the door firmly behind him, latching its heavy lock. The sounds of excitable yells and cheers faded into muffled silence. She waited for him, to remove the veil from her face, but he did not. Seconds passed, then minutes. Asterodia had visited friends who had been married, who had excitedly told her about how on their wedding night their husbands practically ripped off their veils. Among other things. To be taken to the wedding chamber was to be treated as a war prize and put in a trophy room. You were, for those short minutes, something heavily admired. But Icarius was not a conqueror or a relisher of riches. He was merely dark-haired, slightly lanky, and still so bitter in his expression.

He stood before her rigidly, before finally lifting his hands to her veiled face and peeling back the fabric like some rotting flesh of fruit. Asterodia never thought she looked that bad, but as he looked at her his nose crinkled. 

“By the Gods what was Tyndareus thinking, I could never love you…” He narrated aloud, and he let the veil drop back over her face, like some heavy stifling blanket rather than the protective cover it had been. She scoffed. 

“That is an odd way to try and win over your new wife,” Asterodia said. Her hands came back, shoving the material from her face as he brushed past her to the window. She never thought she looked that awful. Or at least, nothing to be so offended by. Her hair was full and dark, she had a mole on her cheek and her mother had said her eyes were like tree bark.

“I mean it !” He snapped. Icarius turned to look over his shoulder, and his eyes were dark and angry. “You are nothing to me. I will not lay with you, not tonight, not ever . Now leave my chamber at once. I do not care what they’ll think of me…” Icarius of Sparta murmured the last part under his breath, with all the bitterness his dark eyes carried. His long arms crossed stubbornly over his chest, as he curled against the window with a greediness. “Away with you.”

“Again, an odd approach. Do you think that harshness will make me grow fonder of you? I respect such games, really, but—”

“Away !” Now he truly sounded something like a whining child, sputtering and muttering angrily to himself in between his shouts. “ Foolish, idiot Tyndareus…forcing me into something so…so…. ” He glared out over the sea, “Oh, Periboea… ” 

So, Asterodia left.

It is a surreal thing, to be wandering the halls of some foreign palace, on the night of your wedding. She considered returning to her father, but he would send her right back. And Icarius, that stubborn dark-haired man who she could now call husband, would once again throw her out. Asterodia was smart enough to know that. So, she wandered. It would have all been very pretty, if the night was not so cold, and Sparta not so inhospitable. Asterodia stopped only once she heard voices, drifting away from underneath some doorway, or in some crack in a wall.

“He is a stubborn bastard, and if I must hear more of his whining and crying I am going to damn kill him, Leda. I am. ” 

“He is your brother, ” a voice reminded. It was soft, like gentle tapping of rain, or the bubbling of a creek. A stark contrast to the gritted teeth snarling of the man she spoke to.

“I damn well wish he was not at times! That nymph has twisted his mind, his view of the throne, and his life. I do not understand it! Icarius was always so smart, yet one oceanid whore has driven him mad. Mad! This marriage is good for us, and yet he preens and whines and cries like some pathetic—”

A harsh inhale of breath cuts him off, followed by the lightest of cries. 

“Leda ? You’re alright ?” The man grew worried, his anger left behind him. 

“Just the babe…no reason to concern yourself. Leave me, to my beads… ” She managed between breaths, as slowly her voice stabilized once more to its soothing calmness. 

“I will bring someone to sit with you.”

“I am fine. ” She assured softly. “ Go now ”

The conversation may have continued after that, but Asterodia running into a nearby servant promptly ended her keen listening. Even more so as she was ushered away, the servant spouting apologies and swearing up and down the wall of Icarius’ goodness, and how he was not usually like this . The woman, Leda’s, delicate words were swallowed up, yet Asterodia still found herself straining to listen.

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“You heartless, fool of a man!” Tyndareus screamed as morning light shone through the windows of the dining room. He thought that by locking himself away in his throne room, he and his brother King could have their screaming match in private. Except, when so close to the dining room, and when men were so very loud, private turned into merely slightly muffled . 

“When have I ever been a fool?! I’m damn smarter than you!” Icarius countered right back, voice crisp with anger.  

Asterodia looked down at the figs that had been picked for her. They were not quite ripened, and she knew to taste them would not offer honeyed sweetness, but something bitter and tough. 

“YOU THREW YOUR WIFE INTO THE HALLWAY YOU IGNORANT FUCK!”

“Do not call her that! The only reason I have done this foolish, political sham of a union is for you ! I had the ceremony, but I will not welcome her into my bed, into my life ! You cannot ask that of me!” 

Their voices only grew louder as the heavy doors swung open, lessening the extent the sound had to travel. A woman hobbled in and hobbled was truly what she was doing, for even as she was supported by staff on either side her steps were labored. Yet, it was almost graceful , a contradiction Asterodia was too sleep-deprived to make sense of. She gnawed on an unripe fig. 

“I will ask of you whatever I damn please!... oh , oh this is about that god damned ocean whore, is it not?! Is that why you are so pissy about this whole thing?” 

“I will not have you speak of her like that,” Icarius’ voice grew colder. 

“Hello,” The woman greeted pleasantly. A hand rested on her stomach, her very, very pregnant stomach. It made Asterodia uncomfortable just to look at. Her spine felt like it would crack under such weight, but the woman carried it with neutrality on her face. A face that, looking closer, Asterodia realized was probably the most beautiful thing she had gazed upon. 

“...You are Queen Leda—” she blurted out. Leda chuckled faintly, the softest infliction in her voice. 

“Yes. You are Icarius’ new wife, are you not?” 

“Oh, it is . You have some fantasy in your head that she will come flocking back out of the sea? Just for you?” Tyndareus laughed.

“QUIET !” 

“By the grace of the Gods, I am,” Asterodia replied. She grimaced, but it was easy to blame on the bitter fig. 

“I apologize for him,” Leda said calmly. She waved a hand to the servants who had eased her inside, dismissing them. “He is truly kinder than this. Yet he has been under stress as of late, and it usually falls to women to be patient in such times…” 

It is all Asterodia had heard of him. That he was better than this. Oh, clever Icarius can be kind, just….not now. She tried to hold her tongue, but it escaped her still.

“I have yet to see any of the things that were said of him,” she said bluntly. Leda blinked at her. “...He’s been quite rude.”

“Well…” That is all she could respond with, though her gentle voice was drowned out by yelling.

“Gods you are a child!” Tyndareus shouted. “That nymph will never be your Queen.” 

“Neither will that Syracuse woman you forced on me!” Icarius shouted back, and as men did when fighting, he insisted on being louder.

“Too late ! She is your wife , and a wife is to share a chamber with her husband! I do not care your feelings about it, it is done!” 

“...Would you like to take a walk with me?” Asterodia asked. From the other room, ceramic slammed. Part of the dowry, from her father, being thrown against the wall in masculine rage.

“Mm?” Leda glanced up. A curl of black hair slumped over her forehead. Asterodia was once again struck with just how… fine faced she was. Agile like a swan, bright and pale as the moon with curious dark eyes. 

“A walk….uh, when women are pregnant in Syracuse, they like to walk. Some people say it helps to induce childbirth.” Asterodia watched Leda’s face shift, her eyes darting down to her very enceinte stomach as though she had never noticed it. More shouts drifted past, bitter arguments and curses wrapped around Asterodia’s very own name. 

“...Okay,” Leda finally answered softly, though her eyes stayed downcast as she spoke. Meekly, in contrast to the rich yells from her husband just a room away.

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As they circled the grounds, Asterodia could not help but notice Leda’s gaze. It almost seemed erratic, darting this way and that, in a paranoia or discomfort that did not seem to suit her. She was fair enough for Asterodia to assume she did not spend much time outdoors, but she had never met someone seemingly so… uncomfortable being there. But it beat the yelling of the palace and Icarius’ sharp and bitter glare, so Asterodia would accept it.

“So…how long have you…?”

“What do you mean?” Leda asked quickly. Not sharply, Asterodia was beginning to think she could not be sharp.

“Pregnant. How many months?” 

A look crossed her then, though her head turned so sharply to the horizon that Asterodia couldn’t properly study it. 

“Nine.” 

“Nine? That is an awfully long time,” Asterodia’s brows furrowed. “Most are pregnant for eight, I believe.”

“Well, Spartan children are strong; they probably just take longer.” She rested a hand along her stomach as she walked, a simple regard for it. 

“Ah…” The logic was not sound, but who was Asterodia to argue? Especially when Leda was the one person who had not engaged in a screaming match since her arrival. 

“...Anyway, Tyndareus wanted me to apologize on his behalf,” Leda said calmly. “I hope you know that the rudeness of Icarius does not reflect the views of the rest of Sparta, or of my husband and I. He worked hard to ensure this match. Syracuse is truly a gem.”

“A wealthy gem?” Asterodia chuckled, kicking a stone with her sandal. “I have to admit, it was a good political move. I suppose Tyndareus believes Syracuse and Sparta will be…friends forever? Wealth and military go hand in hand…and, of course, we’re placed conveniently next to Athenian allies in Sicily, and I have come to understand you are not friends with such men.” 

“You are clever, aren’t you?” Leda stopped underneath the shade of a tree along the path, basking in its shade with a light sigh. Her hair seemed to swoop up to her temples, like a crown of feathers. 

“You don’t seem too unintelligent yourself…certainly well-spoken, if not a little too quiet.” 

“Perhaps you’re too loud.” She did not miss a beat. Asterodia liked it when people could answer her so quickly. “Queens are quiet creatures. Tyndareus and Icarius prefer them that way.” 

“Well, he doesn’t much like me anyway—” Asterodia shrugged her shoulders, and instead of a laugh all Leda gave her was a sigh. “I don’t know how my silence would make him any more inclined to love me.” 

“Then you should do whatever you can to make him do so. Or I fear you will be most miserable here,” Leda said. It was still not mean, but it was more brisk than it had been. Perhaps faintly annoyed. She began walking again, in those contradictory labored yet graceful steps. 

“I am already miserable here. And I get the sense that you are miserable here. A Queen’s job is to be miserable.” Asterodia trailed after her. 

“I am quite content.” 

“You do not look content…” It was as good a time as any to ask, so Asterodia looked ahead and pretended to study the olive trees. “You did not attend my wedding, why?”

“I do not like going outside.” 

“You are outside now,” Asterodia chuckles. Leda looked back at her, and for a moment she almost looked offended. 

“It was too far from the palace.” 

“Hardly a reason,” Asterodia countered. It was an awful habit of hers. Leda turned on her heels, beginning the walk back to the palace. 

“Good luck to you, Asterodia.”

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Weeks dragged on, slowly like moving underwater. But as it did, Asterodia observed, she began to learn how the House of Sparta operated. Matters of military and heavy rule, Sparta’s specialty, were left to Tyndareus. Oh, he could be quite cold when he wished to be. Gruff and angry, until his wife would rest a pretty hand on his arm and he would well melt right back into contentment and reasonability.

Icarius, the second King of Sparta, handled more intellectual pursuits. Trade, diplomacy, city organization. Asterodia learned he thought quite highly of himself while doing this. His eyes would gleam, delighted with how clever he found himself. He was still, however, the younger brother to Tyndareus, and enough yelling from him had allowed Asterodia back into his chambers. It did not mean he was any more pleasurable, but her presence was coldly allowed. That was all. Mention of anything more made his face grow colder, his brows furrowed further. Especially children. 

“What use have I of children? They’re needy. Demanding attention I haven’t the time nor want to give them. Besides…” At that point, he would make a show of looking at her from her sandaled feet to the thick, dark hair styled on the top of her head, “I have no want to make one.”

While he reviled her, Asterodia found herself embracing the rest of Sparta. Perhaps it was not so bad. They were cold, yes, but to break through their exterior was a challenge she most enjoyed. She liked getting to the center of things, and Leda was no different. 

Asterodia would seek her out often, more often than not finding her doing something boringly mundane; like stringing beads along a twine to make jewelry, or braiding little sections of colorful string. She would invite her to walk, and though she sighed about it, Leda always agreed.

“Your child, what will you name it?” Asterodia asked one day. She leaned forward on her toes, squinting out at the horizon. 

“Whatever I please to name them. It is my choice,” Leda said simply, though uninterested for the most part. Asterodia had noticed, that the more time they spent with one another, the more promptly she spoke. Asterodia liked it when she did not hide so firmly behind a veil of modesty. Most saw women as plain, quiet, and uninteresting. But it was only because of that veil, that veil that meant to protect them yet hid so many of their best features. Asterodia found herself pleased that she was just beginning to peel it back. Leda was interesting, and, perhaps it was the curse that a beautiful person put on someone, but Asterodia found herself wanting Leda to be interested in her in turn. 

“I never said it wasn’t. Though are you open to suggestions?” She cocked her head to the side. 

“Mm…if they are good,” Leda gave her a look. “You may speak.”

“For a girl, I was thinking Clytemnestra—” 

“Clytemnestra…”celebrated to be cunning”?” Leda raised an eyebrow. “Hardly what a future King wishes for his daughter.” 

“Perhaps. But is it not the dream of every mother? That her daughter is more clever than she?” Asterodia smiled. She stopped along the path, only as she spotted a low-hanging olive. 

“...well, what of your and Icarius’ children? The name is beautiful. I suggest you save it.” Leda watched Asterodia prop herself on the tip of her toes, reaching up to twist the olive from its stem. 

“I doubt Icarius and I will ever have children,” Asterodia chuckled. “Not unless every aspect of my being were to change.” 

“...You handle it quite well.” Leda’s voice softened. “I…I am sorry, no one told you. Tyndareus especially. I…it is not fair, to you Asterodia.” 

“What is not?” 

“I…before you he was-” 

Ah. Asterodia could put the pieces together herself. 

“There was a ‘her’?” Asterodia rolled the fresh olive between her palms. “Perhaps a him of some kind?”

“Tyndareus was hoping he would forget her as he grew older. Yet…well, she still has her fingers dug into him. He does not understand, you see, she has clawed into his mind too much for him to do so. He does not hate you , he hates—” 

“I understand.” 

“You are not upset?” 

“Not particularly.” Asterodia offered her the olive. 

“I…” Leda frowned. Puzzled. “...you are so strange to me. His hatred of you does not affect you. You do not what he asks, you like to…what are you doing?” 

“Getting one for myself?” Asterodia reached up for a branch, yanking herself up into the leaves.

“That is not…get down! Queens do not–” 

“Climb trees? Scrape their knees?” Asterodia snorted. “Well, I do. Perhaps you should join me. Feel the sky on your face, the scrape of bark on your knees, all that.” 

“Just…come down!” Leda called from the ground. If Asterodia did not know any better, she would have thought anxiety laced her voice. 

“A moment, please.” Asterodia studied the leaves, looking for perfect olives silhouetted against the blue backsplash of the sky. “Ha! Leda!” Asterodia smiled, pointing upward at a flock of flying swans. No doubt flying to nesting grounds. Beautiful. Asterodia never knew they made Sparta their home–

“I want to go inside, Asterodia! Please!” It was the very first-time Asterodia had heard Leda yell, and it startled her so that she almost fell back down to the tree. Yet she was not angry, not fuming and wanting to go inside merely because it was too hot, or too windy. She sounded terrified. Anxious beyond what Asterodia knew herself. 

She got down then, and took her back to the palace. Her worry however remained, tainting her face, pulling that modesty veil tightly back over it. Back into hiding.

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The day Leda began to labor, the palace burst into panic. It happened not just on any day, but a Holy day of Zeus, brightened by the clear blue of the sky. A lucky omen for most. 

“Queen Asterodia—” A servant burst into where Asterodia sat before her loom, her chest heaving with breath, “forgive me, Leda, she requests you—” 

Asterodia was already on her feet by the time she began to speak. 

Childbirth was necessary, but not something a husband wished to ever see. It was… ugly . Unseemly. As even creation was not spared from being brutal and bloody. A husband often ignored it to preserve the image of a perfectly beautiful wife in his mind. So if you needed a hand to squeeze until it grew numb, you called upon the ladies of your life. Your friends. 

“I do not want to have it today!” As Asterodia streamed past frantic midwives, Leda screamed. It was truly the one time she did not appear put together, yet in Asterodia’s eyes, she was still as beautiful as she had always been. “I AM NOT HAVING A BABY TODAY DO YOU HEAR ME?!”

“Leda, I am afraid we are very much on its schedule,” Asterodia reached for her hand, though her knees almost buckled under the strength with which Leda gripped it. Gods she never knew Leda to be so strong. 

“You do not understand,” she was cut off by a grimace, one so visceral it made her entire face scrunch, “I am not having it on his day! I won’t!” 

What she meant by his day, Asterodia did not understand. But there were bigger issues at hand, and the chaos around her made it easy to ignore. 

“Leda ,” Asterodia watched her face contort, her long swan neck curved down as she grit her teeth, “You cannot wait for it any longer, alright? Believe me, it will probably be ugly… very ugly, but if anyone can do it—” 

“I CAN’T !” She was panicking now, and no matter how Asterodia tried to comfort her, it was to no avail.

“Nonono…the swan…what if it is some sort of… monster —” She squeezed her eyes shut, “I do not want to have some sort of…” She choked a cry. Monster . 

“You won’t !” Asterodia gripped her hand. “How could it be a monster, if you are its mother?! It makes no sense . You are the finest thing about this place!”

“Hemitheos!” Leda cried between screams, and it was only then that Asterodia understood. Hemitheos. Half-God. Asterodia had heard of women, carrying children of the Gods. Bearing heroes, warriors. Something worse. Very often did they meet grizzly fates. Leda was bearing such a hero, born on the Holy day of… Zeus . Gods were to be worshiped and praised. Such a sickening vile filled Asterodia, and when she thought of the God King, she thought only of what he was. Another man.

“These…this is your child.” Asterodia squeezed her hand, and only then did Leda seem to ease. Her face was still contorted in agony, in panic, but there was a faint determination there. A duty to do what must be done. 

“They are… mine,” Leda echoed.

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The hall was ripe with chatter, of sly whisperings that were meant to be discrete. Gossip was hard to keep contained, and as such it spread through the house like plague. Stories of egg children, and whispered rumors of some monstrosity of feathers and flesh, and of swan honking instead of baby cries. 

Asterodia would not have believed it if she were not there gripping Leda’s hand when, instead of a child, she birthed two freckled eggs. Eggs of a swan, birthed by a Queen of Sparta. Anyone would be intrigued. 

Tyndareus’s hand tapped relentlessly against the arm of his chair, staring out over those dining in his hall. He had already questioned Asterodia intensely about what had happened, as she had seen it with her own eyes. 

“A trick ” he swore at first. “ You think you are funny, Syracusian?! ” But one look into Leda’s anxious eyes was enough for him to believe her, and now he was a proud father not to a healthy, chubby little princeling, but two misty grey swan eggs. Eggs that had yet to hatch, meaning whatever was inside was still a mystery. 

“Monster ,” Leda had cried. Asterodia hoped she was not right.

Icarius, however, seemed quite smug about the whole thing. 

“Retribution from the Gods, perhaps? Sticking you with something you do not want?” He whispered over wine. A smirk graced his face. 

“Shut up ,” Tyndareus hissed. 

Icarius did, but he kept that smirk. Utterly pleased with himself. Disgustedly so, until a servant came scurrying behind the young King’s chair. Asterodia watched as he leaned in to whisper into Icarius’ ear, and very nearly did the wine he held drop to the floor. 

“She what ? Take me to her !” He hissed, bolting to his feet. 

“Brother?” 

“Not now, just— I will be back!” Icarius stumbled away, hastily forcing his cloak over his shoulders. Gone. 

“Damned oceanid… ” Tyndareus murmured under his breath.

Asterodia retired early that night. 

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Nine months later, they hatched. Leda had been a mess of nerves, wringing her perfectly pale hands over and over again. The eggs remained in her chamber for her to watch over, gently rattling with movement until finally, crack.

What came out was not monstrous. It was not some disgusting amalgamation of feathered swan and human. It was pink, chubby little babies. The first one tugged out of the shattered remains screamed so loud, she nearly woke the entire palace. It was unusual to name children right after they were born. Waiting a year was customary, but Leda wasted no time. The first was a girl, with dark feathery hair and eyes the same firm brown as Tyndareus’. Clytemnestra, she called her. The name made Asteroida smile.

From the same egg, there was another girl. As the midwife yanked her out, she was so very shocked she nearly dropped her. 

“What? What is it?” Leda’s voice cracked with nervousness, yet as she stumbled forward to see, she saw only perfection. It looked more like a sculpture than a red-faced screaming baby. She was peacefully content, with eyes the color of blue skies, and hair curled around her chubby face like red gold. Helen, she named her, light . For that is what she truly did. Gleamed, with a divinity that could not be hidden.

From the second egg, much to Tyndareus' joy, were two boys. Pollux she named the blonde gleaming one, and the dark-haired boy with Tyndareus’ nose she named Castor. 

“True Spartan boys,” Tyndareus smiled, one tucked into the curve of each of his arms. 

“And you are alright?” Asterodia murmured to her. Leda looked upon them with her usual worry, but Asterodia could see. Any doubts she had were gone. They were hers, and the love she felt for them had already begun to pierce her heart. 

“Of course,” she said carefully. But that anxiety was still there, for every child of a God was as unfortunate as their mother. 

“Brother, please,” Tyndareus offered Pollux to Icarius, thrusting the wriggling lump into his hands. Icarius looked at Pollux so oddly, at his golden blonde hair and the blue of his eyes. Asterodia knew he noticed the divine shine upon his face, but he did not say a word. 

“I congratulate you.” He said cordially, with a bow of his head. He was eager to unload the baby into Tyndareus’ arms.

“You did excellent,” Asterodia murmured to Leda before she left. And Leda gave one of her rare smiles, and Asterodia kissed her on the cheek. 

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“Wouldn’t you like to have one ourselves?” Asterodia asked him. She studied the ceiling, her hands folded over her stomach as she lay on her back.

“Whatever do you mean?” Icarius’ brows furrowed as he unfastened his cloak. 

“A child…Leda’s children are quite pleasant, aren’t they?” 

“I have no want for children. You know that.” He kicked off his boots and eased himself back onto his side of the bed. It was a sort of progress, that he no longer refused her company entirely. But it was not welcomed. 

“None at all?” Asterodia watched his profile. He really was handsome, when his face was not so screwed up. Asterodia enjoyed the intelligence in his eyes, for however arrogant it was, a mind was a mind. 

“None at all.” 

“...would you want them with her?” 

“Who?” He closed his eyes. 

“Her.” 

“Goodnight, Asterodia.”

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Instead, Asterodia helped Leda with her own. Where Helen was perfectly content, and Castor rarely made a peep unless he had good reason to do so, Clytemnestra and Pollux shrieked and fumed like the world had wronged them already. It took hours upon hours of soothing, for however many nursemaids they had, it was always their mother they wanted. 

It was worse on the stormy nights, the lightning storms. It was only then that Helen would cry, flinching with every crack of lightning. Leda would as well. 

Asterodia could not kill him, but she vowed to never burn anything for him again. No bulls, no goats. No prayers. He could smite her if he wished.

“You are a natural at this…how?” Leda asked her. Her beauty still shined, but exhaustion laced every part of her. 

“Children are just little people,” Asterodia shrugged. She bounced Castor in her arms, “...besides, I raised many a younger brother in Syracuse.” Far too many younger brothers.

“That is often what eldests do…” She murmured softly. She held up Clytemnwstra under her tiny arms, studying her face intently. 

“She looks like you ,” Asterodia noted as she set Castor back down into his crib. The four of them shared one, the same great basket that had carried their eggs. It was quite the awful idea, however, for Asterodia had sworn she had come across Pollux and Clytemnestra nearly strangling each other on multiple occasions. 

“No, she is purely my husband…” Leda brushed a finger over her cheek, before setting her down herself. “She is fierce, like you though. She will take nothing, from no one.” Leda’s eyes gleamed as she said it. Good . “And Icarius, he had not…changed his mind at all?” 

“No…I am not willing to push things, though. Not when his tolerance is just barely held together.” Asterodia held back a smile. Her hand reached down, ruffling Helen’s hair, “ Ah , you little torch.” 

“Ah.” Leda eased back into her chair. “Well, regardless, I appreciate your help, Asterodia.” 

“Oh, too kind, too kind,” She gave a flourish of her hand as she left, knowing it would get the slightest of smiles. 

Perhaps…Sparta could be a home. She did not need a family in the way most people thought, and did not need a child of her own from Icarius. Asterodia had more than enough. Leda, and her nieces and nephews. If not the family of Icarius, then the family of them. Asterodia could live with that. She watched the world outside the windows as she walked. A flock of ducks soar across the night sky. Odd of them, to be out so late, when the world was sleeping.

As Asterodia opened the door to her chambers, her eyes fell upon the arched back of Icarius. He sat curled on the floor. 

“I am so sorry. I am so sorry— never shall I do such a thing to you again, my dear child. Never will you want for anything. I am so sorry —” He was crying, trembling like a leaf in the wind. 

“Icarius? What is it? What’s wrong?” It felt odd, to feel any worry for him. He had treated her as nuisance, yet never had she seen him like… that .

He glanced up as she knelt by his side. Gods, truly had never had she seen him so. His face was wet with tears, his hands trembling. It felt like something she should have never seen.

“Asterodia?”

“Who else?” She studied his face. He didn’t look at her with disgust, as he had. He was too pained to do so, bent over himself like he had in the window on the night of their wedding. “What happened?”

“Y-you don’t know what I’ve done, I do not deserve it—” He swallowed his sorrow. She looked down into his arms and saw what he was gripping so tightly. The baby was white as a pearl. Dark tufts of hair curled down over her forehead and around the gentle points at the ends of her ears. Sleeping. “I cannot… do it alone, please— I begged her to stay, and she did not, and when she did not, I tried to–...to….” 

“Her name. What is it?” Asterodia watched her sleeping, shuttered away in that blanket like a little pearl in a clam. Please . I cannot do it alone . 

“Penelope.” It was more reverent than any word he had ever spoken. Carried more weight than her own tongue ever had on his tongue. It was then Asterodia truly knew, he would never love her. But he loved Penelope, and Penelope needed a mother. Needed Asterodia. She could almost curse herself for it; loving a challenge, and getting to the middle of things, and being unable to resist when such a little thing needed her. Gods knew Icarius was right. He could not do it by himself. And Gods knew Asterodia was unable to resist such a thing, unloaded into Sparta as helplessly as she had been,

Something stuck out in her dark hair, the brown down feather from a bird. Asterodia reached to pluck it out.

“That is an odd way, to try and win over your new wife,” she murmured. Penelope’s eyes fluttered open lazily, heavy with remaining drowsiness. They were agate brown, like seashells and rocks you’d find washed up on a beach. “But very well.”
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“For you, my Queen —” Asterodia bowed dramatically, sending her dark hair now streaked with grey slumping over her face. She offered the freshly plucked olive to the Queen of Sparta, and Leda laughed. It was always an accomplishment to make such a thing happen. 

“You are truly an odd sort of creature,” Leda plucked it from her fingers, “more trickster than Queen, I believe.” 

“Ah, spare me. You love our walks!” Asterodia reached up into the branches. After all, she needed to get an olive for herself. 

“Have you not told our daughters time and time again to not do such things?” 

“Well , frankly, I suppose that makes me an awful hypocrite…Perhaps you should join me. Feel the sky on your face, the scrape of bark on your knees, all that.” 

Leda sighed, but she had known Asterodia long enough to expect such things. 

“You are so strange to me, Asterodia.”

Chapter Text

“Ugh!” Clytemnestra glared daggers into the loom, as though it were the source of her boredom. Tangled strings curled around her fingers, like she were strangling the thread itself. “ This , is mindnumbing.” She always hated the loom. The constant, repetitive motions of up and over and around, over and over and over until Clytemnestra’s very mind was banging on her skull, begging to be released. 

“I quite enjoy it.” 

“I know , Penelope.” Clytemnestra turned her daggered eyes in Penelope’s direction. She sat perched on her stool, peacefully weaving the strings with her long, pale fingers. Penelope was making another carpet, of some rolling blue waves and a rocky shore. “Can we not learn something else? Anything?” 

“Weaving is important.” Asterodia, from her chair, waved a hand. “That is quite nice, Penelope.”

“Clytemnestra, it is not all bad! If you applied yourself, I truly think—” 

“Helen , be quiet,” Clytemnestra’s head swiveled, shifting the glare to Helen instead. Her sister squeaked. “It is not worthy of applying anything too. It is boring and mindless and what do you get at the end? A carpet? Who needs another carpet?! It is a carpet ! You do not need more than one!” 

“This is a tapestry, actually.” 

“What is the difference, Penelope?!” Clytemnestra huffed. 

“You do not step on a tapestry, Clytemnestra.” 

“Gods, It looks steppable to me ,” Clytemnestra challenged. Her eyes narrowed, like a swan zeroing in on a fish in a pond. 

“You . Wouldn’t.” 

“Ladies!” Asterodia sighed, snapping her fingers in the air to call the ladies of Sparta to attention. “ Enough . Now, Clytemnestra, what troubles you, might I ask? You are more… gutsy than usual.” She looked at her thoughtfully, studying Clytemnestra as though she really were some kind of rabid feathered creature. Clytemnestra was quite like a swan, in that a sort of elegance hid a rather foul temper.

“I disagree with our education.” Clytemnestra glowered. 

“Oh?” Asterodia leaned back in her chair, resting her weaved hands over her chest. Penelope grumbled as she returned to her loom. 

“Pollux brags about all the things he learns. Combat, diplomacy, philosophy. And what are we given?!” Clytemnestra glared at her loom. “I’ve outgrown girl sports, we’ve learned our writing and reading, and I can play any instrument you put in front of me, but what does it matter? I learned to dance like a woman, but Castor and Pollux get to learn how to conquer kingdoms! It is not fair!”

“Ah.” Asterodia leaned forward once more. “So that it is? You feel a…” She thought a moment. “Disparity there, yes?...ambitious young woman.” She chuckled. “Girls in Athens don’t even learn to write.” 

“We are better than Athens, we are Sparta.” Clytemnestra’s sharp chin held itself high, etched with royal grace and stubbornness that was entirely her own. “And, therefore, I think we should be taught just as well as Castor or Pollux. Pollux is an idiot. Is he not, Penelope?”

“Well, he is still alive,” Penelope stuck out her tongue as she concentrated. “Most real idiots are no longer alive…Helen the blue yarn please-” Her pale fingers reached blindly into the air. 

“Will you ever not wish death upon him?” Helen sighed as she passed it along, a richly dyed ball of string imported from Egypt. 

“Never. Now Aunt Asterodia—” Clytemnestra strayed from her loom to kneel upon the ground before her, as though praying to a god. Asterodia sighed.

“You are going to make me do something that gets me in trouble,” Asterodia hummed down at her. She reached down to fix Clytemnestra’s hair, as it never sat as perfectly as Helen’s. It had all the frayed ends and misplaced strands of a mortal. 

“Give us a chance, please? You are a Queen ! Who would ever blame such a just and dutiful Queen—”

“Fine , fine—” Asterodia sighed, waving a hand to cease the begging. Clytemnestra caught that spark of amusement in her aunt’s eyes, one that had always remained even after years of boring Queenly duty. That is why she agreed. Entertainment was hard to come by sometimes. “Whatever mischief you get yourself into, dear niece, I, for the record, told you not to do.”

“Yes! Penelope, Helen, put down your yarn, won’t you? We have a point to prove!” 

“Ohhh, I was just getting to a good spot!” Helen whined. 

“This would not have to do with one-upping Pollux in any way, would it?” Penelope raised a thin eyebrow. She lets the string fall from her fingers, as easily as water flowed through them when she crouched along the beach. 

“Me ? Compete with him? Gods forbid,” Clytemnestra shook her head, that head filled with thoughts of Pollux’s sweet and utter defeat. Gods forbid indeed.
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As Pollux looked up from the map he was studying, he groaned. “Of all the places in this palace, why must you choose to bother me?” 

Clytemnestra smiled, her arms swinging along her side as she strode. Casual, as though she always had belonged there. “ Hello , brothers.” She smiled, the picture of innocent curiosity. Behind her trailed the usual; faintly curious and awkwardly lean Penelope, and truly bright and smiling Helen.

“Hello Pollux!” Helen greeted. It was only her smile that could worm its way through his displeasure, such was the way of Helen. She was too perfect to ever resent, too warm and basking in light. 

“Helen, you must not allow her to drag you into things. You’ll sully yourself.” Pollux grasped her perfect hand a moment before his sharp glare returned to Clytemnestra. “Now what is it?” 

“We’ve come to join you, in your studies.” Clytemnestra leaned over the table to study the map, hands resting along the edge. It was decorated with little wooden figures, faux troops meant to help design battle movement in case of a war or conflict. The kind of thing a prince learned and a princess was expected to stay far, far away from.

“Clytemnestra, you become more unreasonable every time I see you.” Pollux challenged with a sharp glare. Castor was more focused on his own map, moving a wooden figure along a river with one hand, while his chin rested in the other. He was allowed to be quiet, as his other siblings would very much make up for him. “Why would you learn any of this? It is unuseful to you. Worthless.” 

“I disagree,” Clytemnestra shrugged. She always loved saying that, for how mad it made him. That was the one thing a woman was not supposed to do. “I think you are just scared, that we might be better at it than you.” She wiggled her finger at him, watching him bristle and scrunch like a swan honking and flapping its wings. “Polly .”

“Clytemnestra. Go back to your loom .” Pollux rose up in his chair to scowl at her further, his blue eyes churning, like clouds eclipsing a clear sky. He had grown taller and now looked down at her. It pleased him, to an extent. Clytemnestra felt her annoyance build. That gods damned loom –

“No . For if you think I will give up an opportunity to embarrass you Pollux, you are more of a fool than I thought. Starting, with this!” Clytemnestra nodded to the map, a stubborn hand feeling around behind her to catch a slender arm. “Penelope! You are up.” 

Penelope, who had been wondering if it was too late to leave and return to her loom to finish her tapestry, blinked. “...Oh .”
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Penelope sat before scowling Pollux, in the chair Castor had been in. She was left with one side of the map, and he the other. His glare was murderous . 

“Clytemnestra, don’t make Castor and I embarrass the rest of you to prove a point.” Penelope felt him look her over, from her face in its constant expression of slight, unreasonable worry to the tops of her knobby knees, which were squished uncomfortably under the lip of the table. Penelope always looked a little worried about something , but being plopped before her cousin to do… this was not something she had even considered. She should have known better, in hindsight. 

“Um…what do we do exactly?” Penelope asked, and once again Pollux looked at her like she was stupid. 

“Each figure represents soldiers. You have your archers, your cavalry, and your foot soldiers. You use the map and determine the best course of action to win a battle,” Pollux paused a moment, “... Penelope , nobody, or should I say my sister , can make you do this if you do not wish to. I imagine it’s embarrassing.”

Penelope glanced over her shoulder at Clytemnestra. She looked well ready to burst into flames if Pollux kept talking, held back only by Helen clinging onto her arm and Castor standing firmly at her side. Though Penelope suspected that if she did lurch at him, Castor would let Pollux deal with such a mess himself. 

“...I suppose I can try. It could be fun,” Penelope offered slowly. Her fingers fiddled along the end of the table, feeling the slight dents in the wood. “Don’t expect too much of a challenge.”

“Do not worry, I certainly wasn’t.” Pollux sighed as he pushed forward a group of foot soldiers, letting the pieces knock against each other clumsily as he did. It was quick and lazy. He wished to be done with it. 

Penelope was never so rash. Not in anything. From the big things, like the choices of her life, to the small things, like making sure each wooden curling rod was inserted into her straight hair just right before dunking her head into hot water. It was against her methodical nature.

She took a moment to study the map, the pieces, the terrain. They were the same style of maps her father used in his planning, the kind he’d lean over lazily and tuck away in his memory immediately. He had insisted on having Penelope at his side all her life, and doing the same just came naturally to her. 

Her long, pale fingers reached for the archer first, positioning him along the ridges of the hill. 

After that, her mind took over the rest. She couldn’t help it. 

He split his men into two groups and sent one along each side of the ridge. They boxed themselves in along the cliffside however, and Penelope sent her little wooden cavalry to clear that up. 

When Pollux sent forward his foot soldiers, an honorable man would have fought them straight on. But Icarius had always loved going in from behind, the sides, facing a foe anywhere but where their eyes were. The archers distracted them, as Penelope drove them around behind them. 

“You’re doing that?” Penelope almost snorted, resting her chin in her hand as Pollux went to move his archers. Once you got her into such a thing, there was no getting her out until everything in her way was destroyed, a trait owed to clever Icarius of Sparta. 

Pollux glared at her and instead went to move half of his cavalry.

“Ooh not do that,” Penelope warned him. If he did that, her archers on either side could easily thin out their numbers.

Pollux hesitated, before going to instead change the formation of his footsoldiers into a square. Penelope hissed in a breath, it was almost painful to watch. 

“Pollux, no. My foot soldiers are in a crescent formation right before you, and you are choosing a square? Your army will be killed in seconds, and your king beheaded. Think of the fate of his children .” 

“Well, what do you want me to do?!” Pollux snapped, and Penelope swore she heard the faintest of chuckles from Castor. She thought a moment, letting her nimble fingers dance along her chin. 

“Mm…If I were your army, I would consider changing hands in leadership,” Penelope finally said. He stared at her blankly. 

“Oh be quiet!” Pollux finally snapped, rising to his feet, he smacked the map with both hands in a heavy thud . “I never should have agreed to this, this is stupid. You are not supposed to do this!” 

Penelope sighed, making a little cavalrypiece trot across the map. “Oops. Your king is dead, Pollux. That was quite fun, I enjoyed it.” 

“I– just–” Pollux groaned, burying his hands in his face. “ You are supposed to learn your thing, and I learn my thing! I do not try and learn WEAVING!” 

“Oh, that was fun. Thank you, clever duck.” Clytemnestra smiled, reaching down to pat the top of Penelope’s head. “Onto our next lesson, Pollux?” 

Pollux made a strangled scream from behind his hands.
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“Castor, Pollux, you are ready for—ah! We have guests!” Castor and Pollux’s teacher of debate, some old and wise Spartan philosopher, looked startled as they arrived. Helen was used to the usual odd stares, of course. It was part of looking as she did; when people saw you they looked startled at first, almost a little frightened. 

“Mhm .” Pollux was still pouting, arms all crossed over his chest. He was glaring at Penelope, who after coming down from her clever intoxication seemed very apologetic.  

“I told you I apologize , it was fun …” Despite her height, Penelope seemed to almost shrink into herself. Oh, Helen wished she wasn’t so worried all the time. It made her sad. 

“Ah, well…are you ready for your lesson?” The tutor asked though Pollux wasn’t in much of a state to be thinking of philosophical questions. He was too busy glaring at Penelope. 

“It’s not my fault you lost. ” 

“I didn’t lose Penelope !” 

“Tell that to your dead king’s children. ” 

“You are never finding a husband, are you? You’re just…stop being odd!”

“I will debate for Pollux.” Castor positioned himself behind a podium, calm where Pollux was bright and explosive like lightning. 

“Helen, would you like to take this one?” Clytemnestra leaned over her shoulder to point to the podium beside Castor. 

“Oh…Clytemnestra I’ve never done anything like that before—” Helen confessed. Penelope and Clytemnestra were the only ones she had ever really argued with. Everyone else usually agreed before an argument ensued, or Helen knew when to stand down. She never really asked for a lot of things. 

“You’re perfect at everything, might I remind you. You are Helen of Sparta.” Clytemnestra grinned, before shoving Helen forward with a slight squeak. 

“Fine! Fine! No pushing!” Helen frowned as she settled herself. 

“You’re, um… topic is, um…one we have been discussing. What is the role of humans in the universe?” The old philosopher spoke, but he did not look towards the podiums or Helen. She was only then aware that she was without a veil, and he acted as though to look upon her as if to stare directly into a scalding sun. “Um…Castor, you may begin.” 

“We need to look at our place to understand our role,” Castor began. His tone was low, effortlessly even. It was soft, not booming or brash like Pollux, but it was enough that you turned to watch him as he spoke. He folded his hands before him. “We exist as lesser beings to the Gods, so that must be our role. Without humans, Gods are merely a baseline for life. It is in relation to us that they are great. Lord Poseidon and his control of the waves seems great in contrast to us, as no man can do such a thing himself. The long life of those like Lady Hera only seems long, because our own lives are so brief. We are made to be lesser, so that they may be greater.” 

“Ah, an excellent, argument, Castor. Very pleasing to the Olympian pathion…now is, um…yes…” The old philosopher kept his eyes cast stubbornly to the tiles of the floor, waving a vague hand in the air to imply it was now Helen’s turn to speak. 

Helen was never the philosopher type. She never thought hard and stubbornly about the intricacies of life, its little ins, and outs. To Helen, life was merely the Spartan palace. The circular room she shared with her cousins. 

“Well, um…I don’t think we live to make the Gods look good,” Helen said slowly, unsure. Clytemnestra, from where she stood before her, nodded her on. Oh, why did she think Helen was the one to do this? Helen has never debated anyone! On anything! Yet, as she scanned the room she felt the philosopher watching her. That was the one thing she succeeded in, drawing eyes. “They are definitely stronger than us, and live longer than us, but there are some men who…well, become gods themselves, and how could that be so if we lived merely for them to look good? And then there are the gods who love the people of the world, and if we existed to make them greater then I think they would just love among one another…” 

Her brows furrowed in a rare moment of thought, of reflection. Gods were so odd. She thought back to the man in the courtyard, with his feathered hair and quick smile, or of the presence she felt as she fell from the tree. “...their lives may intertwine with ours, but when it comes to what we are here for, I think we exist just to live…like they do.” 

“That’s beautiful, Helen. Well done.” Castor gave her the faintest of smiles, before extending his hand to her. Helen couldn’t help but smile as she shook it. 

“Oh! Thank you! I have never done that before, was I good?”

“ What do you think Pollux?” Clytemnestra, from her spot leaning against Penelope’s arm, turned to raise an eyebrow at her brother. 

“I …you—” Pollux fumbled. “... Great, Helen.” 

“Oh, I’m so glad!” Helen squealed as she bound back over. “That was fun, Clytemnestra!”
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This was turning out quite wonderfully for Clytemnestra. As they walked, children of Icarius and Tyndareus together, Pollux still had that look on his face. Clytemnestra loved when she could make him mad, especially in public when he could not go on his rants; “ You’re a disgrace and a wretched beast ! I despise you! ” Well Pollux was a blaggard and a bastard, and Clytemnestra had little love in her heart for him in turn. Fundamentally, they were opposites. 

As they approached the training yard outside, Clytemnestra noticed Penelope’s look of constant anxiety seemingly worsened. 

“Nervous, duck?” 

“Me ? Nervous? No, I am not nervous.” Penelope shook her head fiercely as the sun hit her face, making her agate eyes squint.

“You can’t hide secrets from your secret keeper,” Clytemnestra reminded.

“Penelope, you can tell us!” Helen hung back as well, frowning at her seeming displeasure as Castor and Pollux pushed on ahead. Clytemnestra only heard half of their conversation, something about women and gossip . Gods she wanted to murder than blonde headed prick .

“...it is just being here , I fear it will be… awkward for—” 

“Oh! Epiphanes! I remember when he pointed to you, that was sweet.” 

“Quiet Helen,” Clytemnestra huffed before her faint smirk appeared. “If he wishes to speak with you, Penelope, then he can make an appointment through your father , hm? Then you’d never have to deal with him! He’d be dead.”

“Do not even begin. ” Penelope sighed. She didn’t deny it. 

As they walked, Clytemnestra listened to the sound of metal scraping, of men grunting as they fought and sparred and honed themselves. On instinct, she reached to grab onto either of their sleeves. She was never a trusting person. 

“You’ve made your point, Clytemnestra,” Pollux spoke over his shoulder as he approached a wooden rack, and from it drew his sword. “Congratulations. You’ve wasted your time. You can all go now, it looks like your hair needs to be redone.” 

“Ah little brother,” Clytemnestra tugged her cousin and sister to a stop. “We are not done.” 

“Clytemnestra ,” Penelope began in her soft, logical warning. 

Pollux scoffed a laugh. “... You are not serious.” 

“You two, stay here,” Clytemnestra released their sleeves, before walking over to the rack herself. Helen grabbed onto Penelope’s arm in her anxiety, she was always a clinger. 

“Clytemnestra!”

“You , are not serious.” Pollux looked down at her in disbelief, in challenge as Clytemnestra went to tie her skirt around her legs. She grabbed a sword of her own. 

“Deathly. Square up.”

“Clytemnestra , father would kill me! I am not going to fight you with a sword. You’re being ridiculous!” 

Clytemnestra had never used a sword herself, but she did have something going for her. The first to hatch always carried a certain unbridled rage with them. 

“Pollux , don’t be a little bitch. For the love of Ares.” 

“I’M NOT GOING TO FIGHT YOU! ” Pollux shrieked, and when he did his voice cracked up an octave. 

“Too bad for you then.” Clytemnestra swung it at him, and he stumbled back with a dodge. It came surprisingly naturally, like braiding Helen’s hair or disciplining Philone and Phoebe. She grinned. 

“CLYTEMNESTRA !” He roared. “I am not turning a SWORD to my SISTER!” 

“Your sister is turning one to you. Buck up, Polly.” Clytemnestra poked his side with a snort. 

“You are dishonoring me, and father, and —”

“If you just admitted that we were as good as you, this wouldn’t happen. Penelope can strategize, Helen can debate, and I can turn a sword at you.” 

“It is not the same–” Pollux glared. “ We are not the same. You learn your things, we learn our things. If you keep straying from your station, you will ruin things for yourself, but also for Helen. I won’t let you do that! You’re being disrespectful, and selfish!”

“Pollux ,” Castor spoke in slight warning, but his brother ignored him. 

“I am selfish?” Clytemnestra stared at him blankly. 

“...perhaps we should lower the swords,” Penelope suggested.

“Yes, you are!” Pollux’s knuckles grew pale with how hard he gripped the leather handle. 

“You have never had a day of responsibility in your life ,” Clytemnestra spoke between clenched jaws. She crept closer. “Congratulations Pollux , you wanted to be a man, and now you are acting like your father.” It was the greatest insult she could give him. Clytemnestra had spent her entire life keeping composure, but when she brought that sword down on Pollux, it was gone. He blocked it with his own, but Clytemnestra’s own rage made it hard to care, for she just drew it back and smacked it against his again, again, and again until he staggered. Selfish . Selfish ?!

“Say it! Who am I like?!” Pollux challenged. Ares overtook her in that moment, and with a sharp hand, she shoved him into the rack of swords. 

“ZEUS!” Clytemnestra screamed at him. Helen cowered at their fighting, or maybe the name. Or both.

“Prince Pollux. Princess Clytemnestra.” A voice drew Clytemnestra out as she went to draw the sword back again, and at that rate, she did not know how many blows she had delivered him. She blinked, letting the sword fall as Epiphanes, blonde beard shining in the sun, walked to them in his long strides. Penelope tried to shuffle behind Helen, but it was no use. Her towering height made it hard to hide behind anything. “This is a yard for training, not…” he glanced between the two of them, speaking in that serious yet awkward way he did, “brawls. ” He reached a hand down to help the Prince of Sparta to his feet.

“We apologize, Epiphanes.” Castor stepped forward from where he had been standing aside Helen, bowing his head in soft apology. “It won’t happen again.” 

“Pollux,” Clytemnestra began. It was almost softly surprised, as she extended a hand towards him. She was the first hatched. She had one job, one role. Protect her siblings. No matter who they were. “I did not mean—” 

“Don’t touch me!” Pollux snapped as he smacked the hand away. “You have made your point, Clytemnestra.” It was pure venom. Opposites is what they were. A daughter of Tyndareus, and a son of Zeus.

Chapter Text

Xenia was a tricky, complicated thing, for breaking it was inexcusable. “Imagine” , a mother would describe, “if a god visited your home, and it was they you disrespected.” It was then followed up by promises of torture at Olympian hands, and as such everyone was made well sure to follow Xenia exactly. Guests were to be honored, and treated like treasured friends. And most of all, their privacy was to be respected.

“You insufferable wenches.” the Head Maid of the Spartan House paces back and forth like some maddened dog, wringing her wrinkled hands. “This senseless, girlish gossip must stop. Every single one of you, or your mouths will be clamped shut do you hear me?! Do I make myself clear?!” She could yell and bark orders like any taskmaster, any general. She glared down the line of maids like they were useless to her, pure rotted uselessness. “Am I clear?!” She barked. 

“Yes, mistress. ” The murmur made its rounds over the room, each girl tightly clenching her hands together before her.

“Good . Now, we are to harbor our great allies from fair Messenia, and I expect them to be pleased. Whatever they need, we shall give them, for Sparta will not be upstaged by anyone—” As she walked the line, the old taskmaster stopped. Her eyes narrowed, like those of a hawk swooping down to meet its prey. The poor young maid before her had no time to yank away her hand before the old woman grabbed it.

“Pearls ?” She snarled at the bracelet on her wrist. A simple, dainty gold chain with a pearl in its center. Just enough to catch the light. She yanked it off, so sharply the chain snapped across her wrist. “Wherever does a maid get pearls?!” 

The maid whimpered and cradled her hand against her chest. No other girl turned to watch the show, for they knew better. Melantho almost cringed at the sight. Poor fool.

“Now back to work!” The old woman barked. “The house of Sparta will not be embarrassed, and Xenia will not be ignored…” She let the golden chain dangle from her withered fingers, as though it were filth. “And never will any maid of mine wear pearls. Now off with you!”
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“Messenian’s, hm?” Clytemnestra laid on her cushions, splayed out like some growing, branching vine. “Duck, are they an interesting people?” She twirled her fingers along in the air, as though doing so would help her catch a fleeting idea of the people staying in the Spartan palace. “Tell me of them.” 

“Well, Messenia borders Elis, and on its other end Arcadia. The land is very fertile there, Demeter is their most beloved patron. Every year they cook a massive feast of grain in her name, to comfort her as Lady Persephone once again descends into the underworld to be at the side of her husband. We have not always been so fond of them, they are a proud hearty people, but having Messenia as an ally is far greater a victory than having them as an enemy,” Penelope turned the page in her book as she spoke. She was lying, as she often was, upon the floor. Long limbs spread like a starfish, and straight black hair poured out over her head like spilled ink.

“Penelope, how do you just… know things?” Helen sighed from where she gazed out the window, curled up on the sill. Helen often envied her for that. Penelope knew a great many things, seemingly without trying, while Helen felt she knew little of anything. 

“Listening,” she said simply, flipping the page with a nimble finger. She did do lots of that.

“I listen!” Helen frowned. 

“I never said you didn’t.”

“Less geography, and more of the guests, won’t you?” Clytemnestra sighed. “I appreciate how clever you are, but stay focused, duck.”

“I overheard my father speak of it. Some prince of the house accompanying his cousins, princesses of Messenia. He heard Tyndareus had a house full of girls, I suppose he wished for all of us to become the best of friends…or perhaps he wishes to unload his daughters on Castor and Pollux.” 

“Never would I wish such a fate on anyone,” Clytemnestra murmured to herself. 

“You are both so grim!” Helen spun around to face them, planting her feet firmly on the floor. “We may actually speak with them! Become friends! We never make any friends within the palace, there is no one to speak to, believe me, I try—” 

Clytemnestra scoffed as she propped herself on her elbows. “We are your friends, Helen,” her voice was equal parts offended and annoyed.

“You are my sister and my cousin, that is different!” Helen groaned. “You have to be my friends.” 

“I could be your enemy too,” Penelope offered blankly. 

“...I can never tell when you joke,” Helen frowned at her. She didn’t think she was being serious, but Penelope’s humor was often so dry it made her brows furrow. “...please don’t do that, though.” 

“I would consider it.” 

“Helen ,” Clytemnestra sighed, as she often did. Exasperated as she explained whatever she was talking about a thousand times over. “It’s all about politics, not braiding each other’s hair or gossiping. They want us to become friends, so that our fathers may become friends and do as men do: stab and pillage things.”

“Well, just because they wish us to do so, doesn’t mean I also do not want to!” Helen insisted. She was so excited her hands flapped about, trying to move her golden red hair out of her face. Of course, it always moved right back into its perfectly placed curls, framing her round cheeks. “Penelope, they could be as clever as you! And Clytemnestra! They could be…well, maybe they are distrusting of people and think them all awful as you do.” 

“I do not think most people are awful, Helen,” Clytemnestra glowered at her, “most of them just happen to be that way. Possibly including these Messenians who might I remind you, are strangers. And I taught you better than to trust strangers.” 

Helen sighed as she turned back to the window, a slight pout on her face as she adjusted her skirt.

“Must you be so strict with me?” She harped.

“Oh quiet. I will show you strict,” Clytemnestra countered. “Penelope?” 

“Don’t involve me in your bickering,” Penelope sighed as she set aside her book when it lost her interest. “I shall find out what I can about them, though.” It sounded like a nice challenge if nothing else. A little riddle to solve. That and Sparta did not get visitors often. Tyndareus was wary of letting people into the palace when inside lay perhaps the most precious of Spartan treasure.

“Oh? And how will you do that?” Clytemnestra challenged.

Penelope rose to her feet, holding out her lanky arms to properly balance herself before she made her way to the vanity. 

“I have ways.” 

“Ooo, mysterious.” 

“What will you do Penelope?” Helen frowned. She gained a certain skepticism about her, one she did not have very often. 

Penelope dug through her bowls of things, through her little leather bags from trading ships, cinched with ribbon along the top. It came with being the favored daughter of a king. Icarius took every opportunity to buy of her whatever it was she so much as glanced at, anything she so much as mentioned. Golden trinkets and statues, silver hair combs with carved handles, perfumed oils and balms in tall bottles of colored glass, and any piece of jewelry he deemed worthy enough for her. Pearls is what he kept her in. So many pearls she would never be able to wear them all. Earrings, circlets, bangled bracelets and cuffs, and even just long strings of them. She tugged a few from her string, letting them fall into the pale palm of her hand. “Walls have ears…and if you are clever enough, you may even get them to speak.” Penelope closed her fingers around them, one by one.
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A young maid scurried along her way, walking along the wall as she had been taught. She had been a Spartan maid since she had been alive, and Spartan maids knew better than to walk along the middle of the hall. That’s where more important people walked; men of council, soldiers, and royalty. You would hate to run into one of them. For Pollux would shout at you to “watch your damned step , woman!”, or that stern son of Icarius, Perilaos, would lecture you of the importance of staying out of the way of the Princes of the House. He thought doing so would make him impressive and strong in the eyes of his father, not that Icarius noticed him anyway.

And so, Damia, carrier of things, strayed from the light. In her arms, she carried the belongings of those of Messenia. She was to put them in their residence before they reached it, out of sight as any servant should be. It was unfortunate, however, that as she neared the door of the guest wing she heard voices.

“This is pointless.”

“Diplomacy isn’t pointless, is it? Complaining will get you nowhere,” the rather light voice of the Messenian prince drifted through the air, like the sloshing of waves on a warm afternoon. “Sparta is a lovely place to be. Beloved by the Gods are the Spartans…” his voice trailed off. 

“Still pointless!” His cousin shot back. “The journey is too far, the sun too hot, and Sparta is so needlessly violent. I have no idea why Father would send us here.” 

“Hilaeira, you despise this place before it gives you a reason,” he urged gently. “You know what father expects of us. Of you and Phoebe, particularly. Sparta is a very important ally to us.” 

“Well, he should be here himself then.” 

“The daughters of Tyndareus , Hilaeira. You know they’d much rather speak to you than I. Good, relations between us are important. Do you realize how hard it was to arrange a diplomatic visit when this palace is practically locked away from everything? Tyndareus is very particular about who he lets in, and who he allows around his people. We’re lucky for this. Messenia is lucky, considering if Sparta wished to they could crush us like a bug. Good relations may be the one thing keeping them from doing so.”

“Oh, the daughter of Tyndareus,” The girl, Hilaeira, scoffed. “You don’t really believe what they say, do you Idas? About the daughter of King Tyndareus, the most beautiful girl in the world? No . I’d say they’re hiding something. Perhaps that's why everything is so locked up. They don’t wish for people to see their plans of conquest.” 

Damia straightened, startled as a head peaked around the open door. It was a younger girl, staring at her silently. Her hair was thick and curled, her complexion rich like freshly sunned clay. 

“Phoebe what is it—?” Her sister peaked out next, the eldest, Hilaeira. Her nose crinkled as she saw Damia. 

“I-I apologize—” She began quickly. “I bring your things—” 

“Oh .” Hilaeira, assessed her for a moment, firmly appraising with eyes the color of sun-dried olive pits. Damia cursed herself a moment. She was sneakier than that, she knew she was sneakier than that— “...Fine. Come along.”

Damia tugged in their things, and as she set them in their place she found Hilaeira and Idas were silent. People rarely spoke, when it seemed the walls themselves were listening. That is when whispered words always stopped.

Damn it all. If only she let them keep talking. Melantho would just have to take what Damia could get.
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“I am Idas, of Messenia. It is a pleasure to meet you,” he smiled as he bowed his head before the Princes of Sparta. Not enough to be groveling, but enough to show his respect. 

“Messenia, hm? A long way from home they are.” Pollux leaned over his shoulder to speak to his brother, his blue eyes danced like lightning streaked through them. “Certainly, Castor?”

“Mhm.”

“A pleasure.” Perilaos nodded his head quickly, his heels pressed together in rigid princely posture. He was representing his father of course. And Gods forbid he embarrassed himself in place of his father. 

“Why in the hells is he standing like that? ” 

“Give him slack, he’s nervous, ” Penelope murmured from where they sat in the shade, veiled like statues covered to prevent dust from accumulating on them. The Princes of Sparta were welcomed under the light of the sun, their fathers always harping about how good the sun was for a strong, growing prince. It was discouraged for a Princess, especially after outgrowing the age of Spartan girl sports.

“Besides, I will not have you running wild as you so often enjoy ,” Tyndareus had glared at them. Clytemnestra had heard it all before.

“Poor Perilaos,” Helen murmured with a frown. 

“Ugh, do not even begin,” Clytemnestra rolled her eyes.

“That Messenian is rather handsome, isn’t he? ” Helen leaned forward in her seat, admiring him. He was tanned, and tall, with dark hair that swept and waved like water. He had dimples on his cheeks when he spoke, like little holes, you’d poke into the sand with your fingers when feeling for clams. 

“Eh. ” Clyemnestra leaned back under the flowy cover they had been given, letting the shade envelop all but her sandaled shoes. 

“Oh, you’re a horrible judge for such a thing. Penelope? ”

“How could I possibly say? I don’t know him. ”

“You don’t have to know him to see if he is handsome! You just look!” Helen sighed. 

“Shh .” Clytemnestra raised her hand, watching keenly as Idas stepped aside to show the two veiled women behind him. While Spartans wore rich colors, they were more…plain. Washed out like the color had been soaked out of them by the sea. 

“My sisters; Phoebe and Hilaeira,” he introduced with that dimpled smile. Where Helen was kept in such a thick veil you may never see her, their faces peered out from beneath sheer fabric, hair stacked upon their heads like dark bird nests. They were too far away to make out any real features, but Pollux leaned back against Castor’s shoulder like he did when they whispered between each other.

“We should discuss things, men to men,” Perilaos suggested rigidly, trying to conjure the firm, chilled demeanor of his father. He only captured the faintest bits of it. “Come, Pollux and I will show you around the grounds. The soldiers are training, and we may discuss diplomacy. As you know, Messenia is quite advantageous in its location, considering its borders—” He winced, stopped as he caught the sharp, bony end of Pollux’s elbow. 

“Ignore him. He’s eager you know,” Pollux rolled his eyes at his cousin, “we should go look at the soldiers' training, though. You enjoy the sword?” 

“Oh, naturally,” Idas smiled in good-natured excitement, looking between the three Princes of Sparta like a boy eager to run off with his friends into olive groves. After a moment, however, a sensible frown crossed over his face, making those dimples disappear. “I am the chaperone of my sisters, though, they should not be left.”

“My sister can watch them. Clytemnestra is great at that. CLYTEMNESTRA!” Pollux yelled across the garden, motioning with a hand to the two, as though to say another two for your brood !

“Careful,” Penelope murmured in Clytemnestra’s ear. She held onto her forearm with nimble fingers. If she didn’t, Clytemnestra very well may have blown into a fiery ball of rage that rivaled the likes of Ares and Zeus themselves.

“Women do better in herds,” Pollux explained, “that way they look after each other.” He stopped before the shortest of the princesses, leaning down a little as he spoke. “I’ll even take them over for you, Idas.”
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Pollux walked them over, motioning with a flourish to the pillowed seats under their sun cover. It was picturesque almost; colorful pillows resting along a blanket of soft grass, with chilled and watered down wine in goblets and Penelope plucking away at that ever out-of-tune lyre. 

“For your capable hands,” Pollux said. Clytemnestra’s hands curled against the silks. 

Helen felt a fire was burning through her, but not like Clytemnestra’s. This was a kind of excitement. The kind that left her hands restlessly fidgeting in her lap, and her feet tapping out rhythms she never even knew she knew. As Pollux left she felt Clytemnestra’s sandaled foot nudge hers, the faintest of warnings, but that excitement fire was too bright to really pay attention to much else. Helen never met new people. Never, ever, ever . She had been surrounded by many of the same people since her birth; old nurses and women of the house who Tyndareus need not worry about having a wandering eye. This was new , Messenian princesses, with stories from outside the walls she had never left. 

“I’m Helen —” the words fell out of her, clumsy and hitting the front of her thick veil as her feet bounced, “Let us walk the gardens together! Shall we? I think it might be quite enjoyable, the gardens of Sparta are very beautiful—Hilaeira was it? And Phoebe? Oh, that’s a lovely name. My sister has the same one!” Clytemnestra sighed at her side, but once again Helen was far too eager to care. “Oh! You’re both lovely.” She observed them, not even thinking to hide the fact that she was. 

Hilaeira was the tallest. Copper-skinned, regal-faced like a fox, with curly hair the color of freshly spilled tree sap. Phoebe was shorter, wide-eyed, and startled like a doe that had locked eyes with some eager hunting party. Her skin was darker, her hair more tightly curled and elaborately braided along her head, and she seemed to lean into Hilaeira for harbor. Helen found them beautiful; she found most women she met to be so, in their own ways. Though usually when she told them so they’d roll their eyes at her, or look so disbelieving in the fact that it saddened her.

“Helen ,” Hilaeira repeated, eyes narrowing just so. “Daughter of Tyndareus, Helen?” 

“Yes! My dear father,” Helen smiled, before quickly grabbing Clytemnestra’s arm. “Clytemnestra’s too, of course…this is Clytemnestra, my sister. Say hi, won’t you?” 

“Hi .” Clytemnestra practically sighed it, and Helen wanted to shake her back and forth. Be excited, for the love of the Gods! 

“And this is my cousin, Penelope, Daughter of Uncle Icarius. I am sure he was the one who arranged this whole thing, both of them are so clever, I tell you,” Helen laughed, light-heartedly and sweetly as she patted Penelope’s arm. “Pen?” 

She nodded beneath her veil, cordial and simple as she plucked a string. The walls they put up at times made Helen want to scream.

“...Ah ,” Hilaeira said, “a pleasure to meet you all.” The way she spoke was not unpleasant, but it was not as bright or kind as Helen was. Not that she noticed.

“And you! Truly, Sparta does not welcome many visitors,” Helen rambled, “we are quite glad to have you. It is not often women visit, very often it is old men I am not allowed to see—“ When most spoke so frequently it grew tiresome, but Helen had the charm that only came with being gut-wrenchingly, divinely beautiful. Even as her face was covered, you could sense it in the air like fresh flower pollen. “You will walk with us, won’t you?” 

“Certainly,” Hilaeira said carefully, reaching over to pat along Phoebe’s knuckles. She had the oddest way of speaking, careful but not anxious. Clear and simple, but with an undertone that made Penelope’s head tilt slightly, and Clytemnestra’s eyes narrow. 

“Oh, wonderful!” Helen squealed, hurrying to her feet so quickly she almost tripped over her own skirt. 

“Careful,” Clytemnestra warned. At such haste to reach her feet, Phoebe gave a slightly startled leap herself. Hilaeira sighed. 

“Careful there, Phoebe.”
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Helen led them along, the warm summer breeze making the layers they wore flutter in the wind. She was positively talking their ears off, but Clytemnestra didn’t tell her to shush. She was allowed to be excited, even if her excitement was as overwhelming and all-encompassing as the rest of her.

“So! Messenia, your home, tell me of that—” Helen asked excitedly, walking lightly on her sandaled toes. 

“Not much to it,” Hilaeira said simply. Clytemnestra did not trust her. Not that she trusted most people, but Hilaeira had such a way of speaking. Something more than what she showed to her sister, and Clytemnestra did not like when people tried to deceive Helen. “Lots of horses. Lots of fields. A river.” 

“I enjoy horses!” Helen chimed in. 

“Mhm. Naturally, naturally ,” Hilaeira hummed. Clytemnestra didn’t like the way she spoke to Helen in particular, she could feel the condescension. 

“I never was a fan of horses,” Clytemnestra said coldly. “I’ve never met a kind one.” 

“I find that surprising. They’re very social creatures, Princess.” 

“Well, maybe the ones I’ve met are just two-faced,” Clytemnestra straightened her posture as she walked. 

“Oh?”

“...Let us talk about something else!” Helen laughed, rather nervously. 

“I have a topic,” Hilaeira began. Clytemnestra wished she didn’t. “Why do you wear those… things on your heads? They cannot be comfortable, in the heat of the summer.”

“Oh! Well…” Helen trailed off a little.

“We’re unmarried,” Clytemnestra said flatly. “Why else?”

“They’re so thick though. Like wool, How do you breathe out of them?” Hilaeira tilted her head. 

Clytemnestra felt her jaw set. If Helen did not exist, if it were just her and Penelope, their veils would be thinner—like the ones Hilaeira and Phoebe wore. They had nothing to conceal, nothing to hide but mediocrity. But if Helen needed to wear it, they all would. It was not a burden Clytemnestra would ever wish for her to carry by herself. 

“Well…it is challenging, but you get used to it,” Helen smiled as she walked, clapping her hands together.

“You should just take it off,” Hilaeira suggested off-handedly. “You are among friends, Helen.”

“You do not have to do that,” Clytemnestra replied immediately. And we are not your friends.

“You’re quiet, aren’t you.” Penelope bent down to watch Phoebe as they followed behind. “...do you like sea birds?”

Phoebe stayed silent. 

“Mhm, mhm. I see.”

 “Helen. I don’t see why not,” Hilaeira stopped along the path, looking at a particularly lovely grouping of hyacinths. 

“You consider me a friend?” Helen perked up, stopping by Hilaeira’s side to observe with her. 

“...Geography?” Penelope tried again as they stopped, but still, Phoebe did not say a word. She played with her fingers, rather. Scraping at cuticles.

“Well, you’ve certainly been friendly,” Hilaeira chuckled, reaching down to pluck the flower as though it were hers to take.

“Oh I’ve so tried to be—” Helen breathed out a smile, Clytemnestra could sense it in her voice. She was being played like a lyre. “I don’t see why we couldn’t, Clytemnestra?” 

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Clytemnestra said firmly. 

“Well, are you ugly under there?” Hilaeira asked Clytemnestra bluntly, so bluntly she took a moment to properly gather her thoughts. She was not mean like Pollux was mean, she could speak in that light tone and then out of nowhere just…venom. 

“I—” Clytemnestra floundered, and it was not often that she floundered. 

“Hm.” Hilaeira smiled, and it was quite pleasant as she did. “I did not mean to offend. I was just curious. I’ve never seen Spartan princesses before.” 

“No…I want to,” Helen replied surely. “If we are to be friends, a friend should know who you are!” She nodded, as though to assure herself, yes, yes Helen that idea is good , as lifted the fabric from her face. 

Hilaeira blinked at her, and as all where, for a moment was so overcome all she could do was stare. 

“My Gods…” she breathed, and a smile slowly curled across her face. “It is true, isn’t it? You really are…” 

Helen was used to the compliments, but they still always made her a little embarrassed. Penelope lifted her own, peering at Phoebe with clear, agate eyes. 

“Reading?” Penelope asked.

Phoebe still didn’t answer, though this time she had an excuse, as she watched Helen in silent appreciation. 

“Ah, that is…a relief! I feel as though we may all know each other when we are free of face,” Helen smiled radiantly. “Clytemnestra! You must join us!” Helen went to lift Clytemnestra’s veil. Under it, she had turned the most peculiar shade of red. The kind that traveled up her long swan neck, up onto her cheeks, and finally tickled the tips of her ears.

“Hm .”
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The sound of metal clashing was accompanied by Idas’polite and gleaming wonder. That was usually newcomers' reaction to Spartan soldiers. They looked at them in wonder, at their skill with swords and spears, and at the gleaming armor crafted from the finest bronze Icarius could snatch up. 

“Sparta is truly impressive…” Idas marveled. 

“Hardly more impressive than what you bring, Idas,” Pollux stretched his arms, as he walked, more at ease than the fierce rigidity of Perilaos. “Your sisters didn’t make a sound. Mine could never do that.” 

Castor walked silently at his side, firmly neutral all except for the slight squint as the sun got in his eyes. 

“Yes, they’re never that quiet—” Perilaos chimed in, ever eager to be included with the men of the house. Perilaos had no brother at his side like Pollux always did, so it was their affection he chased like a racehorse.

“Ah…” Idas chuckled, “Well…my father always made sure to keep them in their place. Hilaeira is opinionated, but she knows it has a time and a place. Phoebe…Phoebe has always been quiet, you will never catch her saying much.” 

“Phoebe…” Pollux spoke it slowly, as though testing it out on his tongue. Perilaos looked at him oddly as he did, how he seemed to consume her name like wine. “It was a pleasure for me, to meet her” 

Castor gave him an odd look. 

“And you, Idas? Why are you here?” Pollux continued as he walked along the path, glancing down at the gradual slope at the manly fighting and clashing of swords that stretched out on display. “You’re not here for my sister Helen, are you? If you were I’d have to kill you.” He waited for a beat before he laughed, brash and crackly like lightning. “Gods I’m joking. Your face! Castor, did you see it?” 

“Mhm.” 

“He didn’t see, that rotten bastard. You know, sometimes I think he tells me just what I want to hear,” Pollux crinkled his nose at him, but kept walking. “Seriously though. Not Helen. Help yourself to Clytemnestra, if she doesn’t bite your head off. Or a more useful part of you.” Pollux held back the smirk that usually came when he said something so crude. He liked to watch people stutter over themselves, though Idas, the good sport, took it in strides. Pollux sensed some sort of divinity in him that made him likable enough. Perhaps Lord Poseidon's lineage, with how his hair fell in waves.

“I didn’t come here for Helen,” Idas assured carefully, “this is… purely for the sake of strengthening the goodwill between Messenia and Sparta.” 

“Then Perilaos is who you should speak to,” Pollux rested a hand on Perilaos’ shoulder, and in doing so made him straighten and preen with pride. “He is disgustingly interested in all that boring political nonsense.” 

“I think Messenia is a beautiful little Kingdom, I’ve seen it on my maps.” Perilaos had to recline his head back to get a good look at him, especially walking so close to his side. “The rivers are beautiful, the water and the flow of bronze trading through the area is quite beneficial, you know, and the increased rate of crop production due to the soil flowing down from the mountains—” 

“I told you. Rambling about nothing, and nothing, and—” Pollux leaned back on his heels, rolling his eyes. Perilaos flushed in pure embarrassment, as he did when Pollux wasn’t interested in what he had to say. 

“No, go on,” Idas chuckled as he looked down at him, and as he smiled his dimples came out. “I think it’s interesting you know so much, not many people pay Messenia any mind. Especially not a prince of such a prosperous city-state like Sparta. What were you saying, Perilaos?

The color traveled up Perilaos’ neck, up to his cheeks, and finally to the tips of his ears. He had turned the most peculiar shade of red.

“I—...you want me to keep talking?” Not many people wished for such a thing. Not Pollux, certainly not Perilaos’ father. 

“Of course, you have a lot to say. That deserves to be listened too,” he rested a hand of Perilaos’ shoulder, good natured as his dimpled smile.

A maid, Lais, replaced a straw training dummy and watched as they walked. The sun was caught in her eyes, but her ears? Perfectly clear.

More for Melantho.
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Night had fallen, and Clytemnestra watched the fire crackle. She lay over the rug, picking away at its fibers. She was, as she always was, with her companions. 

“Oh, they’re just lovely! I think this could be wonderful for us, all of us!” Helen grinned as she combed out her hair with her fingers. She sat before her vanity, covered in bottles of perfume and girlish cosmetics she would never really need, for how could perfection be improved upon?

“Just lovely,” Clytemnestra grumbled under her breath. “ Oh, lovely lovely lovely. Shut up, Helen.”

Helen frowned.

“Is this about what she said to you?” Penelope sighed. She walked behind Helen, gathering her hair behind her head as she glanced over her shoulder to speak to her other cousin. “She was just trying to get under your skin. It’s a common political strategy.” 

“Well, she didn’t!” Clytemnestra snapped. She didn’t. No one got under her skin. She was the one who got under hers. In fact, Clytemnestra had not paid Hilaeira one thought. Not one. Not about her narrowed fox-like eyes, or her faint smirk. Not about the way she spoke in the garden, or, the way her fingers danced across the petals of that hyacinth before pluck!

 Sickening. It made her stomach churn, like the Styx. 

“She certainly didn’t.” Penelope clipped back Helen’s hair with nimble fingers. “Oh, don’t frown, it’s enough to break my heart when you do that,” She poked Helen’s perfect, round cheek with her thumb. 

“Hmph ,” Helen crossed her arms over herself, slumping down, down, down into her chair.

“I’m sorry Helen. You know I didn’t mean it,” Clytemnestra sighed, “I just…do not trust newcomers. Especially not ones so eager to see you, and are so…so-” Clytemnestra had never been outspoken like that before. 

“You are wound tighter than my best stitches, Nessie,” Penelope stacked up Helen’s hair on top of her head, before letting it fall in her face. “I can’t braid it when you slouch, sloucher.” 

Helen sputtered over her hair as it fell across her face. She tried to shove it out of her eyes and, more pressingly, her mouth. “Eugh! Penelope!” 

“Whoops.” Penelope patted the top of her head, her way to say you got this, before turning back to look at Clytemnestra. “You need to relax. If they have any ill intent, I will find it.” 

“You keep saying that,” Clytemnestra grumbled as she rose to her feet. “It does not matter. I am going for a walk before bed. If I’m left alone with my thoughts and your noise, I’ll go insane.” 

“Be careful,” Penelope called out the familiar warning when Clytemnestra moved to the door. She parted Helen’s red curls down the middle and spread them like a curtain. “Sweet freedom.” 

“Eugh- you two never give me any peace! All you are is mean to me!” Helen whined. 

“The meanest,” Penelope agreed, shaking her by her shoulder until finally Helen gave a giggle.

Clytemnestra slipped out into the quiet hall and took a breath. Under her skin. Wound tightly. Oh, they had not even begun to see Clytemnestra bound tightly. She hated the implication, that this… stranger somehow weaseled into any portion of her mind. She walked, feet heavy as the scowl she wore. No. It was merely distrust. Her mind paid attention to possible threats. As the eldest, it was her job to think about these things. Make sure things her anxieties did not come to fruition. For Helen’s sake, for Penelope’s. 

Her stomach still churned. 

Clytemnestra did not know how far she walked, she was too distracted in her own head, but she knew when she stopped. It was when she caught a glimpse of a hand on a doorknob, and the stiffening of shoulders and of a fox-like face, framed by curls. 

“...You,” Clytemnestra spoke it almost accusing, her eyes flickering to the door and back. She knew it. That’s what it was, suspicion! “That is the door to Uncle Icarius’ office.” Oh, she loved being right. 

“Ah, is that what this is?” Hilaeira mused, resting a thumb on her sharp chin. “Mm.”

“Thief ,” Clytemnestra hissed, a smirk spreading over her face. “Oh, I knew you were up to no good! You could be killed for that, you know.” 

“I did not steal anything,” Hilaeira held up her copper palms, scoffing at the accusations. 

“You could have stuffed them in your chiton,” Clytemnestra countered. “Tried to hide them like a coward. What do you have in there?”

“What, you want me to take it off?” The comment did what it set out to do; made Clytemnestra flounder and the color claw back up her neck.  “I did not touch any of your things , Spartan. Gods! Messenia is not that poor.” Hilaeira eyed her with that sharp, keen eye. 

“…then what were you doing then?” Clytemnestra snapped in a hiss. 

“Looking.”

“For what?” 

“Oh, don’t be dumb. You are not…or at least I don’t think you are, I’m not so sure anymore,” Hilaeira said. Gods she was… brash . It made the color tickle Clytemnestra’s ears. “Sparta is planning to crush Messenia under its boot, then come in and claim it for itself. We are not dumb.” she accused right back. It was then the hostility made sense. She saw Clytemnestra as just as much of a threat as Clytemnestra saw her. Another eldest, trying to protect its nest. 

“You were looking for the plans to prove it?” Clytemnestra blinked at her in surprise. “...That is a stupid idea,” she said bluntly.

She expected Hilaeira’s narrowed eyes to be accompanied by a frown, but they weren’t. 

“It’s better to find plans of attack than be conquered by surprise and taken as prisoner. Or worse, wife of your brothers.” Hilaeira leaned back on her heels. “So fine. Call the Spartan guards to cart me outside like a sick dog. I’d consider it an improvement.”

Clytemnestra did not. She could not entirely explain why.

“Your stealth could use work. I’m sure half the palace heard you rattling that doorknob.” Clytemnestra raised an eyebrow. “...He keeps everything locked, you know. He’s paranoid like an old bastard.”

“I know that now, could you not have told me earlier?” Hilaeira sighed as she cast one more glare to the door, as though it were her sworn enemy.

“Do you want the key to the treasury too? If I’m to give you all of Sparta’s secrets.” 

She laughed at that. Her laugh did sound a bit like a fox chatter. It fit her face and the rest of her. “ Spartan secrets, hm? And what of yours?” Hilaeira, in her odd way of speaking, let her head tilt to the side. Her lips stretched like red cloth as she smiled, her eyes were heavily lidded yet gleamed in torchlight. 

Her stomach still churned. No one had ever really looked at her like that, centering all their attention on Clytemnestra. She thought about calling for a Spartan guard, her brother Pollux to come take care of her. What a bold woman, perhaps as bold as Clytemnestra herself. She had never met another like that. And it did not help that she had that effect all beautiful people had, the one that made your veins beat with your heart. Clytemnestra felt… odd , in a way she never did before. Though her remarks usually came quickly, she took a moment to think this one through. 

“Those hardly come easy.” Clytemnestra finally said. 

“Well, I already know one,” Hilaeira confessed, as though it were a secret between the two of them. “Princess.” 

“And which is that?” 

“The one from the garden” Hilaeira took a step forward, and those eyes seemed to dart over every square inch of Clytemnestra’s face. Part of her wanted to step back, but she didn’t. “You’re certainly not ugly…perhaps you can spill more of your secrets if you wish to meet me tomorrow?” 

She spoke so smoothly , that Clytemnestra knew it was not her first time asking such a question. Yet she found herself nodding, her head bobbing before she could stop it. Hilaeira smiled, and Clytemnestra’s head had never felt so terribly muddled and hot before. Perhaps she was sick.  

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Night had fallen, and Pollux was, as he always was, with his companions. 

“Gods, her face. It’s like a doe, I swear to the Gods—” Pollux lounged across his bed as he buried his face in his hands. They tugged across his features, up to smooth out his blonde hair like he had done a million times. It was all he had been thinking about. Soft brown eyes, a pretty mole next to her forehead, and skin like baked clay. It wasn’t often that Pollux was interested in women. He had his practice with maids of the house, but it was just that. He wasn’t intrigued , wasn’t interested. “And did you hear Idas? No arguments. No counteraction. She’s just as she was when I met her. Sweet and quiet . Could Sparta not use more quiet?” His head jerked to Castor, who was following along in a book as Perilaos pointed to the pages. He shrugged. “You’re hardly encouraging.” Pollux accused him. “No, Phoebe of Messenia will love me. She probably does already. How couldn’t she, right Perilaos?” 

“Right, yes. Of course, you’re very strong, Pollux. Very smart—” Perilaos looked up from his book, dark hair astray from fidgeting with it in thought.

“See ? That is what you should do Castor. Stand by my side. Maybe if you did, I’d let you have the other one,” Pollux leaned lazily on cushions, reaching to ruffle Perilaos’ hair. 

“I have no interest in her,” Castor murmured, low and even as he turned the page. 

“I forgot, you hate life’s greatest pleasures,” Pollux reached over to lightly smack the back of Castor’s head, catching his glare. The son of Zeus settled back into a rest. “I wonder if she’d come to watch me box. She could sit right next to Mother and Helen, out of the sun. There’s just enough room for her there, don’t you think, Perilaos? There’s room?”

“Plenty, yes.” Perilaos nodded once more. Yes, yes, yes. So much so that one day, his head would fall off his neck. “Here,” He pointed into the pages for Castor. “That’s what Idas spoke of. He’s very knowledgable about horses, you know—” 

Castor, who always loved learning of a new horse breed, leaned over to look curiously. 

Pollux groaned. 

“Will you not listen? Sparta has found its future queen today, and you’re talking about fucking horses.” 

“You can’t have her, Pollux. Father doesn’t want you marrying before Helen.” Castor spoke flatly. “Incredible…” his eyes gleamed. “Imagine that in our stables.”

“Idas was telling me how fast they can run, faster than any horse I’ve heard of. He said if they could, they’d run along the top of the ocean like—”

“Fuck that! You think I’ll let this woman get away?! No. No!” Pollux bolted into a sit. Before he considered it a blessing, to remain unmarried. Someone’s priority had to be protecting Helen, but not this time. He would not let such a woman as Phoebe of Messenia slip through his fingers. 

“You’ve seen her once.” 

“You know nothing, do you? Your brain, it’s all horseshit,” Pollux accused. 

“Careful ,” Castor murmured as he turned the page, to look at more drawings.

“Ugh, I’m sorry, alright?” Pollux groaned before flopping back onto the plush couch. “You just don’t understand. Either of you. Castor, you’re practically a statue, and you Perilaos, have you ever even been with a woman?” 

At the question, Perilaos’ face flushed red. 

“I knew it,” Pollux rolled his eyes. He bolted upright, however, as an idea struck him. “Hey!” he began with that quick grin. “Perilaos! You should lay with Hilaeira! I think it would do you good. Help make you less…” he looked for the right words, “Well, like what you were doing to Idas today. Talking about worthless shit.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Castor murmured. “He’s being an asshole on purpose, Perilaos. Don’t listen.” 

“I’m serious! What better to help you become a man?! Pollux countered right back. “You’re intelligent, you’re a Prince of Sparta, you’re good-looking. You could do it. Easily . And besides, you seem to get along with Idas well enough. Hilaeira couldn’t possibly be so different. Phoebe for me, Hilaeira for you, then we’re closer than eve.!”

“I’m not, um…that is not really what I am–” Perilaos swallowed. Pollux was his idol, and he was never one to tell Pollux no. That was reserved for Castor. “Uh… sure , Pollux.” He smiled nervously.

“Hey! Good. It’ll be good for you, I promise.” Pollux swung out his arms, as though to embrace the new man his cousin was becoming. He very nearly knocked the wine out of the silent maid’s hand while she refilled his glass. “ Watch it, girl.” He narrowed his eyes at her. She retreated with a faint squeak, her pearl ring clinking against the neck of the bottle. 

“Melantho will be hearing of this,” Nysa concluded silently.

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“Messenia thinks Sparta will be its undoing,” Damia whispered as she went about doing laundry.

“Prince Perilaos gets along with these Messenians. I saw them,” Lais claimed in the kitchen.

“Prince Pollux is quite taken with Phoebe of Messenia. I hear poor Perilaos is caught in the middle, trying to get with her sister Hilaeira,” Nysa had murmured in passing. 

Gossip, gossip, gossip. And who to sort through it all? 

Melantho. It fell to Melantho. Being the eyes and ears of The Daughter of Icarius was a role she took with pride.

As she slipped inside, Helen mulled about, speaking too fast for Melantho to comprehend her. It had been three moons since the Messenians had arrived, and she had collected enough whispers from the palace to satisfy Penelope for a lifetime. 

“What’ve you heard, fair-cheeked Melantho?” Penelope murmured so just she could hear, something soft and practiced. She had been Penelope’s servant all her life, and they had exchanged a thousand murmurs. 

“Many things,” Melantho murmured in Penelope’s ear as she combed through the smooth currents of her hair. “Messenia fears Sparta will try to claim it as its own. Your cousin is quite set on Phoebe of Messenia. And your brother…” She thought how to best word it, “I suspect he’ll have gained his manhood before the night is through. Per Pollux’s encouragement. ” 

“Ah …” Penelope murmured, and her hesitation told Melantho that what she brought was surprising. Melantho curled her hand around, and in it, Penelope dropped her pearls. “See that these are distributed. Thank you, Mel. ” 

“For you, Lady Penelope? ” Melantho smiled faintly as her fingers encircled the precious, round gems. For Penelope? Who gave the servant girls of Sparta all the pretty things they could dream, for the price of information? “ Anything .” She saw Penelope smile in the mirror. “Your hair , my lady, is finished,” Melantho announced proudly as she stepped back. 

“Thank you, Melantho,” Penelope said promptly.

“Always, my Lady. Now excuse me, I must attend to my other housely duties.” 

She walked away, but she always did hold her chin a little higher than the other maids. 

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“Penelope, I’m taking a walk,” Clytemnestra said as Melantho left, retouching her hair with careful fingers. There was something about Clytemnestra tonight, something odd, but Penelope did not have time to dig into it. 

“Perilaos and Hilaeira ,” Penelope mused. She never knew her brother to be interested in anyone that way, and hearing it was Pollux’s suggestion did little to put her at ease. Perilaos would do anything Pollux wished him to, even if it was not what he wished. “ Perilaos and Hilaeira ,” Penelope murmured into Clytemnestra’s ear as she caught her wrist, ceasing Clytemnestra’s fingers from moving in her hair. She trusted no maid to do it right. Clytemnestra froze, and the oddest look crossed her face. 

“...What ?” she asked slowly. 

“Pollux’s idea. I don’t like it. I know Peri’s probably uncomfortable with it, he’s never been that…comfortable around women before. Or anyone. I don’t want him to do something he will regret, especially not—”

“Come.” Clytemnestra wrapped her fingers around her wrist in turn to tug her to the door. “Helen!”

“Wha- hey! Your hair is not even done!” Helen trotted after them, trying to keep up. “Clytemnestra!”

Penelope stumbled after her, with all the coordination in her long limbs of a newly born deer. “Ah - Clytemnestra! Slow down! Are you…alright? You look…”

“Fine ,” Clytemnestra snapped. “I just…Gods I feel stupid. I knew she was a snake.” She cursed under her breath. “If Pollux thinks this a good idea, then it is very obviously not. For anyone involved.” Penelope was smart enough to know there was something more there. Her brow was furrowed, her grip tight. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me as of late, I should have suspected the second women arrive here Pollux would try and fuck it all up. As is his nature, as is his father—” She stopped before Perilaos’ door, spitting out her words like venom.

“I’d knock first,” Penelope warned. 

“Are you truly all right? Your cheeks are flushed…” Helen finally caught up to them, breathing heavily as she frowned. “Nessie—”

“Fuck if I will. If he wishes to act like a dumbass as Pollux does, then he can face the embarrassment I intend to put him through! Both of them through! Speaking to me as though she—” Clytemnestra sneered. She placed one hand firmly against the doorframe, as though to brace herself as the other yanked on the knob before Penelope could stop her. She shut her eyes, darting her head away immediately. 

“Clytemnestra ! My Gods are you insane?!” 

Perilaos, Prince of Sparta, sat half-sprawled over the foot of his bed. His hair, usually meticulously well-kept, was tousled and messy. His clothes, his tunic and chiton which were usually painfully precise and neat were wrinkled and shifted. And his hands, usually clamped so rigidly behind his back in princely posture, rested across the broad, swimmer shoulders of Prince Idas of Messenia.

That most peculiar shade of red traveled up his neck, up to his cheeks and his ears. Idas just blinked.

“…oh… oh .” Clytemnestra stood as she had in the doorway, hand still placed firmly around the knob. Penelope and Helen stood behind her. “Oh… fuck .” 

“Perilaos ?” Penelope stared, her clever mind seemingly ceasing for a moment.

“I told you he was handsome, everyone agreed,” Helen murmured in her surprise, motioning to Idas with a tilt of her perfect head. "Hello, Idas!"

“Oh, this — not what you think at all—Perilaos and I were just—” Idas floundered, his handsome tan settling into a red of its own, like a lobster. “We were just discussing —”

Perilaos shrieked.

Chapter Text

“Clytemnestra! ” 

“A moment, Helen!” Clytemnestra yelled over her shoulder, before returning to braiding Penelope’s hair. “And you have really not ended this yet, Penelope?” 

“No,” Penelope sighed. Her head slumped forward like some invisible weight was on her forehead. 

“Ah , head up.” Clytemnestra tucked a hand under that stubborn, drooping chin. Her cousin had done that her entire life, since Penelope was just a little girl. Always slumping forward, like a droopy tree with those long, gangly limbs. Clytemnestra was left to wrangle her, as Penelope had no older sister of her own. “If you do not like Epiphanes, tell him. Better cut him off at the knees then let him keep trying. Because if I may tell you a secret, they never will stop.” 

“Clytemnestraaa!” 

“Helen! A moment!” Clytemnestra yelled over her shoulder again. 

“I don’t want to strip him of all his manhood,” Penelope sighed. 

“If all you focus on is being palatable to those around you, duck, all you’ll ever be is bland . Like unsalted bread—” Clytemnestra carefully took her hands away, studying the pin-straight braids she stacked upon her head. It came naturally, having been designated as the stylist of hair the moment Clytemnestra’s fingers could wiggle. “Mm, look at you. Fine like a Nereid.” She went to pat Penelope’s cheek, but she scowled and smacked her hand away lightly. 

“It is just…confronting people to their face I can never—... you are far better at it than I—” 

“I am smart enough to know when you want me to do something,” Clytemnestra raised a faint eyebrow. Penelope was sneaky like that. Like Icarius was sneaky. When people thought things were their idea, they were far more agreeable to them. “Clever duck, you.” She wagged a finger at the mirror. 

“I’m sorry,” Penelope sighed, though her perpetual worry seemed only greater at the idea of doing it herself. It made her irises dart around, as though watching some unseen battle go back and forth. Her slender hands constantly wrung themselves, or smoothed out the wrinkles in her skirt again, and again, and—

“I will speak to him,” Clytemnestra caved as she stepped away. 

“Nessie! Where did you put my—” 

“Your cloak is by the water basin, Helen.” 

“Oh…” Helen curled past the corner, shifting her head from side to side until finally — “Oh! There it is!” 

“Mhm.”

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Clytemnestra was convinced that without her, this place would crack into pieces. Like an egg, smashed upon the floor. If it were anyone else, they may have reveled in being so needed. But for Clytemnestra, it was just what was necessary. 

She walked down the hall with her hands at her sides, letting the distinct click, click, click of her sandals announce her presence. Easy matter for the day; speak to Epiphanes, sort such a thing out, and then…

“Clytemnestra.” When she looked over next, she was met with the usual calm, deadpanned face of Castor. He was the spitting image of Leda, Clytemnestra had observed time and time again. Peacefully quiet, dark-eyed, and soothing like a balm. Unlike Pollux, who’d burn you like electricity. 

“Little brother,” Clytemnestra smiled faintly. If it were Pollux he would sneer, but Castor merely smiled faintly. “Well…not so little anymore, I suppose.” She had to actually tilt her head back to look at him now, a fact she loathed. She loathed when it happened between her and Penelope, and more so when it was her own brothers. At least Helen remained shorter than her, in her perfect proportions. 

“I’m glad I found you,” he began. She knew well enough what that meant. Another task to take on, for the sake of her fellow cygnets. 

“Get on with it.” She waved a dismissive, if not slightly annoyed hand as she walked, but she did not silence him.

“Perilaos, I’m…worried about him, since your, um…” 

“Oh, since he was found with that Messenian?” Clytemnestra raised a faint eyebrow. By the Gods, she thought Perilaos would burst into flames once he locked eyes with her. “It’s hardly something to be embarrassed about,” Clytemnestra sighed, “men… you know. It’s a part of growing older. Father did it.” 

For men, truly it was not uncommon. Though like most things they did, it was about dominance more than anything. What was it with men and dominating things?

“You know Perilaos.” Castor sighed softly. “He fears the opinions of others, above all. I think your apology would help him…I don’t know why you would do something like that in the first place.” 

Why did she do such a thing?

“Perhaps he just needs to be sneakier,” Clytemnestra murmured bitterly under her breath. It was mean , she knew it, but sometimes her words just came onto her like fire tumbling out of her mouth. 

“What, like you and your servant boys?” Castor shot back with furrowed brows. He was less accustomed to speaking venom, however, and his gaze softened. “I’m sorry, Clytemnestra.”

“No , fine. I will speak to him.” Clytemnestra sighed. “Don’t say I never do anything for you, Cassie…and get that damned hair out of your eyes,” she scowled, and before he could stop her her hand was up and sweeping the dark bangs from his eyes.

“Thank you,” he murmured, “Nessie.” 

“Mhm.”

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Speak to Epiphanes, apologize to Perilaos, nothing Clytemnestra could not handle.

She slipped outside, letting the breeze tickle her arms as she walked along the grass to the training yards. Perilaos made a habit of going there to train with the sword. Probably to impress Pollux. Nothing impressed Pollux like the good swinging of a sword, Clytemnestra knew well enough. He thought himself high and mighty like the King of the Gods himself, a force to be reckoned with, a true hero in the making. Like Heracles, Jason, or even a young Zeus; slaying his father and freeing his siblings. If Clytemnestra was stuck in the belly of a Titan, she was sure Pollux would leave her to rot, if not for Castor.

Like you and your servant boys?

Even a man she loved like Castor had venom in him, didn’t he?

It was ingrained in her mind to be noble, pure, above desires reserved for men. Sex was a part of manhood, but in womanhood it was… she remembered Asterodia waving her hands as she spoke, trying to conjure the right words for it.

“Misplaced ,” She had settled on before Penelope had practically begged her to stop the conversation. Things like that always made her squeamish. Clytemnestra always thought it was nonsense. 

“Well, if they can fuck whoever they want, and woman do not, then who are their lovers? Men? ” Clytemnestra had rolled her eyes. 

“Well…sometimes ,” Asterodia confessed.

It was not that Clytemnestra particularly liked men, thought them handsome or noble or anything like that. She merely fell into the servant boys of Sparta because…they were different. Something new, unrelated to the responsibilities of the eldest daughter of Sparta.

“Perilaos.” Clytemnestra greeted simply. He was swinging away at a training dummy, posture as rigid as Perilaos was always rigid. Loosening up would kill him, wouldn’t it? The stick up his ass was unmatched by anyone. “Hello.” 

“Fuck you.” 

“Oh, you’re a treasure.” Clytemnestra forced a smile. Leda had tried to teach her the soft, delicate smile she had mastered. Clytemnestra always added too much teeth.

“I do not wish to speak to you—” Perilaos ground his jaw, practically to dust, “Not now, not ever. You’re dead to me. DEAD!” He stabbed his sword into the training dummy.

“Look, I did not think you would be with a prince , alright?” Clytemnestra sighed. She truly did not suspect it…not that it was surprising . Perilaos had never looked at a woman for as long as Clytemnestra knew him. He was business-minded more than anything, living only for boringly mundane politics and pleasing his cousins. “I apologize.” 

“I don’t care! Why were you bursting into my business in the first place?! Pollux was right about you! All you do is…is….burst into others' lives” Perilaos hissed. 

It was a hard question to answer, as Clytemnestra wasn’t completely sure herself. It had all been a burning of rage, her vision blurring and the sure stomp of her feet. In Pollux rage was considered healthy and a sign of Ares’ blessing. In Clytemnestra, it was seen as an ugly monster that all too often reared its head.

“It is not that big of an issue,” Clytemnestra sighed, “Gods know men have been caught doing worse in this palace. I think no less of you for it. Neither does Penelope or Helen.” 

“I don’t care what the three of you think!” Perilaos scowled. “My father is not speaking to me now.” 

“When has he ever, Peri?” 

“You , are a vindictive harpy !” he hissed. Pollux must have taught him that one. 

“I apologize . I never meant to hurt you. Or embarrass you. Truly that wasn’t my intention,” Clytemnestra had given thousands of apologies no matter how angry she was. Most of the time a simple sorry was enough to suffice, but not always.

“LEAVE! ” He swung once more and murmured under his breath, “You will never understand what I feel, so do not even try .”

Children of Icarius for you. They felt so strongly, despite their brilliance. 

You will never understand what I feel . 

Remembering the sharp, tree sap-colored eyes of Hilaeira, and that faint smirk and how it made her lips stretch out, Clytemnestra’s stomach seemed to churn.

“Uncle Tyndareus wished to speak to you. He is in a meeting with Epiphanes. I suggest you go find company that actually wants you, cousin .” Perilaos sneered.

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Things would often fall apart without Clytemnestra. Though simultaneously, she often broke them to begin with. 

He needs time, she assured herself. Though the far smarter, sensible part of herself knew he would not forget. Icarius, and his vast and outstretching line, could hold a grudge like no other. 

“I cannot fix things that they will not let me fix ,” Clytemnestra murmured to herself. 

Speak to Epiphanes, apologize to Perilaos, and see what it was Tyndareus wanted. Even if one went wrong, she still had the others to complete. That is what eldests did. Moved along, patched what they could, and eased the load before the household shattered.

She walked along the hall, scowling and kicking the grass off the bottom of her sandals as she did so. Upsetting Perilaos would, in turn, probably earn her a similar talk from Penelope about mending things. Penelope was far too lenient with him, she always had been. She never had responsibility over him, not with Icarius ever looming over her like a bird of prey. Whereas Clytemnestra had been shoved out of the nest, still bare and screaming, Penelope had been bundled tightly and kept away from the edge. And Helen …Helen was something different entirely.

As she walked to Tyndareus’ door, Epiphanes was just gently shutting it behind himself. His face was tight in usual aloofness, that golden curled beard on his face hiding the tight line his lips pressed into. “Princess?” He blinked in slight surprise. 

“Ephor ,” Clytemnestra greeted him with a faint nod. “Political business?” 

“Mhm…nothing you would be interested in, though,” He replied, eyeing her with…some sort of nervousness , that she always seemed to get. Still, he kept his posture. Rigid, soldier-like. He was built like any well-respected Spartan man. Clytemnestra had laid eyes on a thousand, and every one seemed to falter just a little when she looked too long.

“Gods, would you blink more? It’s unnerving,” Pollux had told her as a child. 

“I agree, I’m not interested.” She crossed her arms. Her eyes, dark and truly rarely blinking, lightly observed him. “I am glad I caught you though, suitor of my cousin.” 

“Oh ,” color tinged his cheeks a little as she mentioned it, “well, I would not call myself a suitor, not officially —” 

“Because Icarius does not let you?” Clytemnestra raised her eyebrow. “Perhaps that should be a sign too… cease doing that. Penelope is hardly in the market for a husband.” 

“But she will be,” Epiphanes said. Still nervous, but almost slightly defiant. Stubborn . It would have been interesting if not every man was stubborn. He’d never do for Penelope. He’d smoother out that spark she had, that wit, the parts only Clytemnestra could catch a glimpse of. Not a chance she’d let that happen. 

“You take my words as advice. ” Clytemnestra sighed. “They’re not. She is not interested in you, Epiphanes. I am telling you to spare you from further embarrassment.” 

“...You know her best, what do I do wrong?” He asked her with a hint of desperation, something odd for a man so towering and muscled, who had to be 5 years her senior. Most would be expected to coat the critique in sugar, to spare him, but Clytemnestra owed him no such thing. She did not know why he liked Penelope. Clytemnestra knew her best traits; she was clever, kind, bright-eyed and bright-hearted, but it was not a thing many men appreciated.

“Everything. Now excuse me.” She pushed open the door to her father’s study, expecting him to follow for a moment. But Epiphanes did not. He had some nerve, Clytemnestra would give him such. But in front of her, nerves could sizzle out like stomped-upon sparks.
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“Why are you here again?” 

“You summoned me ,” Clytemnestra barely held back a roll of her eyes, knowing it would be the quickest way to land herself into a lecture, as was the usual reason she was called to her father. He was busy, his time precious, and it would not be wasted without a good reason. She slumped into her seat. 

“I want to hear you say it.” His eyes eased up to meet her, firm and authoritarian like any king. You know better . 

“I didn’t mean to embarrass Perilaos.”

“My brother believes I should punish you to my fullest extent. He is quite upset.” 

“Icarius is easily upset by many things,” Clytemnestra shot back. “Perhaps it is the soldier pursuing his daughter that upsets him. Why must it be my fault!” 

“Clytemnestra. ”

“You know how he is. Both of them! Their dramatics. I have apologized but Perilaos does not accept, and I cannot force him to. I have done all I can to fix such a thing, but there is nothing more I can do.”

“Why would you do such a thing in the first place?” 

“I don’t know!” Clytemnestra snapped. It came out far harsher than she ever intended, she knew by the way Tyndareus stared at her blankly for a few moments. “...something is deeply, deeply wrong with me.” She let her own head slump forward, down, down, down until it rested on the wood of Tyndareus’ desk. He was never good at comfort. He was a firm, resolute King of Sparta, and in the face of emotion he often only hardened further. But she heard him sigh and felt a hand reach forward to rest on the back of her head. 

“You are wound tighter than twine…I will speak to my brother. You mustn't crack, or we all will.” 

“I know.” Clytemnestra sighed a murmur. She thought for a moment of speaking to him about it, but their relationship was one that consisted usually of silence, a slight understanding, and rare moments of tenderness such as this. 

Tyndareus cleared his throat, before letting his hand fall back to his side. “Go… clear your mind, before dinner. No doubt Helen will be waiting for you. I know how she hates to see you so… preoccupied , with whatever it is that troubles you.”

“Thank you, Father.”
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Clytemnestra had gone to the stables of Sparta ever since she was a child. She never liked horses much, not since, as a young girl, she was bit by her father’s beloved battle stallion.

“If he ever bites me again, I will bite him back,” she had insisted, blinking back tears as Penelope scrambled to clean out the jagged wound in the pond. But Helen and Castor liked to go, and so she was often dragged there against her will. 

“Don’t look at me like that, Prokopis,” she glared at the old stallion as its eyes rose to meet her, gnawing on grain. The last thing she needed was another wound, especially not from that thing, with its dull yellowing teeth. “Two-faced bastard,” she murmured in its direction. 

“You won’t even spare the horses from your wrath?” She heard a familar chuckle, and her eyes were drawn to the corner. Athanasios, the servant boy, shoveled away hay with that faint smile he wore. “You haven’t come to see me in a while.” He wiped the sweat from his brow with a sleeve, letting the dark hair over his forehead shift with it. 

“I didn’t know you’d be here.” Clytemnestra sat on an overturned crate, hoisting up her skirt so it didn’t brush the dirty ground. She had rolled around in that hay with Athanasios countless times, but the thought of touching it at that moment disgusted her. 

“I’ve been here, every day, for two years.” He set down his wooden shovel, letting it lean against the wall as he walked over. He had a slight limp, he always had. Like one of his legs was stiff like wood. It didn’t match the rest of him, bright and youthful, with windswept hair and pushed-up sleeves. He plopped onto the crate beside her. 

“Have you?” 

He chuckled at that. That was part of the reason she had gone into his arms years ago, he didn’t yell at her when she spat venom. In fact, part of him seemed to find it amusing, attractive even. 

“I’ve missed you,” Athanasios the servant boy admitted. “I haven’t seen you in…what, three months, four? I had to sneak off to see a kitchen maid a few times.” He sighed, as though wishing it wasn’t so as he kicked back on his crate. “Where have you been?” 

“You know me. Keeping things together,” Clytemnestra kicked the hay with her sandal, watching it mound up at the end of her foot. “Sparta does not run itself.” 

“Always so formal with me…” he observed, eyes narrowing and unnarrowing. But he laughed, like nothing was wrong, and his voice was as light as air. “Something troubles you?” he rested a hand on her knee. She did know he would be there, he always was. It was the reason she had gone, to see if anything changed. But as he rested a hand on her knee, she didn’t feel anything. Not even excitement anymore. 

“Of course not.” Clytemnestra knew Athanasios was handsome, but she did not feel it in herself. Not as she felt Hilaeira was beautiful, or maids she caught from the corner of her eye. But maybe, she thought, just— “I am not attracted to you.”

He paused a moment, and then he laughed, that youthful crackling sound. “The second most beautiful woman in Sparta, lying .” Athanasios settled on, and he smiled again. He called her that often, the second most beautiful woman in Sparta. There was no competition with the first. Helen would find him handsome, exciting, and charming. How could she not? She was perfect in all ways. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying,” Clytemnestra looked for her words, “This…shouldn’t continue.” Her stomach gave an uncomfortable squirm at the way he laughed, the spark in his eyes.

“You’ve always found me handsome. You’re walking on eggshells, don’t think I don’t notice. I see it in your shoulders, your eyes—” he leaned in, nose brushing against the sharp line of her jaw. There was a time it may have been exciting, but now it just made her grimace. 

“I told you—” Clytemnestra ground her teeth, and shot a hand up to shove him back by his jaw. His hand, calloused from working in the stable, caught her wrist and he laughed as his other came up to trail along her cheek with gentle fingers.

“What? You won’t even let me try—” He laughed again, his eyes crinkling. “Clytemnestra—” 

“ENOUGH!” She snapped. Her sandal slammed into the shin of his stiff leg, and as her face leaned into his hand she kept her promise. She bit, teeth digging into flesh. Clytemnestra watched him stumble off the crate into the hay, his fingers uncurling from her wrist as her heart pounded. “ NEVER do that to me, AGAIN! Now leave!” She swore to the Gods, if he did something like that again, she would cut his bite his fucking fingers off. 

“Gods! Fucking bitch—” Anthanasios hissed, hand cradled to his chest. “After everything we did? That I did for you?!” Just another expectation. Everyone had them.

“LEAVE!” Clytemnestra screamed. “GO!” Her words were only cut off by the sharp force of his backhand on her cheek. 

“You are fucking insane!” Athanasios screamed at her. She braced for him to do it again, chest heaving heavily, but he didn’t. He limped out of the barn, cursing and muttering under his breath as she was left alone; disheveled, with some copper still lacing her tongue.

The old war stallion watched her lazily, still gnawing on his grain, as though nothing had happened. Clytemnestra buried her face in her hands, and as it worked its way out of the Tartarus of her gut, she screamed. “ FUCK! Gods what is— wrong with me?! Everything I try… FUCK-!” She screamed again, sandals kicking at straw and hay as Prokopis turned to look lazily back at the half-shoveled floor.

“Never has there been anything wrong with you. Clytemnestra, my favorite, Queen of Queens,” the wind itself seemed to murmur, an invisible hand drawing along the highest point of her stinging cheek. Clytemnestra stiffened, head glancing over one shoulder, then the other. Her ears were purely mortal, and they picked up nothing but the slight whistle of wind, and the prickle on her skin. “ Don’t cry. You are stronger than them, than any of them. Do not let them bring you to that. The Queen of the Gods loves you forever. ” Hera knew she could not feel her, but she wiped her tears anyway. “ You will be strong. Especially for what is to come, you will be strong. ” 

“Clytemnestra!” 

Her head shot up, watching the familiar bouncing of red hair as Helen pushed down her hood. Penelope trailed behind, glancing this way and that. 

“Helen ,” Clytemnestra strained her posture immediately, sitting as a queen sat even on something so low as wooden planks on a crate. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve, tugged her dark hair over her cheek. “Penelope….What’re you doing here? Is everything all right?” 

“Fine,” Penelope nodded. “...We saw the stable boy leaving.” Her agate eyes traced Clytemnestra’s face, nothing went unnoticed by her. “It looks like Prokopis is biting again, isn’t he?” 

“...Yes,” Clytemnestra nodded, “You know him, cranky old bastard. I don’t know why father keeps him around.”

“Poor boy, Prokopis was always a biter….anyway, I’ve been searching for you all day! I’ve missed you terribly!” Helen plopped down where Athanasios had been sitting. Her face was bright, beautiful, and gleaming as always. “Where have you been?” 

“Just…tending to the household, you know how I am,” Clytemnestra’s face softened, as only Helen could make it soften. She sighed, reaching up to fish a piece of hay from her hair. “Let’s go get ready for dinner, alright? Father is expecting us.” 

“Certainly,” Penelope nodded in agreement. A long, lanky arm found its way out from her cloak, and she used it to pat the nose of the old stallion. “Good boy, Prokopis. I’m sure he had it coming.”

For the first time that day, Clytemnestra smiled.

Chapter Text

To anyone else in Sparta, a birthday was…unimportant. What was important was training, fighting, living, and surviving. But being the child of a king, being a gift from Olympus was different. You were expected to celebrate, for your birth was a gift of the Gods . And did a God deserve to go unrecognized, unloved, and unrespected? No. Not unless you expected to be smitten by the bolt of the God King. And so, in the palace of Sparta, things were swiftly underway.

“Here’s to another year closer to Hades,” Clytemnestra leaned back in her chair, watching Pollux and Castor shove their shoulders against each other as they both reached for the last fig. She, however, beat them both and snatched it for herself. "Ah ! The birthday girl gets it.” 

“We all have the same birthday.” Pollux glared. 

“That is all you have to say?!” Helen huffed as she glared at her sister, watching her shrug and pop the fig into her mouth. She was ridiculous sometimes! Helen loved her dearly like she loved no one else, but really , sometimes Clytemnestra could grate on her nerves. “Clytemnestra , what other day a year are we given such…things , hm?” 

“Do not sell me short, you get lots of things,” Tyndareus grumbled. Sometimes, Helen thought it was a great annoyance to him, for when four of your children shared the same birthday, they were of course showered in crates upon crates of new swords, shining dresses, sleek Spartan bows, perfumes in glass bottles, hair clips of every size and metal and design— though, Helen was often showered in such things all year round, it was during this time they seemed most special. 

“Oh, and I appreciate them all, father!” Helen smiled quickly, though she could not help it as her eyes followed the servants mulling about, carrying crates and vases of flowers and new fire basins. “...what did you get us this year?” 

“Not all the perfume and fancy shit in the world could make you pretty, Clytemnestra,” Pollux rolled his eyes, shoving the remnants of his bread into his mouth. 

“And not all the finely crafted swords in Sparta could make you a decent warrior, Pollux,” Clytemnestra scoffed right back. Castor just sighed.

“What else? A feast…in Zeus’ name, of course. Dancing maidens, pouring wine—” Tyndareus waved his hand in the air, as though to say so on and so forth . “A proper celebration.” 

“Do we need such theatrics every year ?” Clytemnestra complained.

“Have you heard that Leda?” Tyndareus grumbled over his shoulder. “One says it is not over the top enough , the other says we must do more—”

“Patience, darling,” Leda reminded in her soothing, flowing timbre. She always had a way with him, to bring him back down from whatever frustrated episode he found himself in. Being a King of Sparta was difficult, and being the father of the four egg-born Princes and Princesses of Sparta was far, far harder. 

“There will be boxing?” Pollux asked eagerly. He leaned forward in his seat, like an eagle peering out of his nest.

“I will get you whatever it is you like ,” Tyndareus sighed, “Just…do not bother me about it.”

“Oh, I cannot wait,” Helen smiled. “Feasts, games , dancing. I love dancing!” 

“Like father would let you dance, Helen,” Clytemnestra murmured. 

Helen could hardly hold back a smile. Her head swirled, eager and joyous and dizzy with excitement. She could enjoy the festivities, laugh, and dance as any other Greek did, as impossible as it was the rest of the year.

“How could he say no? It’s my Birthday!” Helen giggled into Clytemnestra’s shoulder as she bobbed to her feet. Clytemnestra groaned, shoving the last of what she could reach into her mouth before Helen whisked her off again. “We should clean up, touch up, your hair is looking quite messy, you know—” 

“When have you ever needed to touch up?” Clytemnestra sighed. In her haste, following Helen’s quick footsteps, her shoulder smacked against the feeble arm of an old servant woman. “Apologizes!” Clytemnestra called over her shoulder. 

The woman merely straightened herself, hobbling on to refill the bread plate of the Spartan family. “Oh, no worries, dear Clytemnestra, none at all…” She murmured under her breath, letting the words drift through the mist that shielded her. Another year, another day to observe. That was the thing with Gods, when their gift was as unique as Helen, it attracted Godly eyes. Attention. 

It was necessary to keep an eye on her, but Gods , did Hera despise squishing herself into the form of a mortal.
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The sea churned like it was annoyed . Not angry, like when it shrieked and threw itself against the cliffside, but just…annoyed. Stewing in itself. Perhaps that was because Penelope had not stopped staring at it. Waiting, waiting, waiting. 

Any minute she will come , Penelope swore. All she needed to do was wait , and waiting was not that hard, no, she could wait. All her life she had waited. It just took patience, to sit and anticipate and bide one’s time. And wait.

The last visit Penelope had was cut short, the sea was drumming up and when it did that Periboea could hardly wait to return to it. It would be cruel to keep her from her home… that is why the visits from Penelope’s mother were short. She just didn’t like being away from the sea too long. 

“...It’s my birthday, you know!” Penelope called faintly into the waves, watching blue swirl with dark undercurrents. “...or…close to it...” Periboea never told Penelope exactly when her birthday was. She had been too eager to return to the sea, frolic with her nymph sisters, or lay upon some Greecian beach far away, or go where only nymphs could go. Where Penelope never could go. She read up on it when she could, the deepest parts of the sea, but there was only so much one could find. 

“If you cared to know… ” Penelope sighed and rested her chin on the sharp, bony edge of her knee. For how smart she was told she was, she felt so… foolish sometimes. Who was she? When underneath the waves laid palaces of Gods and Kings and King Gods? Last they had spoken, Periobea had excitedly exclaimed the Lord of the Sea himself had invited her to his palace, to live as a nymph-lover of Poseidon. 

“Can you believe it? Me! A lover of the Sea King! Is that not exciting?! Oh, his palace is very beautiful, far more so than my father’s own —” She had raved, and Penelope, desperate to grasp her attention for as long as she could, merely nodded along and smiled. “ Oh, being tethered to Sparta’s shores for so long can be so boring , and his home is so very beautiful.” 

“I read in a book, they say he has statues in every room, and that it shines like a thousand pearls all stacked onto each other, and— ” Penelope kept speaking, quick as she always had, with the sole purpose of keeping her intrigued. 

“Oh, the details aren’t important! What is, is that I will be there! ” Periobea proclaimed. She had left soon after that. 

“They are throwing Helen a feast. For Zeus. Sacrificing of bulls, dancing maids and lyre music, vases filled up with fresh peonies…” Penelope watched the grass flutter with the breeze. She had spoken to herself many times on those cliff sides, waiting. “...I will be there too , of course. I would never disappoint them by not being there. And I do love the smell of peonies” 

She was detail-oriented. Really, Hermes could see why a sea nymph would get bored. They were quite simple minded, shallow like the beaches they longed on. He sighed, slumping in his tree perch as wings fluttered at his heels. Though, really, it didn’t take a lot to get him bored. He prayed that the Princesses of Sparta would do something interesting if his father forced him down to watch them all day. 

“Penelope !” A young maiden’s voice drifted from down the slope of the hill. Penelope scrambled to her feet, much like a young uncoordinated deer learning to walk on lanky, knobby limbs. 

“Coming!” She gathered herself, though before taking off down the hill she… stopped . Her head turned so sharply, that Hermes barely had time to slip into the mist before he was met with her eyes. Sharp . Perhaps there was something of interest there. She was no Helen , but who was? He could hardly hold back a giggle in his throat. How had his sister not snatched her up already? 

“Penelope !” 

Penelope of Sparta scanned the line of trees one more time, before finally taking off down the hill. The sea snapped the shore impatiently, and Hermes couldn’t help but agree. Interest was what kept him engaged, an impatience for something to happen. Though he knew it was inevitable, of course. Fate clung to Helen of Tr— Sparta , like glue. All he had to do was wait.
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The old servant woman, who happened to also be Queen of the Gods, watched the preparations. Mortal Kings certainly knew how to put on shows , didn’t they? Displays of wealth, or bountiful harvest in the name of Gods. Like Hera’s own husband, with his roaring feasts on Olympus every night. Feasts so loud he never even noticed when she slipped down to roam among mortals. Though, of course, she was still forced to be careful, or she would have to endure more of his yelling about meddling . Especially when it came to one of his many, many bastard spawn. So what , she had tried to kill a few? Was she not trustworthy anymore? Was Helen not a woman thus, hers too?

Still. Careful. Especially since she knew she was not the only one interested. Eyes were everywhere. She could feel it through the mist, the… guests the Spartan household entertained. She felt Hermes as soon as he fluttered his feet down to Sparta. Her stepson’s presence was overwhelmingly thick with trickiness, like walking through a part of town overrun with pickpockets and con-artists. Of course Zeus would not arrive himself, no ! He was so much higher and mightier than that! Merely send another bastard. 

But it was not he who worried Hera. She felt something worse in the mist, cool and resolute and infuriatingly hidden . 

Where was Athena hiding?

Hera’s hands worked at adjusting peonies, fixing their fresh smelling petals as she murmured to the empty hall. “Stepdaughter. Should you not be in Athens, the city of your love? And yet here you are, in the arms of its rival. Fascinating.”

No reply. The brat. Hera despised Zeus’ favorite daughter. She thought herself clever did she? Hiding away like some sort of tricky coward? Lurking? She did not care for Helen, nor for Hera’s favorite, dear Clytemnestra, or her beloved Penelope. Their hands held no weapons like Athena’s favorite mortals. So why did she feel that chilled intelligence in the air? 

“Speak . Or risk my husband learning of your meddling,” Hera hissed into the air. 

“In telling him, you would reveal your own,” Her cool voice cut through Hera’s godly mind like a sword through mortal flesh. Athena still did not show herself, but she was there , as she was in every mind. As apparent as a thought.

“Why are you here?” Hera managed, nearly snapping a flower stem in half. Her hands appeared wrinkled and weak, but she was still a God. An annoyed one.

“Why are you? Or Hermes?” Athena questioned back. Every question she could answer with a question . Hera wanted to stuff her back into her husband’s mind sometimes. At least in there she could be his headache, and not everyone else’s. 

“The Princesses of Sparta are future Queens,” Hera snapped. “It is under my domain that they fall. I have good reason to be here.”

“As do I. Nothing I do is without reason , Stepmother. You know this.” Smug too, was Athena. Even as her voice was deadpan. Hera found her disgustingly smug. “It is in my best interest that Helen of Sparta remains watched over as well. I trust no one else to do it.” 

“What do you wish of Helen of Sparta?” Hera scoffed. “She does not have the… traits you look for in your pets, Athena. That is, she is not quick or clever or ruthless.”

“She is known,” The voice seemed to dig further into Hera’s mind, like fingers gripping her consciousness. “No matter how Tyndareus tries to conceal her. Word of her has spread, and she has attention.” 

"And ?” 

“They will have to choose for her eventually,” Athena spoke as she always did, as though calculating some unseen variable, something known only to her. Another thing Hera hated about her. She gave nothing to no one, you were simply forced to guess. “And when they do, I know who will have her.” 

There it was.

“You have a husband for Helen?” Hera could barely hold back her laugh. “What interest have you in love, Athena? Has Aphrodite finally converted you to the side of it? Tired of maidenhood?” 

The presence in Hera’s mind, somehow, grew icier with annoyance. 

“However is with Helen of Sparta will be known,” She said coldly, “If he is to be a champion, my champion, he will need to be known.” 

“Is that where you go so often? Off grooming another hero?” Hera rolled her immortal eyes. She almost pitied him, remembering the track-record of the others Athena claimed. Poor boy .

“Tyndareus will choose,” Athena replied coldly. “And when he does , I know who it will be.” 

Hera went to retort, to remind Athena who the Goddess of Marriage was, and who she was speaking to, but before she did Athena slunk back into her unseen hiding, leaving merely remnants of a headache behind. 

Brat.
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“Have you thought, perhaps off…” Icarius waved his hand in the air, leaving the rest of his sentence implied rather than spoken.

“I will not speak of it,” Tyndareus insisted simply. He leaned over his map, as though tracking trade and movement of goods and soldiers. Icarius knew better, for that was his domain, and not his brother’s. 

“Well, you should think,” Icarius shot back. “I am receiving them constantly, with gifts growing all the more extravagant. You cannot just ignore it all.” 

“I have no idea what you speak of.” Tyndareus traced a calloused finger along the map. 

Icarius scoffed. “ Marriage proposals, Tyndareus. Relentless ones, might I add. Growing with every day. Crete, Phylace, Argos— Athens! Do you know many things King Theseus of Athens has sent me for Helen’s hand? Riches beyond belief!” 

“Enough,” Tyndareus warned. It was the same voice he used with his little brother as children, warning Icarius to shut his mouth before they, as boys did, broke into a brawl with each other.

“Ignoring it will not make it go away,” Icarius sighed, “...she is old enough. I was far younger than her when I wed Asteroidea, and Leda younger than her when she married you. Considering the circumstance, it is the most logical too—” 

“Then you marry Penelope off as well?!” Tyndareus finally snapped. “Do not tell me how to raise my children, you… insufferable mind of a man. Telling me what is “logical”.” 

Icarius gound his teeth. “...Fine. Ignore my advice. Just know that they are eager, and when young men are desperate they are stupid.”

“You would know about being stupid, wouldn’t you?”

“I worry for Sparta, and for Helen,” Icarius insisted. “Do not twist my words. Another year, Tyndareus , another year closer to a decision you must reach! You do understand, don’t you?” 

“I will not speak, of it.” His face stiffened again, cold like he was carved of marble. “Leda and I have discussed it and it is not…time. It can’t be.” 

“...I will not push you,” Icarius sighed. “...Feast preparations are well. I assume Zeus will be well satisfied. That is…in our favor, at least.” 

“Good, good…” Tyndareus nodded to himself, but it was glum. A man knowing another year meant time ticking away.

 Athena adjusted her wings as she watched from her tree perch, listening , logically organizing the information in her vast head. Tyndareus, the father, refusing to let go, to yield . But he would have to choose. Icarius, in all his cleverness, was right. It was unavoidable. And Athena knew just who would be the victor when he did. 

Helen of Sparta was destined for Odysseus of Ithaca. Athena would make it so.

“Matchmaking? Hardly your style.” 

Her wide owl eyes darted, until finally landing upon the form splayed out on the branch beside her. He was hardly subtly in anything, unless he was robbing you. 

“Quiet . I am trying to listen.” Athena, still in the form of an owl, shifted her talons as she once more gazed upon the brother kings of Sparta.

“Does Father know you’re doing this? I can’t imagine he would. I always thought he’d come down and bring Helen up to Olypmus himself,” Heremes kicked back, hands slid behind his light feathery haired head. “You know him.” 

“Silence .” 

Hermes was always bad at that. He liked to speak , like some chattering morning bird. 

“So imagine my surprise, when I come to celebrate, and I find my dear sister. Scheming! To set her up with a legacy of mine too? Athena, You tricky thing, I—” Hermes smirked, watching her fly away. Oh, she was too fun to mess with. Athena always took everything so seriously .

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“You are both so glum!” Helen groaned, throwing her head back to watch her cousin and sister. Penelope was slumped over her bed, and Clytemnestra glared into her mirror as though it owed her something. “Where is the excitement?! We have a feast tonight, don’t we?!” 

“We are a year older, closer to death. Hardly something to celebrate.” Clytemnestra eyebrows adjusted themselves, furrowing further on her face. Helen found her quite pretty, when she didn’t look one foul word away from a murder. 

“Wha— that is something to celebrate!” Helen groaned. “Not everyone gets another year, Clytemnestra!” 

“You could have died by disease, or a crashing wave, or be struck by lightning,” Penelope waved her hand vaguely in the air, her own bad mood shrouding her face like a cloud. 

“And you!” Helen frowned as she crossed the room, steps light and quick as ever. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Another year, another rejection,” Penelope replied glumly. 

“Again ?!” Helen sighed. That nymph, Helen swore. Who must she speak to? Another message sent to The God King through Herm-... him ? Is that what it would take? “She is dumb , Penelope.” Helen frowned, leaning down to tuck Penelope’s hair behind her ears. She could never understand how anyone could bear to upset her. She looked so pitiful when she was sad, like some poor sea creature washed ashore after a storm. 

“She is an idiot, Penelope.” 

“If she does it so often, there must be something to it,” Penelope groaned as she buried her face in her hands. “Mmph.” 

Helen hated to see them that way, both of them. She never wanted them to be upset, she wanted every joy for her cousin and sister that existed in Greece! But here they were, on a joyous day, frowning, moping, misery staining their pretty maiden faces. Helen huffed, and placed her hands firmly on her hips. 

“Another year always comes with change , and unfortunate things we wish to avoid, like your mother, Pen, but that’s not important! What is , is the one thing that will not change! We are together. And I am here for both of you, always. No matter how mopey —” She reached out a hand to pinch Clytemnestra’s cheek, her other combing back Penelope’s hair from her face. 

“Hey!” 

“Heleeen—”

“—Or disappointed you feel, or doomy and full of misery you are, I will always be here to bring you joy. Because if I am forced to be perfect, I might as well use it to stop you from being so… blah. Now up! We have a feast —” Helen curled her arms under the crooks of Penelope’s arms, and using all the force she had yanked her up to her feet, “and you will smile and have fun and THEN! We will stay up all night playing games and telling stories until you stop this sadness. There!” 

“Ah- AH -” Penelope scrambled to gain her footing. Clytemnestra snorted at her misfortune, but before Helen could yank her up as well she stood herself. 

“You are the most optimistic person I know,” Clytemnestra chuckled. “And most naive. My sister, with the perfect face and sunny disposition.” 

Helen smiled as she dragged Penelope to the vanity. She really was light , just long. 

“Nooooooooo—!”

“There is a compliment in there, and I will take it!” Helen proclaimed proudly. 

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They walked into the hall, Penelope's hand in Clytemnestra’s, and Clytemnestra’s in Helen’s. It was a proper Greecian feast, one Tyndareus saved for the most special of occasions. Helen squealed, shaking their hands back and forth at every little thing. Maids in flowing fabrics danced, wine flowed and the sounds of lyres and flutes curled in the air like sweet smelling smoke. 

Clytemnestra found it all a little tacky , the music made her head swirl, and the servants darting around was so dizzying she felt like curling over. But Helen was enraptured , every little thing, and that is what was important. 

They dined, smoke curling up for the Gods, and Helen smiled and chatted to her heart's content. She was so happy she barely noticed that her feast had no guests. Helen never had guests. Just her family, and swarms of servants serving their every whim. Clytemnestra could assume their orders well enough; keep her happy . 

Next came gifts, crates of perfumes and dresses and fine jewelry. Helen smiled, plucking what she liked, and Clytemnestra received the leftovers, the scents and colors Helen found less-appealing. Castor and Pollux were given shining bronze armor, each with a helmet fit with a rich, colored plum of horse hair. Leda gave them each a string of wooden beads, and Icarius presented them with chlamys.

“Made, of course, by my crafty Penelope,” He proclaimed proudly. 

“Father,” she grumbled, slumping lower in her seat under his usual overbearing affection. 

And the night dragged on, and on, and on . Everyone indulged in Dionysus’ finest, including Helen herself. She was bright, and did not move like a drunken fool did, but was perfect and graceful. She twirled with the dancing maidens, concealed from the outside world, but not Clytemnestra. She was…lucky , to know her, when the world didn’t. To have always known her, since she was young, always perfect, but young. And now, when she looked, Clytemnestra saw…

She excused herself outside, to the balcony. It curled around the wall of the palace, for when it was hot, the door could be left swung open for air to flow inside the hall. She needed air. Another year, another sense of dread, and the more it dawned. Helen’s…situation. It was forever apparent, and now her marriage was…closer than ever. She stood there a moment, probably several. She lost track of time, yet simultaneously it was time that seemed to be mocking her with every passing instance of it. They are waiting for her .

“When did she get so…big ?” Clytemnestra murmured. “ Gods when did that happen?”

“Who knows,” When she turned her head, Penelope was there. Her slender hands tapped the stone railing as she looked over the sea. She looked… equally as grim. “... that is why you were upset.” It was not a question, merely a methodical observation.

“She is too… good, and naive, and for that she was kept from the world, but… it is just waiting to get its hands on her. And it will eat her up, and spit her out, and men are…” Clytemnestra searched for the whispered words. Cruel.

“We need to protect her.” Penelope’s eyes stayed looking over the shore, the distant docks of Sparta. Trading ships came in and out, like little dots on the horizon. If Clytemnestra squinted, she saw a new one. A distant ship with a sail of rich, cobalt blue. 

“She isn’t ready for them,” Clytemnestra shook her head, and in that moment felt foolish. What kind of protector of the nest was she if inside the chicks were kept innocent? Defenseless without her? 

“How could she be?” Penelope sighed. “I…couldn’t imagine . A swarm of suitors after your hand. But that is why she has us, isn’t it? To always be there? We are safe when we are together.” 

It is what Clytemnestra had been told, all her life. It was what every woman was told; Together, you are safe . 

“...Why does she need to be so —” Clytemnestra sighed. “...Damn.” 

“Perfect?” Penelope held back a chuckle. Her nail relentlessly picked at a crack in the stone, only making it worse. “The Gods love Helen…they hate us, I believe but…” 

Clytemnestra chuckled. “Oh, definitely hate us…and what of us , hm?” 

“Us ?” Penelope looked down at herself, as though just realizing that they, in fact, had lives too. “Hm…maidens of Artemis sound nice, you said?” 

“Like Artemis would take you, your arms are too skinny for a bow,” Clytemnestra snorted. The trees rustled with the breeze. 

“And you are too hot-headed for the hunt,” Penelope countered right back. “So perhaps we’re better off just worrying about Helen.” 

“...I think I’d go crazy without you,” Clytemnestra chuckled. “If I had to do this alone, I would go crazy.” 

“You go crazy anyway. You’re a nurturer by nature, and when one of your own is threatened all those signals fire off in your brain anddd…” Penelope made swooshing noises with her lips, her fingers mimicking the movement of roaring flames and the destruction that happened in Clytemnestra’s head.

Clytemnestra giggled. She truly would go insane, if not for the Daughter of Icarius. Her cousin, yes, but also the closest friend she had. The only other one who could begin to understand it all.

“Funny .” 

“I am delightful,” Penelope said sarcastically, her voice dripping with it, “I do not understand why more people don’t think so.” 

“Clytemnestra —”

Clytemnestra went to speak again, but her words died in her throat as she spotted an owl, zooming down from the high tops of trees and towards the peaceful calm of the distant dock.

“Wow —” Penelope leaned forward over the railing to catch a glimpse of it. “I have never seen one move so fast!” 

“Helen, Clytemnestra. Where did you leave Helen? ”

“We…should get back,” Clytemnestra said slowly. 

“Now, Clytemnestra. Helen. Where is she?!” Hera hissed in her ear. 

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Helen’s head… hurt . Like she hit it on something, though she couldn’t remember... She remembered dancing, and spinning with the maidens and laughing. Then looking up, and her sister was gone, and Penelope had followed. Her father and uncle of course drank and spoke as always, Pollux and Castor tested their new swords, and her mother had excused herself. And Helen?....her head hurt. And she was alone, and she hated being alone.

“Clytemnestra and Penelope…are we going to find them?” She slurred her words a little, the lingering affects of wine. The woman patted her hand lightly. 

“Oh, they are just around here, Helen.” She cooed as they walked. It was just Helen’s luck really, the nice servant woman had plucked her from the hall where she searched. She was nice, with nice hands and long fingers that guided Helen along. It’s alright dear, I’ll take care of you.  

“How’d you know me?” Helen pondered as they walked. The breeze tickled her forearms, and her sandals made the wood of the dock creak and groan underfoot. She didn’t… remember going outside, it was funny how that worked.

“Everyone knows you dear. You are hard to forget.” 

“And who are you?” 

“Aethra, dear.” 

“Oh…” Helen murmured. “I want Clytemnestra, and Penelope…you sure they’re here?” 

“Yes , Helen. You just need to listen, sweet girl. Listen.” She stopped before a boat, and Aethra tugged up her skirt to her ankles and hoisted herself onto it. It had the prettiest blue sails Helen had ever seen. She stood for a moment, watching them flutter. On the top of them was a statue of an owl. It looked so real, like it was staring right at Helen, then…it blinked. 

“Helen ,” A whisper hissed in her ear.

“Hm?” 

“Up we go, come along,” Aethra tugged at her wrists, helping her up. Her voice was so smooth, and comforting. Like a mother.

“You mustn't do this, Helen. Use your common sense, do not,” the far more brash voice hissed in insistence. “Think Helen! She does not want what is best for you! She is trying to take you away, now listen to me—” 

“Aethra…where are we going?” Helen asked slowly, she lurched a little on her feet as suddenly the ship shifted in the ocean. Her head still hurt, and her brain was foggy like the mist over the ocean. 

“Athens, dear,” Aethra steadied her by her shoulders. “We’re going to Athens. You’ll be a beautiful Queen…Helen of Athens…” 

“Helen of…what did you call me?” Helen’s brows furrowed. 

“HELEN! Gods, Athena grant her your wisdom, let her think — help her, for the love of— ATHENA! ” Hera shrieked. 

“Ah —” Through the mist, unseen by mortal eyes, was Hermes. “ No. Zeus says to let it be so. That is his message. ”

The owl watched, blinking, calculating . Hera wished it to dive down, yank out the eyes of Aethra and eat them like worms . But no, Athena was forced to sit. 

“Let it be so ?!” Hera shrieked at him. No , no. He could not just… “ Why ?!”

“I don’t think I understand…” Helen concluded slowly. “I want…my sister, where is she? You said she would be here—” 

“Don’t tire yourself,” Aethra begged gently. “We have quite the journey ahead of us.” 

“I send you the messages, I don’t make them,” Hermes shrugged his shoulders, though he smirked like he always smirked. “ You could never make the divine do something they do not wish. You know that. If this is how he wants it…” 

“Where?” Helen blinked. 

“Your new home , Helen,” Aethra sighed. “He’s been waiting for so long. Really, you’re lucky. My son is the best of men. I will fetch him for you, from the hold. He has been eager to meet you for…years , Helen. A wife from Zeus’ line, ohh…” Aethra smiled faintly. “Perfect you are, Helen.” She walked across the deck. 

“Wait —” Helen begged softly, “please tell me what’s—” 

“Hermes please —” Hera began.

“Just ,” the Messenger of the Gods lifted a finger, “ the messenger. ” His amusement was painted all over the perfect planes of his face. 

“Theseus!” Aethra called softly. “I have someone for you!”

Chapter Text

“Oh , please eat something Helen—” Aethra begged soothingly. It is all she had done. Pushed food and drink, food and drink, oh, please eat Helen. Dear, you’ll get ill, let me help, you poor dear, please let me—

“Please let me go, please let me go I don’t know what I’ve done,” Helen begged. It is all she had done. Cried, trembling like a leaf in time with the rocking of some unknown ship, going to some unknown place to her. “Please take me back—” 

“Oh dear, I can’t do that,” Aethra reasoned softly. “My son loves you.” 

Loved Helen. He loved Helen. 

Aethra had called him up to the deck, and he stood. He was built like a Greek hero, his hair dark blonde and curled perfectly around his face, his shoulders wide and strong, and he towered like…a God would. Helen trembled as he came to her, took her chin in his hand, and studied her with eyes so dark she could see her reflection in them. If he was handsome, Helen did not notice, for he was a man and he terrified her. 

“You’re afraid of me…stop it. You truly have no reason to be.” Theseus smiled like she was being silly. He reached out another hand, and Helen screamed until he revoked it with a furrow of his eyebrows, like when a beloved pet nipped your fingers. “...Mother, Take her down to hold.” 

“Please , please please take me back— my father will punish you if you do not—” Helen sobbed, shoving herself back on her hands. “I will not marry Theseus…” she had just enough fight left in her to admit that. She wouldn’t , she couldn’t possibly. Her fear was so paralyzing. She had never even explored Sparta, and here she was going to some unknown place, with an unknown man who— “WHERE are you taking me?!” Helen shrieked. 

“ATHENS !” Aethra screamed back. She smiled softly, quickly after the words left her mouth, “Athens dear girl, Athens , I told you so— look what you’ve made me do, now I’ve yelled at you….” Aethra sighed as she reached out her hands again. “Helen—” her words dripped with such sweetness they gave Helen a stomach ache.

What would Clytemnestra do? What would Penelope do? They would never find themselves here, so it was impossible for Helen to know. Penelope would do something awfully clever, and Clytemnestra would demand her freedom in an instant, but what would Helen do? Helen, who had never so much as seen the grass outside of her walled palace, what would she do? 

She slapped away the woman’s hands. 

“Don’t touch me!” Helen yelled, trying to conjure every ounce of fierceness a Spartan had in them. Aethra’s face grew cold as she withdrew herself. 

“If you wish to be a vile girl, then you can stay here until we arrive,” She marched to the door, slamming it so hard Helen felt the floorboards rattle beneath her. She was alone, in the dark, and outside she heard the rumbling of thunder. 

She cried. 

“Oh Gods , nonononono—” Helen sobbed as she sat on her knees, gripping perfectly curled red strands between her fingers and giving them sharp, almost rhythmic tugs. “Please, please, please—” 

“Helen .” 

“This can’t— it won’t I refuse to—” She gasped, yanking at the hair again. It stayed rooted firmly on her head, as though saying No, no Helen. You can’t pull it out. Your hair is perfect, anything less and it is no longer so. No, it stays right there.

“Helen !” 

“Who’s there?” Her head shot back up, letting the strands fall limp between her perfect fingers. Her eyes had begun adjusting to the darkness, and she could see that she truly was alone. 

“Helen, you must listen to me. You may get out of this yet.”

It dawned on her, slowly. The feeling in her stomach was the same as when the man had spoken to her, in the courtyard on that rainy night. The man with the white, bright eyes, the feathered hair, and the wings on his feet. Just because she was alone , did not mean she was by herself.

“You’re…a God,” Helen swallowed slowly. “Oh thank you—” She prayed up to no one in particular, one of those broad prayers Gods often ignored. If it was not specifically speaking their praise, they were rarely interested. “My….father sent you?” 

Hera felt the strangest sense of pity in her chest, mixed with the urge to roll her eyes.

“My husband did not send me. I sent myself, child. Now listen. He means to marry you.” 

“I know,” Helen sniffled, wiping her tears with the sleeve of her dress. Even as she cried she was beautiful; the tears dripping down her cheeks looked like glittering crystal. “He’s taking me too…Athens, he said. And then there we will be married and I will be…” She swallowed again, “I can’t be Helen of Athens, I’m Helen of Sparta —” 

“You won’t be, ” Hera promised.

“You will…come down and help me, right? Punish him?” Helen asked eagerly. 

“I cannot interfere directly. It is up to you. But I will guide you, best I can.” Zeus could tell Hera not to meddle as much as he liked. But there was nothing he could do to prevent her from whispering in the ears of young women, for that was her domain, as the roaring, thundering skies were his. “ Something must be done…” Hera mused in thought. She was not a Goddess of war or violence. She had cunning, yes, but none of the wily tricks or cunning of her—

“Let me help .” Stepdaughter. Another headache .

“I can do this on my own , Athena,” Hera scowled. 

“Can you ?”

“...Hello?” Helen whispered. “You’ve not left me have you?” She sounded once more close to tears. 

“I could get her out in an afternoon, ” Athena whispered. “Just let me . I know this place better than anyone. ”

Hera ignored her, speaking only to Helen. She was the one who needed her. “You will never be Helen of Athens. Trust me. ” Hera would keep her promises, and Athena, ever scheming, looking for an opening, would stay out of them. 

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Time was hard to keep track of, in the dark. It could have been twelve hours, it could have been twenty. Helen truly had no idea. It was dim, and all the darkness was just the same. Helen’s salvation came as the door to the hold swung open, and at the top of the few steps stood Aethra. 

“Are you done being horrid?” She asked sweetly, unbefitting her words. 

Helen could barely nod her head. She had never been on a ship before, and it had begun to make her horribly sick. She had never felt sick, she was perfect in seemingly every way. How could a perfect person be ill?

“Very well then,” Aethra was swift in hauling Helen to her feet, like an impatient mother with a whining, tantrum-throwing child. She looped her arm through hers, as Helen would with Penelope as they walked the Spartan walls, or with Clytemnestra when she spun her around in excitement. This was not that, it did not make Helen feel safe. Helen felt quite unsafe. “Theseus! My dear!” She called, yanking Helen along. 

“Gods, please—” She began to plead again, heels stubbornly digging into the planks of wood of the deck. Theseus leaned over the rails, observing the Athenian dock with furrowed dark blonde brows. In his hands he…fiddled with something. A ball of twine. He glanced over his shoulder and quickly turned as he smiled. Helen was surprised to see he was quite charming when he smiled, if not for the intense dark of his eyes that ruined it all. Not even a smile could hide what he was. 

“Helen,” he called out her name with such pleasure about him, a charming, suffocating kind of pleasure. “I feared you’d never come to your senses,” he spoke to her casually, as though they had spoken a million times over. “Dionysus gripped you. It makes you quite the fool when he does.” Dionysus . Helen had never heard a man speak a God’s name like that, with a rich scowl of disdain. But as quickly as his mother, his smile shifted back to charming. 

“She is quite sorry for yelling at you.” Aethra unhooked her arm from Helen’s, like removing chains from a prisoner. “Is that not right, Helen?” 

“Play along, ” Hera commanded.

“O-oh of course I am —” Helen fumbled for her words.

“Of course you are ,” Theseus smiled. “In the past, forgotten ! Now, allow me to properly introduce myself.” He stood tall, letting himself tower over her. Helen was not tall by any means, but Theseus was built like a hero, even taller than the lanky and lithe Penelope. He took her hand in his, and she found his skin cold, like throwing yourself into the ocean in the dim afternoon “ I am Theseus, hero of the age, King of Athens, Son of the Gods…” his eyes traveled over her, from the ends of her golden red curls to the blue of her eyes and the perfection that composed the rest of her. “Like you , Helen. Daughter of Zeus.” 

Helen almost cringed. She never enjoyed hearing it said. Those in the Spartan court knew better than to say such things in front of her. She was Tyndareus’ daughter. As Tyndareus was King, but also the man who had reared her from an egg. “How did…you know?” She asked, almost bewildered. 

“Look at you!” He waved a hand, motioning to all he saw of her. “ Perfection . That’s what you are, Helen. I know. I am perfection as well.” He then motioned to himself. 

“Arrogant sons of the Gods think the world turns just for them ,” Hera hissed in her ear. “ Pathetic. Indulge him.” 

“Oh, um…” Helen looked him over as well. She tried to follow the example he had set, looking from the perfect blonde sweeps of his hair, to the dark brown of his eyes and the gleam of his smile. This pleased him. 

“Come, you must see my palace, Helen.” Theseus, the perfect son of the Gods and “hero of the age” stepped from the ship. He helped Helen down to the dock, hands all too eager to rest along her lower back to help her step down. No man had ever touched her so, it made her squirm with an uncomfortable twist in her stomach. Aethra helped down herself, for Theseus was far too distracted. Helen was too. The dock bustled with people unfamiliar to her, not Spartans, but Athenians . She had long heard her father complain of them. Pompous self-obsessed and weak Athenians . Helen could feel their glances, yet they did not stare shamelessly at her. They were…frightened, almost. 

“...they…do not do anything,” Helen mused softly to herself, as they began to walk. His strides were long, and she walked faster than she would have to keep up with him.

“Of course not,” Aethra brushed it off as she walked behind, “they know you belong to Theseus, and never would they dishonor him.” 

“It’s true,” Theseus nodded off-handedly, looking this way, then that. Everywhere his gaze went, the gazes of others darted away to look at the ground. “They know better , Helen. We’re not average people. We’re exceptional.”

“My son is a hero ,” Aethra pronounced proudly. Helen got the idea that she loved to speak of him like that, dote like any adoring mother would on her boy. “Killer of monsters, Son of the Gods…it is why you’re perfect for each other, Helen. Divine meeting divine…” She squeezed her hands together as they walked up the steps of an unfamiliar palace. The walls were lined with… statues . Heavy marble, carved into the form of a man, standing victorious over each and every opponent. Theseus, immortalized in stone. “Oh, I never liked any of the others…” Aethra sighed, clicking her tongue. “You will be the best one, Helen.” 

“The best of… what , might, um…Theseus?” Helen asked. 

Theseus laughed. 

“You know how long I’ve courted you, Helen?” Theseus tilted his head to look at her. “Six years, since I’ve heard of you! They said you were beautiful, godly, even. Not of this plane, and I thought; there is no one better to be my wife. I am beautiful, godly, and and destined for greatness. People who are destined to be remembered can’t be with someone…” His hand was in his cloak’s pocket again, and Helen caught another flash of the ball of twine. “...Average. Un-godly, like any other person.” He said it like it was an insult, some disgusting, unimaginable thing to be. Helen did not think it would be bad. To be simple, but happy, loved, and unburdened, and untaken. “I knew we were meant to be together. Divine needs divine.”

“Fucking shit!” A man laughed, dark-haired and every bit as muscular as Theseus was. His eyes struck Helen, yellow like flashes of bright lightning, but just as unsettling as it also. “You really did it!?” 

“Pirithous!” Theseus yelled with glee, throwing down Helen’s hand to wrap a rough arm around the man’s neck. He laughed like a child, their hug more of a wrestle than anything as he drew back with a smile. “You dare doubt me?” 

“Helen of Sparta ,” the man, Pirithous looked over her shamelessly. “My Gods , what did he have to do to get you ? And when do I get mine?” He grinned, and Helen felt that deep unsettling twist in her stomach once more. He looked at her like a sculpture, or some captured animal found on a hunt, rather than a woman. 

“Spartans are fools ,” Theseus grinned, his eyes stayed on Pirithous as he talked. Helen got the impression he took great pleasure when Pirithous was impressed with him. “Mother, take Helen to my quarters. Pirithous and I have much to discuss.” 

“Come along, dear, come along. The men have things to discuss…” Aethra hummed, grabbed her arm, and whisked her away. The older woman was stronger than she looked. 

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“Oh, when Theseus suggested this whole thing I was unsure, yes, quite, quite unsure…” Aethra sat Helen down on the bed. Her head swirled. What would Clytemnestra do? What would Penelope do? Escape, that was her only option, anything for escape…Aethra had locked the door behind her, yes, but there had to be some way—

“Godly wives , he said! Oh, mother, I need a wife of Olympus. I was quite unsure of course, oh very much so. Theseus has been involved with such awful women. That Cretian Minotaur girl first, oh yes he told me all of her…far too tricky, women have no place in being tricky—” Aethra clicked her tongue, and shook her head as her hands flocked to Helen’s hair. She fluffed it up, though it needed no such thing. Aethra just liked too… touch . “Then her sister, Phaedra. Oh, that cheating, whore of a—” She cut herself off. “Oh, dear Helen you look pale.” She cupped her face in her hands, frowning. She looked much like her son. Same dark blonde curls, same dark brown eyes. 

Hera remembered when she was a young Queen, harboring a child of the Gods, and it was Hera she had turned to. She despised to see it, how blindly women could follow their sons sometimes. Because they loved them, even when they were so underserving of it. 

“Do not do this, ” Hera whispered in Aethra’s ear, but she was too busy fiddling and fixing to notice. “Remember when you were mine ?”

“I want to go home —” Helen begged, “ please ! I cannot stay here, I cannot…I am not a God , not like he wishes—” 

“You truly do not see , do you?” Aethra sighed. “Oh, Helen…you are the very closest thing there is… now . You’ll need new clothes, Athenian dresses, every shade, every fitting.” Aethra whisked away again with quick-clicking heels, shutting the door firmly behind her with the click of a lock. 

“Wait !” Helen called after her, but she was gone, a whirlwind of preparations. Her eyes began to tear again, as though she would cry. 

Hera sighed. 

“Do not start that. Be strong. Now listen to me ,” she hissed in the girl’s ear, “you must be cunning, Helen. Use your charms, so that in time, you may escape.” 

“I am not cunning !” Helen cried. “Never have I been! And now they have me trapped , I will be forced to marry that…” she choked another sob, “painfully obnoxious man! Gods, Clytemnestra would despise him!” 

“He is right. You are not like everyone else here. You are blessed with something the rest of them are not !” Before the birth of Aphrodite, lush as she rose from the sea in perfect, godly form, the most beautiful in all Olympus had been Hera. Hera, with hair in dark curls and the brightest of jade eyes, with peacock feathers curling around her hips and thighs and up over her shoulders. Beauty was a blessing, just as it was a curse. It brought men flocking, seeking to take and take and take from you. But with beauty, you could fight back on the battlefield that was a man’s fragile heart, and his foolish loins.

“I can’t—” Helen began. 

“You can, and you must .”  

Aethra slipped back through the door, dresses of every shade spilling from her arms like a harvested bounty of grain. 

“I did not know what color you would like. Therefore I grabbed them all for you—” Aethra smiled, that smile which tried so very hard to be motherly. It practically begged to be loved, to let her coo and swaddle and suffocate you with affection. “Which would you like first?” 

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By the time Theseus returned, it was dark outside, the sun had drawn back and retreated behind the line of the horizon. Helen sat in the window as she had in Sparta, dressed in the rich Aegean blues that Aethra had so eagerly picked for her. As the door creaked open the hair on her arms prickled. She listened to him walk, ears keen like when she, Clytemnestra, and Penelope were up too late whispering and listening for footsteps that would insist they went to bed.

“You look beautiful,” he pointed out simply, “though, that is what you are known for.” From the corner of her eye, she watched him recline back on his wide bed. “Come lay with me,” he offered. 

No, no, no . Every inch of her demanded it. No, no, no— 

“Laying is all I wish,” he insisted. “What, you think I would take you already? No! You aren’t something to rush into Helen. You should be saved. At least until we wed…” His reassurance meant nothing, but his insistent pat of the place beside him indicated he would expect nothing less. “Come .” 

Helen rose tentatively and sat beside him. He laughed . 

“You are so tense . Why? You’re to be my wife!” Theseus spoke to her as though she were being silly. Silly Helen silly! His hand lifted, curling into her red strands of hair like they were thread he wove, before using them to tug her head down to rest over his chest. “You doubt me already. After everything I told you, does this not feel right?” 

No. It felt nothing close to what was right. This was wrong. His chest was so cold Helen wanted nothing more but to yank away and scream at him again, and she could feel no heartbeat in his chest. He was cold and inhumanly cruel, but his fingers were planted firmly. She stayed quiet, but could not help how she trembled.

“...You’ll learn to love me, I think,” Theseus finally concluded, as though he were thinking out loud. “Every woman I’ve met, cannot love me as I need to be. A woman of Olympus could…” he sighed. “I would marry you today, but I must leave soon…” 

“Leave?” Helen asked. She could not help how eager it sounded coming from her. 

“Pirithous needs a wife. He has his heart set on Persephone, Lady of Spring…” Theseus dragged his fingers through her hair, as carelessly as though he were killing another monster. “We are going to get her…perhaps you two will get along. Ladies in company. Sit as Pirithous and I conqueror together.

“He is what? ” Hera almost laughed in her head. “ Gods damned fool, Hades will devour him—” 

“How long will you be…” Helen fumbled for the words. 

“A few days. The Underworld is not unfamiliar to me,” he boasted, “I’ll keep you with my mother , for safe-keeping. Until I return, and I will marry you, and then…” he trailed off, at the same time his fingers reached the curled bottom of her red hair. “...no, no. You should be saved. Until then,” he leaned down, and to her growing uncomfortability, kissed the peak of her brow. The motion was practiced, and he spoke as though he thought himself generous . See how well I treat you ?

He made Helen feel sick inside. She never knew men could be so…horrible . Theseus was horrible. He made her feel horrible and frightened and he just—acted as though it were alright. 

“When has a man ever been this…horrible!? ” Helen thought desperately. 

Hera scoffed, “Since the birth of the Gods, child.”
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Helen could not sleep for hours, not with him sleeping there, her head rested on the chill of his chest. All she did was lay, tensed, fearing he would change his mind on his generosity . She did not recall when, but at some point at least, her rigid fear gave way to sheer exhaustion, and Hypnos yanked her under. When she awoke, the bed of the Athenian King was empty of all but her. She breathed a sigh of relief. 

It was short-lived. 

“Awake, finally! You sleep late. You mustn’t do that, dear, Theseus is always up conquering the world in the early morning,” Aethra walked with her quick steps, a platter gripped firmly in her hands. “Eat dear, I insist. Truly, you have not eaten anything since we took you from that wretched place.” 

Helen did not wish to, she wanted nothing from these people. But her stomach growled impatiently. It did not care about the circumstance. 

“...thank you,” Helen offered meekly She grabbed the food with her hands. Dried and salted fish, not as flavorful as Sparta’s, and figs not quite as sweet as her home’s either, and bread whose crust was too hard. She forced it down with a grimace. 

“We have quite the day,” Aethra clicked her tongue impatiently. “You must choose something to wear for the wedding, familiarize yourself with the palace. Pray to the Gods for your safe and quick delivery. Your father, Zeus, I am sure he would be pleased to hear from you,” Aethra continued on and on, down a long list of things Helen had no interest in doing. But anything to leave the room, for leaving meant the faintest, slightest chance of freedom . 

She scarfed down the rest of her food.
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Hera watched with a scowl, at how impatiently Aethra dragged her along. 

“This is not right ,” Hera insisted, like a thought in her head, though Aethra was once more too far gone. A mother’s love was the strongest thing in the world, and sometimes it made you lose your very head. Your very mind. Never was Hera’s love for her stepdaughter. 

“You have not been productive. ” Athena cut through her like a cold knife. Probably meandering around in that owl form she found so pleasurable. 

“I await an opening ,” Hera shot back coldly. “ Besides, Theseus will have himself killed before long. The mad man, angering Hades .” 

“Theseus is an idiot. A fool. A son of Poseidon, an unforgivable offense. But fate still entertains his existence.” 

Hera caught sight of her then, fluttering outside the window. Oh how she’d love to grab that feathered horror and just— 

“I have it handled. Helen is mine.” 

“Then your interests align with my champion and I.” 

“Oh, how’d I’d love to slay your champion—” Hera challenged between grit teeth. She very well could. Those intelligent mortal men Athena found so pleasing. Hera could burn them into dust with just her eyes. 

“I would tell my father in an instant. If I did not slay you first ,” Athena replied coldly. 

“Always run to Daddy, don’t you ?”

“Just here,” Aethra instructed Helen to stand in the middle of the room. Sunlight poured through the windows like honey , though in Athens, home of Athena and Theseus, it looked more like piss to Hera than anything. This place and its people disgusted her. “I will go get a seamstress, you wait right here, love…” Aethra cooed, patting Helen’s shoulder like a true doting mother.

She left Helen alone, the door locked shut behind her. Some sort of servant woman’s workspace, a loom in the corner, spinning sticks for thread along the wall, and fabrics draped over tables and shelves. Helen took a breath, shutting her eyes quickly in prayer. 

“Pray to me, Helen, ” Athena whispered. 

“Shut up,” Hera hissed back, “she is too much of a naive fool to hear you anyway .” 

Helen’s eyes opened quickly, her head darting this way, then that, before finally landing on a table. She rushed to it, perfect hands pushing aside loose fabric until finally…a small hand blade, used for cutting fabric. Helen grabbed it quickly, stuffing it within the folds of her dress. 

“You told her there that was there,” Athena observed. But the thing was…Hera had very much not . She had assumed Athena had done so. 

“I told her nothing ,” Hera insisted back. As she spoke, the smell of flowers filled her nose, of sweetness, and the faintest feeling of that dizzying, stupid feeling Hera only got when she was young. Love . 

“Anyone but her,” Athena took the words right from her mouth. 

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Aethra returned with the tailor, and together they draped Helen in all sorts of things, and tested all sorts of fabrics on her. The girl’s eyes made Helen uncomfortable, how they practically marveled at every curve of her body, her face, her hair . She was met with all kinds of gazes, but the ones that made her the most uncomfortable were the scathing ones. As was the tailor girl. 

“Mm…your hair is to be up , we wish to see you,” Aethra noted. Her hands gathered Helen’s hair and thrust it up the back of her neck. That only served to make her more uncomfortable, how she was marveled. She prayed Aethra noticed not the lump in her skirt. 

The seamstress girl encircled a string around her waist, marking it with her fingers to take Helen’s measurements.

 “....Mhm, you will make good babies,” Aethra finally concluded. 

“... What did you say to me?” Helen could hardly find her words. They crawled back down her throat as though begging to hide away from this woman.

“Children, Helen. With my son ,” Aethra noted again with a hint of impatience. Silly, silly Helen . “Phaedra grew so sick when she was pregnant. She never had the form for it, but you, you’re full. That is good.” Aethra continued to appraise her, fluffing up her hair. Helen felt cattle at an auction, eyed for matching up with a prized bull. “The nursery is already prepared.” 

The seamstress tested many colors against Helen’s face, but she was perfect in all of them. There was not one color Helen did not suit, it seemed every one was made just for her. 

“Nursery, for…” Helen trailed off.

“Your children, with my son.” Aethra frowned. “Oh, Theseus has had no good sons, we must change that. Someone must rule Athens when he is gone…you will give him a good son, won’t you, Helen?”

“I will give him none!” Helen blurted suddenly. It took her so, so much to reach such a limit. Her temperament was perfect, but Aethra had dragged it, and dragged, and dragged it until— 

“...what have you said to me?” Aethra said slowly. Her face morphed as it did on the ship, that intense, raging madness that made Helen’s stomach lurch. “ I who brought you into my home? For my son , a HERO , who has brought unto you nothing but kindness and luxury ?!” 

The seamstress woman retreated back against her table, trying her best to look busy. 

“Wait—” Helen began desperately. Gods that looked frightened her, she hated the look of angry people, teetering on the edge of their rage. Before another word could come from her Aethra had a handful of her red hair, and yanked as though pulling a weed from its root. Helen shrieked. 

“Vile , ungrateful child—” Aethra marched from the seamstress quarters, down the unfamiliar Athenian halls with Helen in tow. 

“Please wait ! Wait, wait, wait—” Helen squealed, stumbling after her with a wince. Aethra tugged so hard that, despite their insistence to stay stuck into her scalp, to preserve her perfection, a few golden red strands settled onto the floor. 

“I have labored for years , to ensure Theseus has gotten all he desires. All he deserves !” Aethra yelled as she tugged. “And I will not allow you to ruin it, for if it is a daughter of Zeus he wishes to have, it is what he will get!” She threw open a door, shoving Helen to the floor. 

Hera was overcome with an even greater sadness then. Aethra, once young and shining-faced, now a…what? 

“I am sorry they ruined you .” 

“Please !” Helen shrieked, but the door was slammed shut in her face. It was so dark, she could see little of anything. Only as her eyes adjusted did she see the silhouette of the bassinet in the corner. The nursery, Aethra had boasted of. 

“Please Lady Hera help me—” She sobbed once more. 

“Patience, Helen, ” Hera spoke calmly, firmly. She had no time to weep for one Queen, not when another was doomed to suffer this way. Hera just hoped killing Aethra would not be necessary. 

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“You’re going to choke yourself. Not that I would complain, it’d be a service to everyone.” 

Clytemnestra didn’t even have the energy to groan when Pollux said beside her. His new armor shifted and clanked against itself, the shining bronze he had gotten for his birthday. She caught a glimpse of it from the corner of her eye, as her knees squeezed her head so hard it felt like it would explode. 

“Fuck off.” It carried no heat, no venom. She had none to give. It had all gone where Helen was. Wherever she was. Your fault, your fault, your fault.  

“If you died, mother would blame me . And I hate making her sad, you know the face she makes. So cut it out. You’re turning fucking purple, squeezing yourself like that.” 

Clytemnestra’s head only lurched up when he had shoved his helmet over her head. It sent thick curls into her eyes, and annoyance surging through her chest as she reached blindly to shove his arm. 

“Is there something wrong with you?!”

Pollux laughed. Crackly like lightning charging the air. He grabbed the helmet’s rich plume, red as Sparta’s scarlet banners, and tugged it off her head. 

“Stop , fucking, laughing ,” Clytemnestra hissed. She would never understand him. Every other time he would have shouted and insulted her, and now he… laughed. When she felt her worst he laughed ! Gods, Clytemnestra could have killed him. She should have killed him. But that too seemed to have left her, leaving the familiar fire in her fizzling out into dull sparks. 

“It’s not your fault, you know.” Pollux’s laughing slowly subsided, and he let the words sink in. “...don’t be so self-obsessed, Clytemnestra. Not everything is your fault.” 

“How could you say that to me?!” Clytemnestra snapped. Her Helen. Her responsibility. “It was five minutes, five, and now she is somewhere I do not—” Clytemnestra’s jaw snapped shut, rage bubbling up in her. Someone was to blame. Someone needed to pay. Ares, God he was, knew better than to make Clytemnestra a man, able to march there herself and cut whoever had done this limb from pitiful fucking limb . “... how are you not enraged?” 

“I am,” Pollux said. His sword rested in his lap, and he let it bob over his knee. “I’m saving it…father said fighting a man is different than just training with one, or hopping into an arena for games. I want every piece of me, to go to him. When I find him.” Tap, tap, tap, went his sword. That was one thing they always shared, Clytemnestra and Pollux. Different Fathers, different eyes through which to see the world, but the rage was the same. Clytemnestra saw it smoldering behind his eyes like a storm. “...you take care of Helen better than anyone. So that means if you couldn’t stop it, nobody could. Fate did it. I’m undoing it.” 

“...I feel stupid —” Clytemnestra buried her face in her hands, letting her fingers curl into half fists against her forehead. She should be going, cutting him down, getting her back . “It was… a moment I was not watching her, a moment—”

“You are stupid. I could have told you that.” She felt a gloved hand on the back of her head, half a pat, half a light smack. It was like when they smacked at each other as children, before Pollux grew into the man he was, and Clytemnestra was still big enough to push and tease him“Again. Don’t be self-obsessed. Not every problem in Sparta is caused by you , sister. If it was Father would have put you down a long time ago. I’ve always said that. ” 

Clytemnestra could almost laugh. Almost. If Pollux didn’t annoy her to no end. 

“I hate you.” 

“I told you, I am saving my hate.” His hand dropped to her shoulder, and he squeezed it. With that, he rose to his feet, armor clanking around him. “Though when I get back, I’ll hate you too…Helen will need you to be strong when I return her, so maybe pull yourself together, Clytemnestra?” 

She did laugh, a bark of one, her head rising up to glare at him. He had changed too. He was a man now. A wicked one, yes, an annoying entitled brat of one. Clytemnestra would never understand him, but at the same time, there was always one understanding there. A love of Helen, who brought them together…and something else. Clytemnestra may have suggested a love of each other, but it would make her gag . 

“...don’t get yourself killed . Helen would cry.” 

“Never ,” Pollux said simply. “I’ll bring you something back. A piece of the glory…I know you’d go out to get it yourself.” 

Clytemnestra said the words she never imagined she would. 

“...Thank you, Pollux.”

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“It could have been you—” Icarius paced like a madman. Penelope was getting dizzy watching him, back and forth , back and forth , back and forth , head shifting from side to side as though she were shaking her head no, no, no . 

“It wasn’t ,” Penelope urged, leaning forward in her seat. “It was Helen .” Gods, Helen. The panic had been so overwhelming and thoroug that Penelope had started to cry. Tyndareus had done nothing but shout, shout until his voice was raw. 

“SEARCH EVERYTHING! RIP THIS PALACE APART. SPARTA! I DO NOT CARE! FIND MY DAUGHTER!” 

And then there had been nothing. Tyndareus turned to his brother, grasping his shoulders so tightly Penelope feared he would break him. 

“Find. Who. Now.” Tyndareus hissed. 

“Penelope, with me ,” he urged as he went to his room of planning. Penelope followed, of course. 

“No, but it could have been you—” Icarius turned back around, to pace the other way. Athens is what he had settled on. It had to have been Theseus of Athens. He had been the most eager, the most brash , the most idiotic to try. “That girl has turned this house into… madness —” Icarius cursed up at the sky. 

“Helen did nothing wrong,” Penelope began. Her worry felt so burdening, so heavy it was like she was falling all over again, and this time there were no ducks to swoop her back up. “Helen cannot help what she is, it’s these… men who—” They made Penelope’s tongue bitter as she spoke. Their entitlement , their foolishness. Did they…have no sense at all? No compassion? 

“Listen to me,” he urged as he swiveled back to look at her. His hands gripped her cheeks suddenly, cradling the pale plane of her face as though she were still a babe to him. Penelope often wondered if she would ever not be. “Darling girl, Penelope, listen. This cannot keep going, Tyndareus must choose, and when he does this place will spring into more madness. I wished to do it sooner, the easy way. The smart way. But after this ? Someone being so bold as to…” Icarius swallowed his words. His eyes burned, in a kind of frenzied strategic swirling Penelope saw very little of, except when he drowned in stress.

“What are you talking about?” Penelope reached for his hands, trying to gently pry them off, though they were stuck . “Father—” 

“If it comes down to it, giving away you to satisfy these men, or risk Helen again I will choose you every time, and Tyndareus cannot expect me to do anything less than that,” Icarius insisted. “ You are my daughter. My entire world, you’re what I live for, and you must promise me Helen will not be put above yourself. Whoever Helen chooses, the rest will stew in their anger, and seek a prize, and it will not be you.”

Penelope opened her mouth to speak, though no words came out. He spoke so quickly and with such a franticness about him, Penelope could barely understand what he said. 

“Prize— what are you talking about? Father—” 

“Icarius !” Tyndareus’ yell carried down the hall, and Icarius cursed himself lightly. 

“Wait here, don’t move.” He leaned down to kiss her forehead, his mortal warmth pressed to the slight cool of her faintly divine forehead, and then he was off like a whirlwind. 

Penelope, in all her cleverness, found herself very much confused. 

“...what ?”

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Helen was kept in there, for days, or…she wasn’t sure how long. It was like torture. It mocked her. 

Your future. Helen of Athens. Wife of Theseus.

“I won’t —” Helen spat. “I won’t, and I refuse ! DO YOU HEAR ME ?!” Helen screamed up at the ceiling, her voice growing the faintest bit scratchy. Before she never would have dreamed of doing so, but being here, it ripped it from her.  

“She must kill her, ” Athena noted coldly. “ The woman. To escape.”

“I know .” 

“You should have done it sooner. ” 

“Killing Queens is not something I enjoy, ” Hera snapped. “ I am not like you. My favored are not dispossable to me when I no longer find them pleasing. "

“I know when something has outlived its usefulness. ” 

“My Gods ,” Hera scoffed at her. “ You want this match so badly? Between your new pet and Helen?” 

“There is hardly a man in the Mediterranean who does not wish to have Helen of Sparta. Is this not evidence enough ? This will make Tyndareus choose when she is returned. ” 

“... You did this ?” Hera spoke slowly. “ You whispered in the ear of my husband, to let this be allowed ?” 

“He has to choose,” Athena said. 

Hera would have killed her if she could. Rotten . Her intelligence was nothing when her very being was so fucking — 

“You sicken me .”

“I am resourceful. And nothing more. Helen will be returned. It is all that matters. In fact…”

“Helen! ” The door burst open, and there Aethra stood panting. 

“YOU !” Helen shrieked. “Get away from me, get AWAY from me!”

“Come with me, dear child, come —” Aethra reached for her wrist, panic coursing through her. “ They are here some… terrible monsters, attackers, we must hide — ”

“Do not touch me!” Helen insisted as she yanked her arm back. There was a fire in her now, a burning both Hera and Athena observed, one that this time was not put out as Aethra tugged on her relentlessly, dragging her further within her prison. Helen hit back, fists relentlessly smacking against the side of Aethra as she moved. 

“COME!” Aethra yelled at her. “We haven’t any time for you to be difficult, not when—”

As they turned the corner, bronze caught in the light. Two men, dressed in armor gleamed within the torchlight. One held tightly in his fist the scruff of the seamstress, her eyes wide and terrified. Helen thought for a moment Aethra had been right. Some enemy of Theseus was here to slaughter them all. But she saw the plumes of their helmets, one rich red, the other purple. 

“C-...Castor….Pollux?…. POLLUX !” Helen shrieked as she strained against Aethra’s grip, against the tight touchiness of her hands. “ CASTOR !” 

“Helen… Helen ?!” The seamstress was dropped to the floor at once, hitting her knees as she hurried away with a whimper. Helen could not tell who was who, not while they were in their armor. It didn’t matter. They were here , for her , they had come. She would not be Helen of Athens, not as she breathed. Sparta had come for her. 

“Release her, at once.” 

“NOW , old woman!” Pollux . She would recognize that yell anywhere. Helen shoved against Aethra’s hands, but her grip was tight as it yanked Helen to her chest. She shook her head, though Helen felt her tremble. 

“I…will not give up what Theseus has won, to please you,” she breathed. Her head still shook, no, no, no . “Not when he has worked and fought . He is a hero, and you cannot—” 

Helen reached into the folds of her dress, and blindly she plunged the cloth-cutting knife into whatever flesh she could reach. Aethra screamed, shoving Helen away from her to stare in horror at the crimson spilling from her dress. 

Helen ran to them. Her feet tripped over the trim of her Athenian dress, but one of the bronze-armored men before her reached out and caught her by her forearms. When she looked up, she saw the glittering, kind brown eyes of Castor. She clung to him. 

“Castor ! Castor I—” 

“It is alright, you are alright,” he spoke under his breath, soft as his hands reached to tug off his helmet as though he worried it would frighten her. “Helen, we have you, it’s alright…” he pulled her up to his chest. The bronze of his armor took away the softness of a normal hug, but Helen didn’t care. She held onto him regardless, crying into the spot in his neck where his armor did not reach. 

Pollux marched across the floor, rage smoldering in his eyes. 

“You… dare, you DARE —” He grabbed the front of Aethra's dress, and hauled her to his eye level. His eyes seemed bluer now, their lower lid twitching. “ Where . The fuck . Is Theseus ?”

“I would never tell you,” Aethra gasped. 

“She hurt you?” Castor whispered. His hands stroked her hair, soft and gentle where Theseus had been rough. “Theseus did?” 

Helen just nodded. 

“TELL ME !” Pollux bellowed. It was a rage in him so intense, that outside the sky thundered and cracked with storm. Helen always hated storms. 

“Gone !” Aethra heaved as he shook her. Red dripped onto the floor. Helen had done that. “To the Underworld, gone!” 

“The Underworld is where I will send him,” Pollux snapped. “If you lie to me, woman—” his hand rose to her neck. 

“I do not lie! I do not lie!” Aethra screamed, “he went…for Persephone, Lady of Spring, I do NOT lie!” 

“She…she is right,” Helen nodded slowly. “That is…what he told me.” 

Pollux snarled in frustration.

“We need to get her back to Sparta. He is not here .” Castor spoke once more across the hall. “Pollux… Pollux !” 

“Fine ,” Pollux snapped. For a moment, Helen thought he would kill her. He was every bit capable of doing so. But he let Aethra fall back onto her feet. His hand stayed firm on her forearm. 

“Let me go —” She choked. Pollux laughed, sharp and abrasive. 

“Let you go? After what you have done ?” He shook his head, sending the plume fluttering in the air. “ No.” He began to drag her. Castor set Helen down lightly, yet gripped her hand as he led her past the statues of Theseus. Their heads had been knocked off, and now rolled against the floor. 

“Where do you take me—” Aethra hissed. She gave a tug, but however strong she was, the Son of Zeus was more so. 

“Sparta . I told you so, didn’t I?”
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“CLYTEMNESTRA !” That is who Helen flung herself at first. Her safety, her sister . The second she landed in her arms, Helen began to sob all over again. It had just been too awful, never had she felt so unsafe . And in Clytemnestra’s arms? It was like being back in the egg again, safe behind shell.“I missed you, I needed you so much, Clytemnestra—” 

“Shh, I know, I know—” Clytemnestra held her like a baby as she babbled. Helen felt the tension seep from Clytemnestra’s limbs before she buried her face in Helen’s hair. “Thank the Gods, thank you, thank you—” 

“Thesus wasn’t there,” Castor slipped the helmet off of his head. “...but she’s here, it’s all that matters.” 

“Clytemnestra —” 

“Breathe , Helen. Slowly.” Clytemnestra shifted her in her arms, years of Spartan sports giving Clytemnestra the strength to cradle her.

“Helen?” Penelope followed soon after, face wrought with worry. “Oh, Helen—” 

“Pen!” Helen couldn’t bear to leave the safety of Clytemnestra’s arms, but her hands reached for Penelope’s shoulders, tugging her into the embrace with the three of them. 

“You’re safe ,” Penelope breathed. “My gods, Helen—” Her eyes, filled with constant worry, more so now than ever scanned Helen over for injury, for any hair out of place on her head. 

“I missed you…so much I never thought—” 

“I know, you’re alright.” Clytemnestra pushed down her curls, pressing a kiss to the peak of her brow. “There you are, Helen, it’s alright, we are okay…” Clytemnestra turned her attention to Castor. “Pollux, where is he? He’s…alright?” 

“Fine,” Castor said. “Unloading the ship.” 

“Let me go, let me go!” Aethra insisted, tugging against him as Pollux all but dragged her inside. She limped still, cloth wrapped around the leg Helen had struck. Stabbed . Pollux and Castor promised to never tell anyone of it. Helen was thankful for that.

“Clytemnestra ,” he greeted her first.

“Pollux…?” Clytemnestra looked between him and the old woman, her brow raised as Helen continued to all but cling to her. 

“I told you, I would bring something back for you, didn’t I?” Pollux turned to the woman. “For my dear sister…” Pollux leaned down, and he could not help how he smiled . “She’s worse than I am, ” he whispered. 

Aethra’s gaze slowly flickered up. Even with Helen latched to her, Clytemnestra stood tall , and her eyes . Aethra had never been struck by such eyes, set in a regal face. You think she is vile? You have never met someone like me. 

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hera lingered with mist, unseen. She watched Helen of Sparta, embrace her sister, her cousin. The Ladies of Sparta. You will need each other .

“You have her?” Tyndareus descended the stairs, Icarius quick on his heels. 

“She’s here, father,” Clytemnestra motioned to the trembling form that clung to her. “She won’t be leaving for a while.” 

“Thank the Gods…” Tyndareus breathed. 

“He meant to marry me. Gods it was awful, never have I felt so…so… helpless in anything—” Helen buried her head further within Clytemnestra’s shoulder. 

Hera watched the King’s face shift, how it hardened. 

“I hope you are pleased with yourself .” 

“I take no pleasure in any harm that befalls Helen of Sparta.” Athena paused. “...my pick is not a bad man. He will be a hero.

“See what a hero has done already ?” Hera spat a laugh. Athena knew nothing of marriage, how could she? It was outside her domain, a million miles away. Hera caught a whiff of it again, that floral stink . She was here, roaming. Wherever marriage was to be, she followed. Just what Hera needed, another God interfering.

“This cannot go on,” Tyndareus swallowed. He tried to make himself sound strong and resolute, a true King of Sparta, but even he trembled. “...I have failed you, Helen. I could not protect you, and this… this has happened. No more. It cannot happen again. You need someone who can protect you, better than I.” 

Clytemnestra met his gaze.

“What do you mean?” She asked slowly, a warning, almost. You wouldn’t .

“... that is what he meant,” Penelope murmured slowly, to herself more than anything as the pieces clicked in her clever head. 

“Helen…it is time, ” he tried to stay strong, undoubting in himself. His decision But Hera saw right through it. “You are to be married.”

Chapter Text

The Great Hall of Sparta was so thickly packed with bodies you could feel the heat radiating like fire. And if the Suitors of Helen were fire, their sheer and utter excitement was a thickly laid layer of smoke. Who wouldn’t be excited? On the other side of the room, sitting veiled before two great kings, was the prize to end all prizes. A piece of the Gods offered up to one man, who could prove he deserved it. Everyone in that room had made the same promise to themselves. It’s me, it has to be me! Who else could it be? 

Who else indeed?
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“Diomedes, Prince of Argos!” 

“Kings of Sparta,” Diomedes gave his swiftest bow. It made the gold earrings he wore from his ears shift and dangle with movement. Diomedes wore much gold. Gold earrings cuffed over the curl of his ear. Gold bangles on his arm. Gold bands around his biceps. He dripped in it. Before him, Argos was only rich in horses. But all it took was the cleverness of a Politician, and Horses could be turned to gold . 

Diomedes always was quite clever. 

The Kings of Sparta took a moment just to look at him, observe him, appraise him. Diomedes had always been aware he was handsome, as most handsome people were. His skin was rich like the gold he wore, his hair dark and thickly curled. He had begun to grow his beard, quite a pride unto him, and he kept it cropped and neat. Argos loved the fight, and it kept him muscular, tall, and toned. He was put together, pleasing, and Diomedes, clever as he was, knew it. And after all, who could not admire a man decorated from his handsome brow to his feet? He was strong like the mighty horses he reared.

“Young man…” The King on the right mused. The lanky one, slender with dark hair and thin fingers. King Icarius, strategist of fierce Sparta. Diomedes had heard of him. “A prince ? I seem to recall hearing news of the King of Argos’ death. Does that make you not a King ?”

“Ah…” Diomedes thought of how to answer, thoughtful as he was humble. “No, no I have not yet ascended the throne.” He was clever enough to know not to give too much away. Not when first impressions were so important. 

Diomedes could not be King of Argos. Not until he avenged the death of his father. Not until his honor had been restored, no…for now, he was a Prince. A prince is how he would stay. 

“Your age?” The King on the left asked firmly. Tyndareus, father of Helen. Whichever one she was. Diomedes let his gaze befall the three veiled figures who sat before the kings, so stoically still he wondered if they were statues. 

“Twenty-two, sir,” Diomedes replied respectfully. 

“And your purpose?” Icarius asked once more. “Why have you come ?” 

Diomedes thought the question over. Why had he come? Pride? A wish to possess what every other man wished? No, no… he had what most men dreamed of already.

Did he wish to impress the Goddess who had blessed his father? No… Athena came to him in his dreams regardless, whispering promises of glory in his ear. “Let me bless you, Diomedes, and you will be great.”

Then what, exactly? Perhaps he was just bored. Or maybe, part of him did enjoy the showing off, just a bit.

“Well…” Diomedes pondered. When people thought of Argos, they did not often think of thoughtfulness. “I suppose I would just like a wife. Someone noble, kind, true. To spend with me my life. Be a Queen of Argos, at my side, when my time comes.” 

He could feel the roll of eyes behind him, of Helen’s many, many other suitors.

“For gifts, Kings of Sparta, I come bearing the finest of Argos; 100 of our fastest race horses, and every crate of gold I fit unto my 20 ships.” 

That sent them muttering.

“20?!” 

“Show off. ” 

“Bastard .”

“A hundred ?!” 

Diomedes couldn’t help but smirk. He could not be humble and well-meaning all of the time. 

“Very kind , of you.” Tyndareus leaned back on his throne, “you may sit.” 

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“Ajax and Teucer, Princes of Salamis! ”

“Thank you, for your hospitality,” Ajax, rather than bow, hammered a large fist over his heart. For him to bow would be ridiculous! Like Zeus, his mighty ancestor himself, being forced to bow.

“Truly, most hospitable,” Teucer gave a bow. His high forehead would have brushed the floor, if not for the endless amount of grace he possessed that allowed him to tug himself up at the last minute.

“Brothers of… where again?” Icarius sighed, resting his chin in his hand as he waved them on. 

“Salamis, Dear King!” Ajax laughed, a mighty sound that reverberated off the very walls itself. Everything about Ajax was mighty . He was a bear of a man. Towering like a building, tanned arms swelling with muscle. His back was arching, wide like the great planes of the sky. His hands were so large that he could probably encircle them around the entirety of Helen’s waist, a thought that excited him as his eyes scanned down the line of veiled maids who sat before Tyndareus and his brother. Which one was her? He wished to see her face, as she laid eyes on him. Strong, manly to his core, with that thick black beard he wore, and the manly curls of his hair. “The mightiest port in Greece! Under our father, great Telamon—” 

“Our import is impeccable ,” Teucer cut in. Where Ajax was bright and towering, Teucer was cool and gracile. There was not one part of him that was not slender. Slender arms, slender legs, a slender waist which curved in as Ajax’s jutted out with muscle. And with slenderness came grace , as much grace as a dancer. He was clean, high, and mighty, his straight-cut dark hair tucked behind his faintly tanned ears. It was the Trojan in him, from his dearest mother, that made him so beautiful. It was only a father they shared, and If not for the same shade of black hair, or the umber colored eyes, you would not know they were related. Power and grace, connected just so. Ajax a stocky bear, Teucer a graceful crane.

“Your age?” Tyndareus asked. The veiled girl sitting before him crossed her legs, slumping slightly in her chair. Tyndareus glared at the back of her head.

“Twenty-three,” Ajax said proudly. He caught many by surprise with such an age, when he looked as though he could have been well into his thirties.

“Nineteen, sir. But my age does not take from my skill,” Teucer said. His voice weaved through the thundering of Ajax, melodic like a bird song. “I am quite the skilled archer.” 

“Well, I am like no other on the battlefield,” Ajax butt in once more, casting Teucer a glare. “I can defeat fifty men with nothing but my hands.” 

“And I sixty, ” Teucer smirked.

“Enough, enough,” Icarius sighed. “ What brings you here, sons of Telamon?”

Ajax was bought by many things. The first of which was women . Oh, Ajax had a great love of women . He had bedded more than he could count on the digits of his thick fingers. It was hard to resist, the promise of a woman so perfect she was called the most beautiful in the world. What curved hips and plump lips lay under that veil? Waiting for him, just for him? 

Teucer laid with just about anyone he fancied. Men, women, it didn’t matter. Beauty was beauty to him, and the promise of a beauty so incredible it was shielded so did intrigue him. So why stay on Salamis, when he could be in Sparta, in beautiful company?

That, however, was not the real reason. 

“I bet she would marry me over you any day, Ajax. ” 

“Ha! Never. A woman likes a man with substance. Power, where you are shrimpy.” 

“Oh please, you would break her in half. ” 

And so, the bet was on. 

“I just want a good woman,” Ajax began. “ Never would there be a time Helen would not be protected in my arms. No man would dare.” His great shoulders rolled, showing the ripple of great muscle like water.

“Love, what else?” Teucer dropped to a slender knee, “and mine is… ardent . I would love her forever.”

“Ardent?! Please. The fuck does that mean?” 

“It’s romantic,” Teucer glared at his brother. 

“And what do you bring?” Tyndareus asked, as his own brother was too busy rolling his eyes. 

“The riches of the Middle East! With whom we trade rigorously,” Teucer smiled that charming smile. 

“Right! Yes of course—” Ajax butted in as always, to be included. 

“Please ,” Icarius murmured under his breath, before raising his voice to that of a strong King. “You may sit.”

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“Patroclus, Prince of Opus! ”

“Come along boy, do not drag your feet—” Menoetius hissed at the boy in his grip, before turning quickly to the Kings of Fair Sparta. “King Tyndareus, King Icarius, my humblest of greetings. And such joy I take, in being here with—” 

“Is this a joke?” Icarius interrupted him coldly, leaning forward in his throne to better peer down at what had come before them. 

Patroclus had never felt so nervous. He was shaking, he was sure of it. The one thing his father told him to do was not look as though he were nervous, and now he was shaking. Patroclus was very scared. Men had been bumping into his shoulders until they felt bruised. He missed his Mama, he wished he could just curl up and lay his head in her lap, but here Menoetius was, gripping his wrist until it hurt. He hated the eyes , too. Too many eyes. 

Patroclus had yet to grow into himself. Into anything . He was still…unmolded. Nothing firmly set that could be judged . His skin was dark like the outer flesh of ripe figs, his dark hair softly curled. Not in the way of a dashing Prince, but more in the way of a fluffy, new-born colt, still with its unproportional features. His eyes were constantly startled, curiously grey like little pebbles or stones. There was perhaps a potential for manhood there, a slight wideness in his shoulders compared to the rest of him. But there was nothing yet of him to judge.

“My son is mature for his age,” Menoetius responded quickly, “he is the pride of my life, and would make a fine husband for your daughter, King Tyndareus.” 

“How old are you, Patroclus?” Tyndareus asked the frightened colt before him. 

Patroclus swallowed. The King attempted to be nice, but still he got his name wrong. Said it too fast, emphasized the wrong letters. He was too nervous to correct him. 

“E-eight—” 

“Eight years old?!” Icarius exclaimed. “A child . Please. He was a babe yesterday.” 

“Now Kings ,” Menoetius glared. “My son has much to offer you. Opus is a fine kingdom, and under my rein we prosper like no other. I served alongside Jason himself, and long has fate smiled on me and my people. If your daughter were to marry into such a family, I assure you she would wish for nothing . Everything she could want, and all the protection in the world would be hers. I am a very skilled warrior myself, having fought in many a—” 

“You wish to marry Helen, or does your son ?” Icarius sighed, leaning back to sip from his goblet. 

Patroclus played with his fingers. He had never seen someone treat his father like that. He did not even know it could be done…Patroclus wished he was home. He missed his things, his father had not let him bring any. 

Toys are for children, you are a man! 

Patroclus missed his things. His nails picked at themselves. 

“Icarius, ease. Let the boy speak,” Tyndareus sighed, though his fingers raised to brush his forehead in exasperation. “Patroclus, what is it you have to offer? Why should you be chosen?” 

Patroclus took a long moment to think of what it was he would say. His father remained quiet, as the old men silenced him, so Patroclus could not ask what to say. 

“...I-I would be a good friend to Helen,” Patroclus offered. He had no friends back in Opus, but he believed that if someone were his friend, they would think he was a very good friend. “...I-I am very nice.”  Patroclus heard snickers behind him. They made him want to sink into himself, or run away and play with his wooden horses, if his father had let him take them. 

Menoetius grit his teeth, his eyes flared. 

“And what have you come bearing, Prince of Opus?” Icarius asked dully. 

“I offer all the gold we have,” Menoetius said between grit teeth.

Patroclus turned his head, watching servants dump what little his father had brought with them into the growing pile of bridal gifts. His eyes lingered on the golden lyre atop the pile. He did not want to give it away, but his father said they had too. It was such a pretty lyre.

“Generous of you,” Icarius sighed. 

“You may leave,” Tyndareus said. 

Patroclus would have been relieved, if his father did not squeeze him so. 

“Idiot boy. ”

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“Odysseus, King of Ithaca! ”

“King Tyndareus, King Icarius, I am at your eternal service.” The man before them bowed, and as his head raised, the light caught his clever eyes.

“Are you sure you are not a farmer ?” Icarius asked, scoffing. The Suitors behind erupted into snickers, but Odysseus chuckled with them. 

“Ah,” Odysseus smiled. “No, a King, I assure you. Just a humble one. Roguish, perhaps, if you subscribe to that.” 

It was a common mistake, to assume coming from a humble place made you, yourself, humble. Odysseus was hardly that. He knew himself clever, cleverer than anyone here. Ithaca may be humble, but he was not. The smartest man in the room was never humble. 

Odysseus let them appraise him freely, look him up and down. He knew he didn’t fit his station, not looks wise at least. He didn’t wear gold, merely Ithacan wool and leather over his short frame. Short, yes, but strong; his shoulders wide from pulling plows over his field, his hands large and calloused from his bow strings. His hair was loosely curled, a dull sort of brown over his tan forehead, and just beginning to stubble over his chin. He hadn’t grown a beard yet, though Athena assured him he wouldn’t need one. 

“Your mind is enough. Your clever words. Let them see .” 

Ah, Athena. She was a pretty damn good patron, if he had to say. Her mark was left all over him, to the long, jagged scar on his thigh, peeking out from his chiton, to his oddest feature, his eyes . One a rich brown, the color of soil, and the other a striking blue. To always see the plan ahead.

He smiled once more, and there was something almost wolfish when he did. Too much canine. 

“Your age, King of…” Tyndareus trailed off slightly. 

“Twenty-one,” Odysseus said smoothly, “and Ithaca, my liege. An island northeast of Kefalonia.” Odysseus could not help how his eyes trailed over the veiled three who sat before the Kings of Sparta.

Clever, he noted. They had slopped the platform they sat on, so they all appeared the same height. Harder to tell who was who that way. Not a bad plot, not something most would notice. 

Odysseus noticed, naturally. 

“And why, King of Ithaca, are you here?” Icarius asked. Bored , Odysseus noted. Or just acting that way. Tyndareus the reasonable one, Icarius the one to make them start stuttering over themselves.

“Remember, ” Athena had murmured in his ear. “Your mind is your greatest asset. Your clever words.”

Why was Odysseus of Ithaca here? Athena had promised him that he would be known. And now? Here was his chance. 

She was handy to have on your side. All it took was getting mauled by a boar, and now Odysseus had his chance at the most beautiful girl in all of Greece, and a reputation to go along with it. 

“You will be admired around Greece; cleverest of them all. ”

Odysseus did what he did best. He lied. 

“Why am I here?” Odysseus played it up the best he could, sending his voice sweeping like a poet reading an epic. “Love, of course…” His eyes trailed down the line of veiled girls, before landing on the one on the right. She had pearls on her sandals, a sign of beauty. There was nothing on Ithaca as beautiful as pearls. Not one of the suitors had spoken to her, looked at her, always to Helen’s father. “I offer my eternal affections. Everlasting as long as I breathe. Loyalty. My heart, yes, but…” he chuckled, “something equally as valuable. My mind, if you will have me, Helen. It is all yours, to please you however you wish.” His mind was his bridal gift…if Ithaca had gold, would he offer it? Oh, definitely. But his words would have to do. He had a lot of those.

“Odysseus ,” Athena hissed in his ear, “the middle. Helen sits in the middle.” 

“...Ah,” Odysseus smiled again, that wolfish smile. “...Apologizes.” 

Icarius' face slowly turned redder, redder, and redder, as the one on the right shifted further down in her seat. He imagined she was quite red under there as well. 

“You. May. Sit,” Icarius hissed. And so, Odysseus did. 

“ Accidents happen ,” he thought to Athena earnestly. Truly , in all his cleverness, he did think that was the woman for him. Athena ignored him.  

“My poor dear, my darling pearl…” Icarius fretted over the one who sat before him, adjusting her veil as he glared, even as Odysseus retook his seat. 

“Clever ,” Diomedes murmured to him. He snorted.

“It was a good speech though, wasn’t it? ” Odysseus murmured back. Though he couldn’t deny it, it was a little funny.

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“How much more of this?” Icarius insisted. “By the Gods, I think my hair is going to fall out if I listen to these idiots ramble another moment—” 

“Patience …and wine, drink, for the Gods’ sake, you’re insufferable when you do not, “ Tyndareus sighed as he drank from his goblet. With the wave of his hand, he motioned for the next man to be called. 

“Agamemnon and Menelaus! Princes of -...um…” He swallowed, his words dying in his throat. 

“Go on, man,” Tyndareus sighed impatiently. His hand shifted down to adjust the veils of his daughters. 

“Um….Mycenae !” 

A cloud settled over the room. Like smoke. Heavy, thick with ash smoke. 

Cursed, Cursed, Cursed . 

Agamemnon rose from the crowd. As he walked, he guided Menelaus like he had done when the boy could barely walk on his own; a strong hand on the back of his neck, steering him to the front, before the Kings of Sparta. 

“Kings,” Menelaus said quickly. It made him uncomfortable. How uncomfortable they seemed to make others. 

Cursed Sons, Cursed Sons, Cursed Sons.

“...Thank you, for taking us,” Menelaus bowed, his copper head of hair shifting over his forehead. The Princes of Mycenae could not be more different. Agamemnon was like a mighty stag; tall, strong, and proud, yet unsettling as he stared at you. Black locs fell over his broad shoulders, framing the strong presence of his face. His eyes were… dark , that was the only hue you could gather from them. Perhaps blue, if the light hit them just right. He was dotted with the occasional scar, light across his brown skin, but really his appearance didn’t matter. It was what surrounded him that the entirety of the Spartan hall felt. The very air around him was clogged, with some unseen displeasure. Displeasure from the Gods . There was nothing more unsettling than that. 

Sons of Atreus, vile, cursed descendants of Tantalus. Not too close, no not too close. What if it rubs off on you? Their immense displeasure. 

Menelaus looked much the opposite. His skin was like bronze, dotted with freckles over his nose and cheeks. His eyes were lighter, a little more noticeable in their color of blue, but not by much. He had potential there, a chance for manhood, for strength like his brother, but he had yet to grasp it. What stood out the most was his hair . It was red, like copper was, natural, yet vibrant. He wasn’t necessarily handsome, no, more…average, than anything. Agamemnon was far more handsome than him, and yet what they shared was that… cloud . 

Cursed Sons of Atreus, how does it feel, to be so revolting to those who host you?

“Mycenae ,” Icarius cleared his throat, sitting up with a straightening posture about him. “I apologize for the loss of your father. Truly a terrible deed.” 

“Thank you,” Menelaus answered earnestly. He at least had that. Agamemnon was always rough around the edges, but Menelaus was…well, likeable . Pleasing, easy to stomach, even as his own stomach lurched. 

He did…not want to think of Mycenae. Of his father sitting on his throne, throat gashed open in some disgusting display of pain, misery, betrayal-

He felt Agamemnon squeeze the back of his neck, with his hand. 

“Thank you,” Agamemnon echoed. “...We come to Sparta, with nowhere to go, King Tyndareus. Our uncle exiled us with nothing but our lives, and each other.” Agamemnon’s voice was deep, yes, but slightly impassive for the most part. He sounded tired. 

“Xenia dictates all suitors are given room,” Tyndareus continued. There was, however, a bit of unease there. “...How old are you, sons of Atreus?” 

“Twenty-four,” Agamemnon answered. 

“Eighteen…” Menelaus swallowed. No one could look at him. He hated how he unsettled people. He never meant to, never as long as he lived, he—

“And why should we choose you?” Icarius asked. 

“I-I have nothing to offer, really, um…but,” Menelaus searched for the words. 

Cursed . 

“...Love sets you free, I believe. It is all you need…I have it, with my brother at my side. And I will bring it to you…if you choose me, Helen—” He heard a groan of annoyance behind him, but when he looked up again he saw the girl in the middle . Leaning forward in her seat, almost. As though she were going to spring onto her feet. “Um…thank you! Sparta is lovely,” he concluded quickly.

“You may sit,” Tyndareus nodded. Menelaus appreciated not being asked any more questions.

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“I heard her hair is blonde like sand, wavy like curls of grown grain— ” 

“What do you mean, blonde? Her hair is the warmest brown , the color of freshly cooked bread waiting on a table.” 

“She’s not a meal, idiot, she’s a woman! I hear her hair is as red as fire! ” 

“Which one was she, you think? The one on the left? ” 

“No, the middle for sure. I could see her silhouette when the light hit her veil, the most perfect curves I’ve ever seen—”

“Who are the other two, you think? At her side?” 

“Who the fuck cares! She was right there!”

Chatter, chatter, chatter. It is all the suitors did as they sat splayed in their wing of the Spartan palace. Dozens upon dozens of men, crammed together in one space. Whatever could go wrong? 

“High or low?” Odysseus rolled the dice around in his palm, a practiced motion, as practiced as his smile. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed them into the air, letting them whirl before swiftly snatching them back up again in his calloused palm.

“High!” Ajax yelled, slamming his giant fist against the floor. 

“High,” Teucer leaned back on his hands, rolling his slender shoulders back with a pop. 

“Andddd—” Odysseus paused, just for tension as he rolled them across the floor. “Ones all around.”

“You’re a damn cheater I swear you are—! why would anyone gamble with you?!” Ajax slurred in his drunkenness. 

“You play the game by choice,” Odysseus shrugged. “I suppose fate just doesn’t smile on you, Ajax?” 

“Shut’up,” He grumbled, but per the rules, he grabbed his goblet and downed what he had. It was about the same state most of the suitors had gotten themselves into. 

“It’s a celebration, we’re finally in Sparta! That calls for a drink, don’t you think, my brothers? To us!” Odysseus had proclaimed proudly. They cheered, thrusting up their fists as the wine came pouring in. 

“Diomedes?” He called over his shoulder, rolling the dice in his palm. “Join us, won’t you?” 

“Kind, but no,” Diomedes laid back on his bed, one leg hanging off the side. He was clever too, but in a much more… understated way. And handsome, Odysseus had observed. Very handsome. Wealthy, but unlike the other suitors Odysseus hadn’t yet wrung a coin out of him.

“Menelaus?” Odysseus offered next. 

The prince turned swiftly from his bedroll. His hair shined like copper, and as he looked at Odysseus his eyes were wide. Odysseus enjoyed catching people by surprise. 

“I… me?” He asked quickly. 

“Yes you, come on. We are all friends, under the House of Sparta,” Odysseus smiled. Trust me, would I ever do you wrong?  

Agamemnon, from his place lying on his own bed, reached out and grabbed a hold of Menelaus’ wrist, a silent no. No one had taken place beside him, besides Menelaus. Fearing his… misfortune would rub off on them. Menelaus sighed. 

“I…shouldn’t. Thank you, though, for the offer.” 

“Mm, suit yourself…” Odysseus shrugged, before turning back to his group of suitors eager to play. “Before I roll, another round! To Helen! In all the perfection she is.” He raised his goblet high. Odysseus could give the loudest speeches. Be the life of any party. He was sure Diomedes noticed how he did not drink himself, however, but said nothing. Odysseus hated drinking, it turned you into a stumbling idiot…not that Ajax wasn’t one all the time.

“To Helen !” They cheered and whooped, eager and tipsy as the maids sent to attend them filled their goblets once more, per Xenia. 

“...I would like to play,” Patroclus murmured. His eyes had been trained on Odysseus’ dice the whole time, watching them soar through the air. He would much like to play with them, they were very pretty. Shiny and wooden, with little “x”’s on each side for numbers. 

“Don’t be a child,” Menoetius scolded. “Remember why we are here .”

“What do you think Helen looks like, Odysseus?” Teucer hiccuped, head rolling back to look down the long row of suitors behind him.

“What else? Beautiful! Curved, red-haired, wide-eyed,” Ajax rambled. 

Odysseus tapped his chin in thoughtfulness. 

“What else , besides perfection?” He mused. That is, at least, what Athena promised him. Perfection …he had no idea how his version of perfection, and Ajax’s could ever be the same, but Athena had claimed it so. “A beautiful mind, to match a beautiful face. If she is truly perfect.” 

“Gah ,” Ajax waved a large hand, “why in the fuck would you want your woman smart? So she can outsmart you?” 

“Good conversation,” Odysseus paused, “...unlike the one I’m having.” 

“Shut up and roll, Little King,” Ajax shot back. 

Odysseus hated that nickname. 

His mismatched eyes narrowed, but he smiled. 

“High or low, Ajax?”

“Low ,” Ajax grumbled. 

Odysseus, quick-fingered wily King of Ithaca, swiftly traded the dice in his palm for the ones weighted towards the highest numbers, the ones that hid in his humble pockets. Ajax didn’t notice the switch, due to the double misfortune of being stupid, and also drunk off his ass. “If I win, I want…mm….ten coins out of your pocket; if you lose, you drink. Deal?” 

“Roll the damn dice!” It was easy sometimes.

Odysseus did so, as a maid leaned over to fill his goblet. 

“Fuck !” Ajax yelled. Odysseus laughed, a barking sound, mixed with the odd giggling timbre of his swift-footed decedent. He often thanked Hermes, for making robbing fools blind so easy . 

“Shouldn’t you be resting? ” Athena whispered in his ear. “You have an important day, tomorrow. You must impress them. Her." 

She always came and went like that. Like a passing thought, a quick glimmer of brilliance. He smirked, however, as she quickly realized what he had been doing. 

“Sabatoge?” 

“Perhaps you should try again, Ajax? Your win must be around the corner. Now drink up.”

Ajax did so, and as he finished his own drink the maid fluttered over to fill his own. A shame , when they would all be hung-over idiots tomorrow. Fumbling before King Tyndareus. A shame how he would walk in, swift-footed and sober, while the rest stumbled. 

“Again?” Odysseus asked him. “Or are you done losing for the night?” 

“Roll the damned dice, Goat Boy!” 

“Do not get so caught up in sabotaging them that you forget to present yourself.”

“Athena.” Odysseus rolled the dice again. 

“Damn it!” Teucer yelled this time, in that light melodic timbre. 

“Ah, drink up friends!” Odysseus smiled. 

“Odysseus.” 

“ That maid there, the one filling Ajax’s cup. She’s watching us, you think? Spying. ” 

“That would break Xenia. ” 

“I know .” Odysseus smiled, giving Ajax a wink as he blew on the dice before rolling them. “Oh, high! I win again.” 

“...She is. ” Athena indulged him. Very often she liked to let him think things through himself, come to his own conclusions. Odysseus thought she saw it as…enrichment. 

“You, would you like to play?” Odysseus asked her. The maid turned quickly, and as she did Odysseus caught the glint of pearls on her ears. A maid with pearls. He’d never seen such a thing. Odd. 

“... No .” She said flatly, swiftly as she stood up. 

“What will you do about it ?” Athena questioned. 

“Another round, if you will. For my great friends,” Odysseus leaned back, dice rolling against the calloused skin of his palm. No one could make a fool of someone like Odysseus could. No one could make friends quicker. 

“She can report back to whoever she serves of how clever I am, and how I will win. ” 

He felt Athena sigh. She always pretended to be displeased about his pride, but really, he thought the Goddess liked it. At least a little.

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.” 

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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. 

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“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.

Chapter Text

Her hair, it was like…like…  

Her eyes, I knew they were blue, I always said they were so !

I thought I was looking at Aphrodite herself for a moment…

“My Gods —” Teucer blew some hair out of his face as he collapsed into a chair. “Ever has there been such a woman to exist? What time to live in, fuck…” 

The most satisfying part, for Odysseus at least, as he lay back on his pallet, was that seeing Helen’s face was enough to shut Ajax up. Gods was he red . As red as Helen’s hair had been red gleaming brightly under torch light. He could not even begin to describe her properly, none of them could. All of their attempts were clumsy , none of them had the heart of a storyteller.

If Odysseus was to, at that moment, sweep her off her feet with a honey-coated description, it would go something along the lines of: Oh Helen, fair Helen! Do the heavens envy you? The clouds? The sky itself? Do the waves of the red-wine sea envy your hair? Do the clouds envy the softness of your cheeks? Do pearls envy your smile? ...well, Odysseus assumed they did, he had not seen her smile. She had been too nervous to give one. But still, her beauty shined like the sun. That was a woman men killed each other over. It was… exciting. It buzzed in the air like electricity, and in that moment, it all seemed a little more real. 

“She is beautiful,” Athena’s words dripped down the recesses of his brain, like water flowing over rocks on the coast. It was not a question, because there was no asking if one found Helen of Sparta beautiful. It is just who she was. 

“The storytellers do not lie. She has a face for stories, doesn’t she?” 

“Her stories will weave with yours, bringing prestige to your name. To Ithaca. There is nothing more valuable. She will bring you honor.”  The Goddess sounded so certain of the fact, so undeniably sure of it. Odysseus could see the logic. A King’s honor lay not just in the things he did, but the things he had at his side. Any man who had Helen as a wife would be…well, a very honorable one. Odysseus found it funny , sometimes. How so often women were desirable for how they could a man look to other men . Like a statue, or gold, or expensive armor. 

“Ajax, your face has a little…” Teucer grinned at him, wiggling a finger as Ajax shoved him so hard he almost collapsed off the chair. 

“Shut up , shut up shut up—” 

“She is beautiful…but what else?” Odysseus thought. It was not just Helen’s beauty that was exciting. It was thinking about what was underneath . What kind of thoughts ran through the head of the most beautiful woman in the world? What dreams did she hold close to her heart, unseen by anyone but those close to her? What did she think of all these men, who caught her eye, who did she think a fool and who a hero? She had not shown any thought in the hall. If he were in her place, he would have said something witty and charming, but no . No wit in sight. Gods, he was bored . He needed some mental stimulation in this place, or he would start looking for some. 

“She is—” Athena huffed in faint frustration, that presence shifting a little against his thoughts, “...perfect. Just as I promised you. You, however, must get close. Stand out, as others show their lack of intellect.” 

His thoughts shifted away swiftly, onto the next objective. The tilt Athena had given his chin to look at Helen’s side. The tall one, the pearl sandaled one. The suitors were dick-headed fools, they had awful tunnel vision. They probably didn’t even notice, when the other Princesses of Sparta revealed their faces, too eager to stare at the gleaming Helen in the middle. Odysseus had, as any good strategist would do, observed the scene before him in its entirety. 

“Penelope,” Athena answered his question before he even asked, “Daughter of Icarius, Helen’s uncle. I have watched Sparta a great many months, it is through her I believe you have the best chance of standing out. The Princes are too prideful, Helen’s sister too suspicious. Penelope, you may find some level of common ground with. She attends council. Icarius listens to what she says, more than any of his generals, his men. Icarius then whispers in the ear of his brother, as his tactician. He is the mind of Sparta. If she thinks highly of you, she speaks word to Icarius, who then lets it flow into the ears of Helen’s father, and Helen herself. She is also Helen’s closest confidante, besides her sister, who would rip into you if she were the one you tried to lay your endless wit onto.” 

“You truly think of everything,” Odysseus chuckled to himself, rolling his dice along in his palm as his eyes traced the ceiling. Normally she would let him craft the plan himself; it was his favorite part, crafting the plan. But she had taken the liberty to lay it out neatly before him instead. Right up the chain of command. From Princess to King to Father…he had never heard of a princess having such political power, but then again, everything in Sparta was weird. Too large, too sword-driven, and everyone had heard the tales of its Princes and Princesses being hatched from eggs like…well, the chickens who clucked around on Ithaca waiting for him. 

“Your success is my success. Your glory is my glory. Your honor is my honor. And I always think things through.” 

“Mhm, mhm….This, Penelope—” He tossed his dice into the air, watching them turn and spin and gleam in the light as it caught on its corners. Penelope . He had never heard such a name. If he were alone he would speak it, to test how it played on his tongue. “ Where do I find her, to charm and so on? This palace is crawling with pigheaded soldiers, and a King isn’t dumb enough to parade his daughters around when just down the hall are dickheaded Princes and Kings.” 

“It is simple. Follow the maids.” 

Odysseus’ fist snatched the dice as they careened back down, his head perking up a bit. That is who sent them! The pearl earrings in the cup bearer’s ears, the pearl sandals on the princess’ feet, the watching the whispering— oh that, that was clever. It shattered Xenia to pieces, to spy on your guests but information was information. A tool to be used however you wished. Clever . And gifts, pearls to keep them loyal— 

“What are you smiling at, Goat King?!” Ajax snapped at him sharply, turning swiftly in his chair as though he thought Odysseus' grin was aimed at him and the redness still lingering on his cheeks. 

“Mm?” Odysseus blinked for a moment. “... Ah, apologies. Just remembering Helen’s endless charms, so on…” he waved his hand lightly in the air, but his thoughts were too busy to waste on Ajax. The other suitors were smitten, whispering amongst themselves, but what he felt was far more intriguing. Curiosity.

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“What does that face mean?” Agamemnon heard Menelaus murmur from his side. When he looked up, from behind dark locs of hair, he saw those blue eyes staring at him. Menelaus knew Agamemnon perhaps better than he knew himself. There was not a moment in his life that Agamemnon was not there, a hair away. And so, Menelaus was well-versed in all the furrowed brow expressions of his face.

“Nothing.” 

“You’re thinking about something,” Menelaus insisted. “You’re biting the inside of your cheek. You only do that when you’re thinking.” 

“I don’t.” Agamemnon surveyed the room again, hands clamped tightly in front of himself. All of the suitors seemed to be almost dazed, lounging about, and dizzy like they were drunk. And really they were, just not on the wine alone. 

Agamemnon was thinking of different things than them. Though really he thought everything about him was different than the men around him. Coddled, entitled princes and kings of Greece, who thought themselves warriors but had never had to fight for anything. 

“Yes, you do ,” Menelaus' nose scrunched, making the freckles of his cheeks shift and change like they were moving into new places. “I can tell when you’re bothered…are you thinking about Helen?” Menelaus himself obviously was. He seemed just as dazed as every other man there, who had just marveled at the wonder that was Helen of Sparta. His cheeks were a little flushed, rich, and red like that damned chestnut hair upon his head. 

They had all been too distracted to notice. Helen shone too brightly to not be the center of attention like the sun was the center of attention in the sky. But Agamemnon had been looking for something different. The sun had been in his eyes, as he stood in the arena, but still, he had caught a glimpse. A nose silhouetted by light behind the fabric, strong and sloping like the beak of some kind of bird. Thick, dark curls which stood out against the overwhelming brightness of light. It was her, he recognized her at the feast. She stood at Helen’s side, and Agamemnon knew it was her the second she revealed her face, glaring into the crowd where Helen cowered.  

He hated owing people. Being in debt to anyone. It made him feel pathetic, and she had helped him. Took pity on him. When he saw her, for the first time, his molars had clenched in a grimace, almost a snarl. I don’t need help. And I certainly didn’t need yours.

“...Right,” Agamemnon forced out. “Helen. Yes.”

“She’s like…like…” Menelaus fumbled for his words, he never was particularly clever or quick, not descriptive like that Ithacan bastard was. “...the gods must love her, to make her look like that,” he concluded. Unlike us. The Gods hated a Son of Atreus, a descendant of Tantalus. Oftentimes, Agamemnon had to stop himself from hating them in turn. 

“I think she looked at you.” He had been too busy looking at the other to really notice, but a time or two he could have sworn he saw her eyes dart over, look over Agamemnon’s strong, bruised shoulder to his brother.. 

“You really think so?” Menelaus asked quickly, jerking his head around to catch Agamemnon’s eyes with his own. He always had this wide-eyed look about him. Agamemnon called it the deer look. It was the exact same look a deer gave when it locked eyes with you, frozen for a moment as you hunted it, hidden in brush yet still seen. Agamemnon missed hunting in the forests of Mycenae. 

“I do.” 

“I didn’t even notice, she looked so… nervous . I felt bad for her,” Menelaus admitted. 

“She is showered in gifts and praise and you feel bad for her?” Agamemnon stared at him a moment. Gods , he was frustrating at times. He had no sense of priority , scope, or realism. Here he was, without a kingdom or crown, and he was feeling bad for the most beautiful woman in the world . Sometimes Agamemnon wanted to shake him around by his shoulders. Who raised you to be so fucking empathetic to every damn person you meet? It’ll get you fucking stabbed. Others' fears don’t matter when your own life has gone to Hades. Have a backbone! Something! Anything!  

Then, of course, Agamemnon remembered that he had raised Menelaus. 

“Of course I do,” Menelaus furrowed his brows back at him. “What would you do? If dozens of men came flocking to your house, fighting and yelling at each other? That sounds terrifying .” 

“I would choose the handsomest one, and tell the rest to fuck themselves,” Agamemnon responded simply. Diomedes was the handsomest there, the richest. Ajax was an ugly bastard, and Odysseus was an uglier bastard. But he needed Helen to pick Menelaus . “Let’s just hope she is different, so she will choose you .” 

Menelaus blinked before his face twisted up in offense. In the background, chatter and noise filled the hall. Ajax and Teucer bickered back and forth, Odysseus lay back on his bed twirling the air with his fingers, Diomedes trimmed his neat beard, and the King of Opus yelled at his son as he gathered his things. So many options. To Agamemnon, Menelaus was the best one, but to Helen? Fuck, who knew. 

“Wha— I-I can be handsome!” 

“If red clay splattered upon your face can be considered handsome —” Agamemnon reached a rough hand over, buffing it upon Menelaus’ cheek as though the freckles may rub off if he did it hard enough. 

“Stop-” Menalus shoved his hand away. 

“I was just getting somewhere. I thought they might come off, for a moment,” He let his hands clamp back together. He liked the freckles. They reminded him of the sun dampling through a forest canopy, something to make Menelaus stand out among a sea of others. An identifier, of sorts. “Though I’m sure Helen finds it charming, Laus.” 

“Yeah, right…” Menelaus murmured to himself miserably. He rolled his eyes, his palm rising to rub the high part of his cheek, still a little bruised from Ajax’s pummeling…not that Agamemnon didn’t have a dark purple bruise brandished on the bridge of his nose to match.

The moment of lightness didn’t last, it never did before Agamemnon was once again plunged into his thoughts. Debt. Debt. Debt. Oh, cursed son of Atreus. A maiden helped you? Gods, more pathetic than I ever thought you were. 

Debt. It didn’t just go away. It made people think you were still pathetic. Still in need of help. Agamemnon didn’t need help from anyone. But what really angered him was how debt tied you to someone. Create a gods’ chain around your ankle, which is attached again to someone else. Agamemnon hated being tied like that. 

He would break it, Gods who hated him willing. 

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“They all looked at me!” Helen’s words were swallowed up by cotton and silk, devoured as she groaned into her covers. “I hate their eyes, I wish they would just…just…fall out!” 

“Well, perhaps some God will make it so,” Clytemnestra combed her fingers through Helen’s hair, parting the strands like sun-golden grain. She had been soothing in such a way all throughout the night. It didn’t offer her much sleep, but really she hadn’t slept well since the suitors arrived. How could she?

“You cannot just wish Godly punishment on all of them…” Penelope mumbled from her loom, though she was far more focused on a myriad of other things to really put much emphasis on her words. “Besides. What would we do with 104 eyeballs? That is too many to keep around. Each man does have two, you know. It adds up.” 

“...wait, is there an acceptable amount to keep around?” 

“Not 104…” Penelope stuck out her tongue in concentration, “Too many…maybe one or two.”

“Stop!” Helen groaned in her frustration. “I thought showing them my face would calm them! But now they are just…rowdier than ever—”

“When has your face ever done anything besides rile men up into slobbering dogs?” Clytemnestra questioned. She groaned as Helen’s hands once again flocked to tug on her cheeks, making Clytemnestra once again tear them away. “No. Not allowed. You may express frustration in another way.” 

Helen settled for yelling into her pillow, kicking her feet like she was swimming. 

“You attend council, duck. Who are they leaning towards?” 

“Uncle Tyndareus has yet to decide much of anything,” Penelope said smoothly. “Nor have I. None of them have proven to be anything other than…mediocre.” Her nose wrinkled. She worked on another line of her weaving. “Diomedes was discussed. Ajax. Agamemnon. They have stood out the most, since arriving. But this is not a short decision. It cannot be short. The second it is made quickly a Prince or King cries ‘ Oh no! Unfair! You did not know me before choosing !’ and we have a 50-way war with no winner, and Sparta in the middle.”  

“War?!” Helen’s head jerked up from her pillows, and hair was sent tumbling over her shoulders. “I-I would wish anyone to fight over me like that—”

“No , calm down. There will be no war,” Clytemnestra glared at the back of Penelope’s head. “Right, Penelope?” 

“I cannot get inside their heads,” Penelope almost grimaced. “They have yet to let me. So who can say?” There was a…bitterness there. At not being able to unravel them. She hated when things were hidden from her, knowledge not shared. It made her…well, grumpy. Like a child denied a toy, a source of entertainment which she held dear. 

“Last thing I need is you being snappy and you , Helen, panicking on me. Everything is fine, and under my control. So relax,” Clytemnestra commanded. 

“Very relaxing,” Penelope mumbled to herself. She kept her hands busy at her loom, creating a tapestry with flying owls along the top. 

“No! None of that dry ridicule bullshit,” Clytemnestra snapped. 

“What do you mean? I was being sincere,” Penelope said dully. 

“I know what you are doing. I’m not dumb. Stop.” 

“I have stopped.” 

“STOP!” 

“Both of you stop!” Helen cried. “Nothing gets better when you argue, so stop!” 

“...Sorry, Helen,” Clytemnestra sighed. 

“Sorry,” Penelope mumbled. 

“Thank you,” Helen huffed. “Now…you are saying they are likely to be here…awhile?” 

“It isn’t unlikely,” Penelope answered. “As I said, such things take time. I have my ladies keeping an eye on them, of course.”

“They’re quite arrogant, aren’t they? These men,” Clytemnestra’s nose wrinkled. “Truly, they could use something to squash their egos.” She adjusted the soft curls along Helen’s temple, watching them eagerly spring into place. “Perhaps Pollux should go in, kill one of them for the shits and giggles —” 

“HA !” Penelope slammed her fist down on the table, pointing wildly out the window. “Owl!” 

“...Hm?” Helen cocked her head to the side. 

“Gods—the fuck Penelope?!” Clytemnestra yelled. She had nearly leaped out of her seat. It was very rare that Penelope’s voice was raised.

“Again …” Penelope mumbled thoughtfully to herself. She had a sort of gleaming in her eyes, her thumb resting on her chin. “That makes…five? Four? Owls aren't even supposed to be here, it is not their nesting season...” 

 Gods she’s fucking losing it. I need her most and she’s fucking losing it—” Clytemnestra groaned to herself. “Your head must be an exhausting place to be. Utterly exhausting.” 

“I must go speak to Melantho. I’ll be back,” Penelope gathered her cloak up in her arms, slinging it over the narrow expanse of her shoulders as she flung open the door impatiently. 

“Oh, um…” Helen frowned, “...goodbye?”

“Be careful,” Clytemnestra sighed, though the door was shut before Penelope gave any real acknowledgement of her. “See how stubborn she is?!” 

“You are equally as stubborn,” Helen pointed out. 

“Shut up, Helen.” 

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“You want to be my friend, Patroclus ?”

No one had ever asked the Prince of Opus such a question. He did not know if it was just a question a prince didn’t get asked, or if it was just a question he didn’t get asked specifically. So, when Odysseus asked it, Patroclus gave him a look of scrunched-up eyebrows. 

“...Me?” 

“Yes, you!” Odysseus had wagged his finger at him as he plopped down on the floor. He scoffed at the question, as though to say Patroclus was being silly. Patroclus didn’t think he was, it was a valid question when no one had ever asked him such a thing. “I like you, Patroclus. You aren’t loud like any of these brute princes. In fact, I think you are one of the smarter people here.” Then, he had drawn something out of his pocket. “A gift! A symbol of the friendship between Ithaca and Opus…if you want it, that is. 

The dice were all shiny wood, neatly carved. He had not been allowed to bring anything like that from Opus. His father thought games were just for children, and he wasn’t supposed to be a child anymore. And so, The King of Ithaca had become his friend. 

Patroclus clutched them in his palm, nervously darting through halls on silent sandals. 

“Now that we’re friends, can I ask you something, Patroclus?” Odysseus had asked. 

”Mhm? ” He was far more focused on rolling the dice. It was… amazing. They rolled perfect, high numbers every time. Nothing had ever favored Patroclus. Not dice, and certainly not The Fates— Patroclus wondered if they hated him, sometimes. Or at least his father said they hated him. Where all the other boys were talented and intelligent and strong, Patroclus was just… Patroclus.

“Have you noticed the maids of this palace?” A click of his tongue. “Shady figures, if you ask me. Always looming, watching us…have you noticed, how they watch us?”

“Oh, um…I was not really looking,” Patroclus had admitted. He did not really notice them, as they flocked in to fill wine goblets or take and clean laundry. Not like Prince Ajax noticed them, or Teucer, or any number of the other boys.

“Well, they do…” Odysseus had sighed, leaning back on his hands with a frown. “Huge invasion of privacy, a shame no one else notices…” His words trailed off. He truly was good at talking. Patroclus had never met someone so good at talking. When his words stopped, you just wished for them to start again.

“What?” Patroclus finally looked up as he frowned. He knew the sound of displeasure well, he lived with it. 

“Well…” Odysseus had hummed, “I just…if someone could follow after them, keep tabs, perhaps I could—” 

“I could?”  

“Really?” Odysseus had smiled then. 

Patroclus was a good friend. He had even said so, in front of Sparta. Though…he never had one, before. A friend. Just his older sister Myrto, who often seemed more content to ignore him than be friends with him. He did not know if his father or his mother counted, so would just assume they did not. So that meant he had to prove he was a good friend, he did not want to be a liar . Lying was only something bad people did. 

He let his sandals carry him, dodging around the halls quietly. People did not notice him, something he was glad for at that moment. The halls were large, and he was so small that he could just…disappear within them. He was, however, concerned about becoming lost. It was very big, and the maid with the pretty pearls in her ears took way too many corners—

”Tell me where she goes…though don’t let them see you. If you do, you'll have to play it off, make up something…are you good at making things up, Patroclus?” 

“...no…I am quite bad at it.” 

“That’s alright! We can work on it…just do not get caught, then.” 

“Nono…come back,” Patroclus whispered to himself. His head turned sharply one way, then the other. She had been just there! Why did maids walk so fast?! Patroclus never was fast, he lost a good majority of the races he had been in, and being beaten by someone who did not even know they were being chased well… did not feel very good. It hurt even worse to know he had let down Odysseus, the King of Ithaca. He had done worse than get caught, he had lost her! 

What if he regretted being Patroclus’ friend? What if he revoked it, and took it back? Could that be done? Or once someone was your friend, were they just… like that, forever? Until one of you died, leaving the other behind? 

Patroclus darted through an arch, into a courtyard with pretty tiles along the ground. Where had she gone, she could not…get far , right? But she knew these walls, and Patroclus did not —

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“...Hello?”

Menelaus was not used to being around so many, for such a long amount of time. The loneliness he loathed in Mycenae, the days spent with no one to talk to, had given way so quickly to days full of endless chatter and activity that he found himself exhausted. Talking was supposed to refresh you, make you feel full and elated but Menelaus mostly felt exhausted, like he had just run a million miles. So as he looked up from the new little nook he found, finding the Prince Of Opus staring at him wide-eyed with his chest heaving, he frowned.

“...Hello,” the boy blurted out.

“Um…Patroclus, right?” He tried to manage his brightest, most welcoming smile, though Menelaus’ smile was like the rest of him. Not grandiose or charming. More cringing, slightly awkward, as though still unsure if he was allowed to smile. But he offered it nonetheless, he didn’t want to scare the boy. He sat up a little straighter, and forced his posture back into that of a prince.

 Patroclus just stared for a moment. He had the widest eyes, as though he had yet to grow into them. Menelaus still had a bit of that himself, Agamemnon had told him how sometimes his eyes seemed to bug out of his head. 

“I—what?” He blinked, face flushing as though he were embarrassed, or guilty. Even his voice was small, light like he was speaking from his head rather than his chest. Menelaus understood the feeling well. It was easier to be light, or at least try to be, so people didn’t look at you so harshly. “Oh, uh…yes, that is me. I am Patroclus.” 

“Are you lost?” Menelaus asked. “I could help you back to the suitors' hall if you need.” It was odd, running into him here. Menelaus had yet to see him stray far, not since his father had left to go back to Opus, sensing how long of a decision it may be. 

”Win. If you do not, you are useless to me,” he had yelled before he left. The other suitors had stared.

Patroclus’ form shifted. His brows furrowed, his shoulders tensed up like a bowstring drawn. He did not move from where he stood, bent and curled in over himself. Like a deer, head positioned in perfect silence and stillness as it locked eyes with you. Or, at least that’s how Menelaus always saw it. That is what made him curious about the boy. He understood the feeling of being under a father’s thumb…well, better than most people.

“You are useless to me, Menelaus. Useless!” 

“...it is none of your business,” Patroclus tried to sound fierce. And maybe if he were as big as the other boys, and not stuck to the height of Menelaus’ lower ribs, he would be.

“I am not trying to judge you, Patroclus,” Menelaus added quickly. He tried to sound at ease and unbothered. Normal. He wished for normality more than anything, normal was safe and easy . “Actually, I was kind of hoping to meet you, officially, I mean.” 

“Pa-tro-clus.” 

“What?” 

“Patroclus . You said it wrong.” His eyes flicked back up to Menelaus’ face, just for a moment, before going back to darting anxiously around the corner. “I was just…looking around. This place is, um…big.” He rolled something around in his palm. “...why are you here?” he asked. If Menelaus didn’t know better, he would say it was almost accusatory, in that little voice. 

“Oh…” Menelaus clamped his hands together. “...apologizes? I just thought, well…—I found this place this morning. It seemed nice to… sit , for a while. You can hear the birds very well. ” He held up a hand for a moment, as though stilling his own voice. It was true. Somewhere, off in the distance, he heard  whistles and chirps, and the trees rustling, and if he listened hard enough, the grunts and clashing metal from the training yards. It was a nice spot. Menelaus was glad he had found it. “See?”

“…why are you speaking to me?” Patroclus murmured once again, “...the older boys never speak to me.” 

Menelaus asked himself the same question. He had turned to his brother, after the King of Opus’ departure, and Agamemnon barely glanced at him. The night was drawing to an end and he was tired, and still stooping in whatever moodiness he had refused to tell Menelaus about.

“You have your own worries. Like getting Helen of Sparta to marry you. Don’t pick up strays, Menelaus. No matter how badly you feel for them.” 

“He’s a child , Agamemnon. His father was…well, we could look out for him, he’ll get—” 

“So? You were a child yesterday. Don’t forget why we are here.” 

How could Menelaus forget? When Agamemnon reminded him of it every second. Mycenae . He was here for Mycenae . To marry Helen. And he was told to push down anyone in his way to save it, but… 

“I just…wanted you to know , if you needed anyone to speak to, Patroclus, well…I wouldn’t mind listening. I understand how it feels. My father was, well…he was hardly pleased with anything.” 

Patroclus slowly looked up again, with those grey eyes of his, and just observed. He was quite observant, for a child. His eyes narrowed faintly as he appraised Menelaus. Not harshly, just… observant. Perhaps then, he realized that Menelaus was not much better off. Patroclus hadn’t performed well in the challenges set forth by the Spartan house either, but he came out relatively unscathed. Menelaus’ bronze face was dotted with bruises of rich, royal purple. He wished they made him look tough, strong, and regal as they did on Agamemnon, but…well, Menelaus had never been tough, strong, or regal. Oftentimes he was ignored, cursed, or useless.

“You want to be my friend too ?” Patroclus finally mumbled. 

“...Too?” Menelaus’ brows furrowed in confusion. He finally caught sight of what it was Patroclus fiddled with. Dice, in his palm, rotating over and over and over again. Almost protectively, at his gaze, Patroclus stuffed them into his chiton. A not-so-subtle message of you cannot have them. They are mine. “Well…I wouldn’t mind that, Patroclus.” 

“The King of Ithaca is also my friend, but...I will be your friend too,” Patroclus concluded. “...Can you tell me— a maid was walking around here, did you see where she went?”

Menelaus’ brows furrowed further. He thought back, to his keen ears listening to the sounds outside. Had he heard footsteps? The jangling of trinkets on someone? 

“Mm…I think I heard someone going outside. Probably further down into the trees, or to the cliffs, maybe…why do you ask, Patroclus?” 

His eyes lingered on the dice again, as Patroclus rolled them between his fingers. Odysseus . That is who they belong to. Odysseus…his other “friend”, the King of Ithaca. He remembered his quick grin, the snarl Agamemnon had given him…what kind of schemes had he roped the Prince of Opus into?

“Excuse me.” Patroclus bowed his head quickly, before he was off again, tiny sandals beating lightly against the ground.

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The sun drew over the horizon, painting the water in colors like a tapestry. It was here the Eurotas began to taper off into the sea, its banks sandy and sprouting with seagrass. It looked like a tapestry, the water painted with light, dotted with ducks drifting peacefully along. Penelope would use a yarn dyed with calendula for the sky, and peony pink for the water. For the ducks, well…something dark, to capture their silhouette. Their little bodies, their cute little tails, and their beaks…

Quack! 

Penelope’s eyes darted from the sky to the wet sand of the bank, watching a duckling waddle up to her on his little feet. They knew Penelope well, just as Penelope knew them. She thought, sometimes, that they imagined her to be just one, large duck. A duck who spoke a little differently than them, looked a little different, and had far more worries than the average duck did, but still a member of the flock. Their weird cousin, perhaps. Some odd, off-branching family member of theirs they only saw at births or funerals. 

“I was just thinking about you,” Penelope confessed. It tilted its head to the side, letting out another quizzical little quack as it stomped before her.

“I wish I could be as carefree as you,” she admitted. “You do not have to worry about men living in your home, or Helen or Clytemnestra worrying herself to death…” Penelope tugged her knees up to her chest, resting her chin on her knee like a perch. The ducks were very good listeners. 

Quack!

We have our own problems too, you know. The sea hawks are especially brutal this year.  

“I know, I will tell the guards to shoot any they see…” Penelope sighed. She always made sure the ducks had what they needed. A safe place to nest, all the snails and seeds and little fish they could eat. She was proud to take care of them, for they took care of her in turn. “But those are basic needs. You don’t have to conform to the life expected for you, deal with marriage as Helen does. You choose a mate for the summer, and at the end, you’re done.” 

Quack! 

“Well am I wrong?” Penelope huffed, glaring down at the little bird. What did he know, yet? He was just losing his baby feathers, he didn’t know the stress she was under! 

She sighed. 

“I am sorry for snapping. That was rude of me…” Penelope admitted. She outstretched her hand to pat his little head with her pointer finger, an apology he accepted with quacking grumbles and a frustrated shake of his feathers. They were an odd mixture of juvenile and adult feathers, caught between stages of his life. “Are you afraid of it too?” Penelope murmured. “The change?...I am.” Her hand fell back to her side, and the duck waddled his way back over to the shore. 

The brush rustled behind her. Melantho again? Had she forgotten something?

“A lovely day, isn’t it?” 

It was not Melantho. Melantho never bothered with pleasantries, nor did she sound like that . The voice made her entire body rigid, staring out straight ahead as her shoulders drew back. It was certainly not Melantho, no, no, no, it was worse, far, far far worse— 

She did move, as he sat a ways from her. A good many feet, but not nearly enough to stop every muscle in her arms and legs clenching. This was a man . She was here, at the lake, and sitting a ways from her was a man . One of Helen's men. One of Tyndareus’ best men in Greece . 

Penelope was never fond of men. She did not meet any of course, just the councilors, and her family. But Penelope never liked the idea of them, the things she had heard. From her mother, from Clytemnestra, from Melantho, who complained as she spoke of them and their cheating and lies and deception. But she was here . And beside her sat a man , who studied the waters intently. 

“I didn’t know ducks were native to here…did you?” He asked casually, as though he came here every day. Like this was his spot, and these were his ducks and his water. Penelope did not have the voice to answer him, the sheer anxiety which pumped through her veins and built up in her throat swallowed up her words until she had none, just hands gripping the edges of her veil. She didn’t even look at him, because that would require moving her head and her muscles were so tightly drawn she feared that by doing so they would snap. 

Penelope never, ever cared for men. And in that moment, her roaring thoughts offered up the fact that she perhaps even disliked them. 

“Mm….” He hummed, and for a moment he did not speak again. It was a quizzical sort of hum, as though to say that didn’t work. “Alright. I should introduce myself. I am Odysseus, King of fair Ithaca. And you…?” 

Still, Penelope didn’t answer him. Perhaps, if she stayed very still and said nothing , he would leave. And he would take all his… man-ness with him, and all the fraying nerves and roaring thoughts, imagining having to poke out his eyes if he did anything to warrant it. Penelope had never, ever poked out someone’s eyes before, but it was pretty self-explanatory. She could figure it out if she needed to.

When she didn’t answer, he spoke again. His words were silvery, like flowing water. Memories of him from the feast flooded, from the competition, the fleeting moments she had seen of him. She tried to gather what she could, things she could use. He spoke much, but…he did not give away anything, while he spoke. “Ah, miss…forgive me, really. I was out exploring. I was reminded of my home island you see and…well, when you hear someone speaking when you think you’re alone, curiosity gets the best of you.” He chuckled, as though to say see the fun jokes we share? 

Wrong. Penelope shared no such jokes with anyone , besides Clytemnestra, Helen, and Melantho. 

“And it appears you were talking too…” In her peripheral vision, he shifted forward. She had to tilt her head down a little. “...Geese?” 

“Ducks,” words tore out from her tight throat, so foreign they barely sounded like Greek at all. More like nonsensical noise, pure unintelligible racket to her own pointed ears. They were ducks. 

“Forgive me,” Odysseus requested promptly. “So…when you speak to them, they speak back? Or is it more one-sided?” Penelope heard the smile in his voice. She remembered it from the feast, too. It was a wide smile, and it showed his teeth, some slightly uneven in their proportions compared to the others. He was making fun of her.

She had no words in her throat left to speak to him. Gods, her veil was too thin. It wasn’t like the ones she wore at feasts, heavy and all-encompassing like a room around her. This one was thinner, lighter, and breathable. Penelope would take the suffocation of the thicker one if it would offer a wall between her and Odysseus of Ithaca. Something to hide behind so he did not gaze at her as he did now when her face was all but blank and twisted in nerves. 

Perhaps even worse than fear, his words made her face grow hot in pure, raw embarrassment . Penelope was afraid but simultaneously wanted to bury her head in the sand. No one knew about this… thing she did when she spoke to them. Not even Melantho, as she could always sense her arrival soon enough to shut herself up . But Odysseus of Ithaca had been silent, and she wondered if it was too late to fling herself into the water and hope the ducks didn’t help her this time. Stupid, stupid, stupid —

“... Alright, you don’t want to talk about that either, that’s fine. I may do enough talking for the both of us,” he concluded proudly. He turned his head fully to look at her. Odysseus of Ithaca was careful with how he did it, all of his movements were slow, and his hands were neatly folded in his lap. “To get the small talk out of the way, the weather is very nice today, and I find Sparta pleasing so far, if not a little dull. And now, to the point. I have heard of you. King Icarius’ daughter. I did not know he had a daughter before I came here, though I researched extensively. What else…oh. Yes. I know it is you who spies on the suitors of Helen.” He said it with such a casual tone, as though still speaking of the weather. 

Penelope’s blood grew a little colder. Melantho had said he had stared at her, and now here he was here, to extract some terrible, awful revenge for his honor as a guest being walked all over, his brothers spied on—

“I’m not upset,” Odysseus of Ithaca assured quickly, as though he read her mind. He laughed a little. “I think it was genius. I mean, using the means you have at your disposal, making them trust you through gifts of pearls rather than just intimidating them as a member of the Spartan royal house—” 

He spoke a lot. Though this was unlike what Penelope had seen of him so far, this was not intellectual, story-weaving threads of words. This was a little more like rambling, the words just coming out rather than being planned carefully in his head. 

“What is it you want?” She finally blurted out, just to stop him. It sounded slightly ruder than she expected, though it was hard to sound welcoming when still she felt wound so tightly, like fresh yarn from the spindle. Penelope built up the faintest bit of courage to glance over at him, over the edge of her veil. He sat away, so as to not make her uncomfortable, but still she could see a great deal of him. His hair was dully brown, faintly wavy. Not a true curl, but not nearly as straight as hers was. He relaxed back on his fairly large hands, face turned up to the sky. She caught sight of scars on him, one peeking out from underneath his chiton on his leg, and more further up his neck to a faint one on his cheek. He did not wear them as intimidating, rather he seemed light as air. 

Did that make Penelope trust him? No. She could tell he was tricky, that trust was what he wanted. It made her feel almost frustrated, through her fear. Do you think I am tricked that easily?

“Well, I was thinking,” he paused, for dramatic storytelling effect. “Perhaps… I could join your council of eyes, Lady of Sparta.” 

“...what?” She stared at him blankly.

“We have that in common. I quite like getting information myself, and well…the suitors spill it constantly if you learn to listen. Perhaps I could tell you what I hear, the things they say, and well…the things I can get out of them.” 

“...In return for what?” Penelope asked slowly. It was too good an offer to do it for free, from the goodness of his heart. That made his smile grow a little bigger, that edge of suspicion she tried to hide behind a veil of neutrality. 

“If you were to bring my name up, in the conversation concerning being Helen’s husband. Perhaps speak to her about me, then this will be an exchange. Equal, without debt to each other. Just…allies. Friends, if you’d like. I’m a very good friend.” 

Allies.

Some things stay between men, no matter how hard I listen. 

For a moment, the fear dissipated. A foothold . An ear to the suitors, ripe for gossip. She never even thought of using one of them, they seemed too… far away, too inaccessible. Yet here, right in front of her, was one willing to be her ears. He tried to seem trustworthy, but Penelope saw through him. His eyes gleamed with a sort of trickiness. Like a fox, trying to get into her duck eggs. But that didn’t matter. However clever he thought he was, Penelope knew she was more so. Ears were valuable to her. 

“When?” She asked quickly, turning her full body to face him. For a moment he seemed almost surprised at the switch in her. Penelope got the feeling he was not used to being surprised. 

“When what?” 

“When can you meet here to discuss? I want updates weekly. Write down what you hear, so you don’t forget. I can be here on the second and fifth day of the week unless Spartan duties do not allow it to be so. If I am not, you double up for the next week.” She had an almost prompt way of speaking, still soft buta far cry from the meekness she had before. Penelope hated not knowing things, it made her brain...frustrated.

Odysseus of Ithaca thought, rubbing a hand along his chin. “...I could do that,” he concluded. “And you, will, in turn—” 

“I will mention you,” Penelope said. Her hesitation still lingered, but she felt something bolder crawling up. “...though, what I say depends on what you can tell me…. information is currency. What you pay is what you receive.”

He stared with mismatched eyes, one like soil and one like sea glass. She feared for a moment that she had overstepped and had made him angry. But then that smile returned, stretching far over his face. 

“I couldn't agree more… it is so, then,” Odysseus of Ithaca said slowly. “An exchange. An equal one…I think this is very beneficial for the both of us, Penelope.” He said her name in…an odd way. Like he was testing how it sounded. Penelope didn’t remember telling it to him, he had just known.

What an odd, clever man.

An owl had settled on a branch behind him. It watched the back of Odysseus of Ithaca’s head, as though staring right through into his brain. 

Athena was pleased enough. She had fallen for such a deal quickly, swiftly. He had his foothold. Helen was actually achievable, reachable. Closer to him than to any other suitor. 

“Good. All according to my plan. Excellent, Odysseus…Odysseus?” 

He did not answer her praise, for the first time in perhaps all his life. His eyes gleamed with something. Excitement . His head was no longer dragged down with boredom, with lack of challenge. He was curious, and curiosity was a powerful thing on him.

Penelope of Sparta rose to her feet. She bid him no goodbyes, no words of parting. Simply an awkward pause, before reiterating; “…Allies, then…Do not keep me waiting, Odysseus of Ithaca.” Her limbs moved like a newborn fawn, too lanky to know what to do with themselves as she retreated back to the safety of Sparta’s walls. 

“Odysseus. ” Athena felt her frustration. He had never ignored her before, and she did not care for it. 

“...What an odd woman,” he murmured. Oddities had always gripped him. It was like when he had heard rumors of a magical boar, and had been too enticed by the prospect of intrigue to stay away. His hands shifted against the grass, his gaze darting to the water. “Did you hear how she spoke to me? She didn’t want to, but once I got her to she had such a…she was very clever wasn’t she? She bargained with me! With me! No one has bargained with me here, they’re to stupid—... Odysseus ,” he repeated. It was like he had never spoken it before, trying to mimic the way she had muttered it so awkwardly beneath her breath.

 Athena ruffled her feathers in annoyance before off she flew again, into the calendula yellow sky. Fine. Ignore her.

Mortal boys were a constant mystery to her. 

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Clytemnestra grew anxious, she wandered. Like a swan, she supposed. When the pressure of watching the cygnets grew too heavy, the mother would go float out on some lake somewhere and take a breath. Why did I have children, again? Though Clytemnestra couldn’t relate to that part. She didn’t have children, more she had them thrust upon her.  

Helen’s anxiety, Penelope’s… whatever Penelope was going through. 

“Must the gods punish me, over and over? ” She hissed to herself, as her feet carried her to the stables. She had not seen Athanasios there since…well, she had made sure he wouldn’t return to her gaze. Fuck you! After everything I did for you?!

“Fuck him, and fuck anyone like him ,” Clytemnestra hissed beneath her breath as she ducked into the shady, musty cover. She was done messing with servant boys. They were immature, full of themselves bastards who only offered a moment of excitement before they forgot themselves. Men were like that. She would fall in with them, for a spell, and then they would practically moan “ In love with me already, aren’t you ?” When she was just looking for a way to pass the hours and forget about all the bullshit of her life. 

Prokopis, the old war horse, lifted his head lazily as he gnawed on grain. 

“Yes, hello, you old fucking bastard,” Clytemnestra rolled her eyes at him. She wished he would keel over and die already. He should have, he was older than she was. A fucking fossil her father insisted on keeping around, even when she still bore that faded bitemark from his rotted teeth. “ Don’t look at me like that ,” she snapped at him again. Prokopis’ head lowered lazily back to his food. 

Clytemnestra sat firmly on her usual overturned bucket, resting her hand on her chin as she took in a stale breath. Perhaps Prokopis was lucky. The majority of his life was behind him, but Clytemnestra? She had a long, long way to go. Helen had it worse.

Dear gods, do not tie her to a bad man. Do not curse her like that. Give her someone she deserves. If a noble man exists, give him to Helen . 

Clytemnestra knew better. There was no such thing as a noble man. Those two things contradicted each other, opposites like the sun and moon were opposites, or like Clytemnestra and her sister were opposites. She wished every suitor inside that palace would fall dead, so that Helen, Penelope, and herself could breathe in its halls with relief. 

Prokopis gave her a look of old withered judgment. 

“You cannot just wish Godly punishment on all of them, ” Penelope had insisted. 

Bullshit . She could, and she would. 

A rustling caught her attention outside, the sound of heavy footsteps. Clytemnestra felt her jaw set, as she rose to her feet and grabbed a shovel. If it was Athanasios, she would smack the shit out of him, so hard his skull would crack open like Hades cracked open the Earth—

Athanasios did not turn the corner. Clytemnestra only realized after she had smacked a shoulder, and made somebody howl. 

“Gods ! Fucking shit—! fuck , fuck, fuck!” Somebody yelled in foul temper. The voice was deep, more guttural than Athanasios. Clytemnestra drew the shovel back to her side, to see a prince rubbing his shoulder, the same shoulder that had gleamed in the sun of the Spartan arena. 

“Oh…apologizes,” she offered dully. His gaze shot up, eyes smoldering with rage that threatened to bubble over and spill out. Clytemnestra wasn’t afraid of him. She had dealt with angry men before. She could stab his fucking eyes out if she needed to. 

“You—” He hissed out as he stared at her, and to her surprise, a sort of realization made the tides of his anger draw back. 

“You shouldn’t be prowling around like that, within walls that aren’t your own. You’re practically asking for it.” Clytemnestra held her shovel as though it was a mighty axe, digging its handle into the hay underfoot as she leaned upon it. Finally, the prince straightened himself, to a height so dizzying she had to lean back to see him fully. His face twitched still in a rage, but he held it back by gritting his jaw. 

“I should have known, the gods hate me so much as to fling you back into my path,” he finally said. 

Clytemnestra furrowed her brows with a huff. Rude he was! He stared at her like he was surprised she could talk. Modesty, between an unmarried woman and a man was expected. It was the rule from which they lived. But Clytemnestra would not whisper and hide behind fabric like a shy waif. She didn’t have the patience for it. 

“What the fuck are you talking about? I’m quite sure we’ve never spoken before.” 

“You . You threw the goblet at the games.” 

“I did—?” Clytemnestra thought back a moment. “ Ohh ….yes, I did do that, didn’t I?...well you’re welcome.” 

His jaw clenched so tightly she thought it would break for a moment. A crack and then it would fall like a detached bone from a skull. 

“I never asked you to do that. And now you are here, again. I’d say you were following me.” 

“You are the one prowling around my lands, you…. your name, again?”

“Agamemnon ,” he over-exaggerated every syllable. “And I am not prowling . I am looking for my brother. He’s run off again, he’s not very smart,” Agamemnon leaned closer to her, looking stubbornly over her shoulder. This way, then that way. He was close enough that she could smell him, a scent of trees and worn bronze, but more than that she could feel him. What she had felt in the arena, except more. More heaviness, more bearing down on her chest , her internal organs. Like the air had weight to it. 

“...Well, he’s not here . Perhaps keep track of your brood better,” Clytemnestra insisted. Her hand rose up on its own, planting on his chest and driving him back. Not a shove , just a guide, like when Helen walked too slow and she used a hand on her back to make her go faster. 

Agamemnon's eyes darted from her to the hand, to her again. He had very dark eyes, and they bore down on you. Again, like weight. Like heavy rocks or stones. 

“I’m cursed, you know,” he said finally. There was an edge to his words, his eyes lingering on her hand. “They think it could rub off.” 

Clytemnestra didn’t care. In fact, that was part of the reason why she did it. I am not afraid of you, or your god-hated nature. For however much they hate you, I am sure they hate me more. 

“Agamemnon of Mycenae, I will stay out of your business, if you stay out of mine,” Clytemnestra challenged. “And watch your brother. My father doesn't take kindly to wanderers, especially after recent events…as for the favor I did you, just consider yourself in debt to me. You can repay it by keeping this curse as far away from Helen as you can get it. A real friendly agreement.” She let her hand fall down, wiping it against her other one as though to clean her hands of the displeasure that he claimed would come from him. She expected another snarl, another quick remark, or, perhaps a reason to smack him with her shovel again. 

“...What’s your name ?” 

Would she indulge a cursed bastard?...she had not had entertainment in weeks, just stress upon stress. And it was funny , to watch his jaw clenched so tight. 

“Clytemnestra .” She copied the inflection of his own name, making every syllable ring.

Hera lingered in the wind, in the fluttering of trees and hay. Perhaps you are hated by them, but you are loved by me . Hera wanted to whisper in Clytemnestra’s ear. She kept an eye, sharp and watchful upon the brooding prince of Mycenae. She did not trust him at all. Not the furrow of his brows, the sharp glint in his eyes. He is who the gods hated. I watch you . Hera swore into the mist. She only left as he did, leaving Clytemnestra rolling her eyes.

“We are not friendly. Stay out of my fate…” he murmured as he left. A warning.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Helen hated it when they both left. Even before going to Athens, she always felt so desperately alone every time they were not accompanying her, at her sides with constant airs of comfort.

“Don’t leave, I’ll be back, ” Clytemnestra had swore. If it was not for such desperation, Helen would have listened to her. But here she was, sandals gently beating the floor as she searched. 

“There are guards, the Spartan guards are very good,” she assured herself, but anxiety and fear still gripped her tightly, making her fingers play along the edges of her veil. “Why must they leave without me? Oh, watch over me…” she murmured silently. 

Hera did just that, though she fought back a scowl as she felt the presence of that damned interloper .  

“Step-bastard,” Hera greeted. 

“Father’s wife ,” Athena’s thoughts echoed back.

She was such a little snake . Gods, Hera wished her brain grew so big it would explode in a beautiful rain of ichor, just to be rid of her. 

“I have it handled. I may watch Helen. ” 

“She’s my champion’s future wife. I trust her with no one but myself.” 

“Where is your champion ?” Hera practically sneered. She wanted to scream at her. You know nothing of marriage, how could you?! She turned it into nothing but…but a pawn in a larger game! “You forget yourself.”

“He is doing all that I asked him to do. ” Athena watched Helen walk around anxiously, peering around every corner as though danger lay just beyond it. “And I never forget anything. Who would you have her choose?” It was meant to be a rhetorical question, sarcastic, but Hera answered regardless. 

“Someone who values her heart, over any status. Without any vile tricks as you are so fond of.” 

“Tricks are what fuel the mortal world. You languish in Olympus for so long you forget that. You are miserable, chasing the love of my father, and trying to forget that women call out to you no more. That you are forgotten.” 

By the Gods, Hera was going to kill her. Favorite child of her husband or not, Hera would skin her alive , then fling her into the depths of Tartarus. She had a mouth , the worst kind. A coldly arrogant, self-centered kind. Her ego, her head was massive. Hera felt the familiar rage building at the soles of her feet, in her hands. “You, insufferable -” 

Helen’s shriek pulled her out of her rage, both she and Athena both. 

“Oh my Gods— I am so sorry—” Menelaus rose quickly to his feet. He had been sitting in the courtyard, silent, as forgettable as he often was. 

“Don’t look at me!” Helen shrieked. 

“Oh I am so sorry—” The Prince of Mycenae, if he could even still be considered as such, quickly raised his hands to shield his face. At the same time Helen drew her veil so tight over her head you could see the outline of her nose. “I did not know anyone came here, I thought—” 

“This is my courtyard!” Helen’s heart fluttered in her chest quickly, like the heart of a rabbit. Hera could feel it, each beat reminding her of the mortality she bore. 

“Please don’t call any guards on me, or anything I…truly did not mean to startle you, I am very sorry.” Gods he sounded pathetic. Hera felt her nose scrunch just as his tone, and she felt Athena do the same in turn. 

“What a shrimp of a man.” 

“...wait,” Helen slowly drew the veil away from her face to see. She stared a moment, at his red curls, his bronzed hands still covering his face. “...Menelaus of Mycenae?” 

“I am sorry, I really did not expect anyone to mind my being here. I was just listening…it’s very nice out here, with the birds, and the wind…I will leave immediately if you command me to, you are my host and I am your guest and my brother and I are very fortunate for your hospitality—” he rambled like a child caught stealing dessert before dinner. For once, Hera agreed with Athena. A shrimp . 

There was a pause, a moment of silence where only the wind blew. The sky was growing dark, and if it were any other man, Helen would have been afraid. 

She started to giggle underneath her veil. 

“...what is she doing?” Athena, for once, sounded confused . Surprised. 

“What is she doing?” Hera squinted. Menelaus looked just as confused, as baffled.

“...What?” He asked slowly. 

“Nothing, you are just…you act as though frightening me is…the worst thing you could do!” Helen giggled more. It was almost uncontrollable now, like invisible hands tickling along her sides. She pressed the fabric of the veil to her face, but still, they escaped. Menelaus slowly peeked over the brim of his hands, and at that moment, he looked as though he had seen the top of Olympus itself. The cursed decedent of Tantalus was, for a moment, blessed.

“Oh he’s cute, isn't he?! Such a sweetheart. I know who my choice is.” Hidden by mist, light laughter filled the perfumed air.  

“No .” Hera felt Athena bristle, her presence growing tense. “ No. You are not getting involved in this. I refuse. LEAVE.” 

Hera knew she would show up eventually. How could she not? This was just her domain. Just her favorite sort of ever-churning drama. But fucking Hades, did she complicate every matter she dug her fingers into. She made Athena’s logic crumble and softened the hearts of Hera’s beloved Ladies. 

“Aphrodite, ” Hera dug her immortal fingers into her immortal palm. 

“Hera! Athena! I was wondering why you never invited me. Now who are we rooting for, hm? You wouldn't have possibly expected this to go on without me, could you? I mean, a house full of young bachelors, a beautiful maiden— ”

“No,” Athena spat out. “Hera. Make her leave .” 

My Gods, Hera wished she could.

Chapter Text

“...What?” Clytemnestra turned to see Helen staring at her back, resting a chin in her soft hand as she frowned relentlessly. How long had she been staring? Clytemnestra wasn’t sure. Helen had been so quiet, so oddly so it was hard for Clytemnestra to know. 

“Is there…something you want to tell me?” Helen asked. She had her brows scrunched up in the oddest way, as though her brain mulled over something. Turned the thought around and around in her head, letting it build on itself until it spilled out as it inevitably did. Helen was the worst at secrets. She never had to hold any, so when she got one she hardly knew what to do with it. 

“No?” Clytemnestra turned back to her mirror, pinning the last of her hair up with quick fingers. Clytemnestra had always done her own hair. It had been too thick and curled for her mother to wrangle it, there was too much of it to handle without getting desperately overwhelmed and giving up. But repetition made her good at it, as had the repetition of seeing through Helen’s anxiousness. “...you have something you wish to say?”

“No,” Helen offered quickly. Her hands curled at the ends of her hair, letting red strands wrap round and round her finger. “It is just…well, we do tell each other everything, don’t we?” She sounded…nervous. Clytemnestra hated when she sounded like that, it made her mind go to the worst places. If someone had threatened her, spoke ill of her in anyway, in any form— 

“Helen, you have something to say?” Clytemnestra glanced back over her shoulder, from her own gaze in the mirror. She searched Helen’s face relentlessly, for those secrets she could never hide, but Helen turned and glanced to the door before Clytemnestra could capture anything.

“...I just remembered!” Helen uncurled her fingers from the strands, letting them fall back into perfect red ringlets. “Castor and Pollux said they wish to take us out of the palace for a while. They are going on a hunt, and Pollux asked if I would like to join. And if I join that means you join too. It is what sisters do.” She spoke it as though Clytemnestra would have forgotten the fact they were sisters, as though she were not aware of it every waking moment of her life. Clytemnestra scoffed. 

“And you said no?” Clytemnestra already knew the answer, but it was nice to pretend. 

“Oh, Clytemnestra, I think it will be good to get out of the palace. Besides, Pollux has never invited me to anything like that before, maybe it will…we will have fun! And you have been complaining about staying inside anyway?” 

“Yes. Because inside there are annoying men, and outside there will be more of them. Just what I want, Helen.” 

“Wha—” Helen huffed. “You may be mean to Penelope and it can be fun but do not be mean to me ! We are going and we are going too…too…hunt things!” 

“You really want to watch Pollux shoot an innocent deer?” Clytemnestra stared at her blankly. She knew Helen didn’t really want that. In fact, years of staying inside, underneath the watchful eye of Tyndareus made her quite squeamish to things like that. Violence was unpleasant, and she had seen enough men smash fists into other’s faces in her name to turn her off the whole thing. Or just punch each other in general. It was a love of the Spartan people, one Helen never took too. 

“It will be fun…besides, I miss spending time with you!” 

“You are with me every second of your life.” Clytemnestra raised an eyebrow “...you are sure everything is alright?” 

“Perfectly! Perfectly, perfectly, perfectly.” Helen grasped forward, until her fingers curled into Clytemnestra’s palm. “Come along!”

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“Boys behind every door, every room, disgusting, disgusting! ” 

Penelope watched her father pace . Pace and pace until he very well could have created marks or paths in the floor, signs of his restlessness, his clenched teeth. Penelope knew him better than anyone, though anyone could see that Icarius of Sparta was… dramatic , really. Perilaos sat beside her, watching with usual stern and rigid posture. He chose to see the best in Icarius, the very highest quality of man and father…even if he, as middle children were, was ignored constantly. 

“It is under control, father. I keep a close eye on them at all times, it is my utmost duty,” Perilaos wrung his hands in his lap, speaking as though addressing an entire council. 

“Disgusting!” Icarius shouted to the air, to the gods themselves. “Tyndareus should have done this matter sooner , married her off before word of her spread like Apollo’s plagues . Now what do we have?! Young men —” he sneered, as though he hated nothing more, “ roaming . Waiting , with Tyndareus nowhere close to a decision.” 

“Well…Uncle has never been as politically savvy as you , father,” Perilaos assured. He leaned from side to side, to keep his eyes on Icarius as he paced. Back and forth and back and forth and… 

“ Marriage is a waste . It is good in theory, for political alliance, but in practice all it offers is mess . I hate mess,” Icarius growled as his fingers twitched at his sides. Penelope could see how this was a nightmare for him. He hated overzealous young Greeks, he hated his well established politics being tampered with. Truly, Penelope was surprised he had not been driven mad sooner. “Worst of all, they are stupid . Have men always been this stupid ? Who in all of Olympus has allowed men to stew to such a level? Idiot fools who eat our food and drink our wine which will cost us a fortune —no one cares for our finances?! Except for ME ! NO ONE !” 

“I care father!” Perilaos insisted with a frown. Penelope knew her younger brother well enough to know that their father’s stress was his stress, that his worry was Perilaos’ worry.

“Sparta is wealthy. We will be fine. And there must be some intellect there, to be picked out,” Penelope finally reasoned. She could have let him continue, though it probably would have ended in broken pots or a hole punched into something…or kicked, rather. Icarius’ legs were always stronger than his arms, with his love of running. 

Icarius turned to her immediately. The sound of her voice always had such an effect on him, making his head whirl around to meet her, and softening all his hardened tones. 

“Penelope .” He took a careful breath. “ Darling , truly. You do not know men as I know men. Trust me! There is nothing more irrational, or idiotic than a young Greek prince who has not lived a life yet, who has no sense or grasp of scope or rationality besides his own foolish , grandeur and self serving—” He crossed the length of the room in quick, sweeping steps before gathering her face up in his hands. He always did it, thought the older she grew the more embarrassing it seemed to get. 

“Father —” 

“I am sorry you have to live amongst this, Pearl. It's not befitting you at all…” Icarius frowned, and seemed to squish her face together before finally dropping his hands limply at his sides. He scowled once more. “Idiots.”

“I can think of some sort of games of wit for them, father,” Perilaos leaned forward in his seat. Often, Penelope thought Perilaos would give anything for Icarius to do the same to him as he did to Penelope. To have him dote like he did endlessly to her…she wished the same, sometimes. It would distract him from the overbearing shroud he was. He had to care for Perilaos at least a little, somewhere in him. He was his eldest son, all Greek kings longed and cared for their eldest sons — 

“And what would you think of Perilaos? Don’t be absurd,” Icarius snapped. “No. I will think of something, to weed out the average from the idiotic.” 

“Let Perilaos do it, father. He is very intelligent.” Penelope’s words were genuine, of course. She really did think so. Perilaos was very intelligent. He read all the books he needed too, attended all his classes, thought all the philosophical thoughts that Tyndareus glowered at and called foolish Athenian nonsense. He did all he was supposed to, and was a very educated young prince. Perhaps the smartest there was in Sparta. 

“Well…not quite ,” a voice bid in the back of her head. She remembered a quick, wolfish smile. Mismatched eyes narrowing in a playful sort of way, practically gleaming as he was engaged. He was clever , while Perilaos was intelligent. The two were different, Penelope concluded. Very different.

“I will be with him, aiding him if he should needs me,” she added quickly.

“That isn’t necessary,” Perilaos insisted. He scowled a little, and it always saddened Penelope when he did that. 

“No. I want you to stay with your sister. Someone should ideally be attending you at all times, Pearl, the gods know I would do it, if not for all this… mess I am forced to deal with,” Icarius pinched the bridge of his nose. “ Think of something. You are smart, Penelope. Now, leave me.” He waved an absent hand in the air. Shoo, shoo, before I snap once more and shatter another pot . 

“Of course, father,” Perilaos bowed his head obediently before rising to his feet. Penelope simply stood. 

“...Don’t overwork yourself,” she reminded. 

“ Oh , sometimes I feel you are the only one who loves me in all the world, Penelope.” He heaved a great sigh as he reached forward for her hand, giving her fingers a squeeze. “ Thank you. You are the sweetest thing I’ve known.” 

He embarrassed her greatly, often. It was not the fact that he loved her that made her stomach churn, it was rather the flickering of annoyance over Perilaos’ face. The arch of his brow, the grimace of his lips. 

He has to love you, as well. Somewhere, within himself. Do not resent me for it—

Perilaos offered his arm, though his grimace stayed.

 “Come , sister.” 

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“Careful , sister,” Castor’s voice was all but a murmur, as he gripped Helen’s hand and helped her step over the bumpy path of tree roots. Helen never went out into the woods anymore. She would sometimes, as a child, go with Clytemnestra and Penelope, but the days of that were long over. She had to stop going, when a servant boy collecting water caught sight of her and was swiftly met with Clytemnestra’s fist slamming into his nose. 

This time was different. There was no water boy, or any misfortune awaiting…Helen’s life seemed nothing but misfortune, sometimes. But something had… changed . A miracle had happened. It was different now. 

“You’re sure you’re alright?” Clytemnestra grimaced, smacking a hand against her arm as a relentless barrage of bugs swarmed her. Each of them, of course, met their doom at the end of her hands with a smack ! Helen felt bad for them. They never bothered her . Insects never did, only people. “You’re acting as though your head is up in the clouds.” 

“I am fine!” Helen huffed. “Now, Pollux, where are the deer?” 

“Probably scared halfway to Parnon by now…” He walked ahead, hands gripping his spear with a grimace. “Could you all not, oh, shut the fuck up? Stop scaring the deer away? Not you, Helen, of course. Mainly Clytemnestra.” 

“Idiot.” 

“Loud-mouth.”

“Maybe you’re just a fucking awful hunter. Did you ever think of that? Not everything is my fault,” Clytemnestra snapped back at him. Birds fluttered, startled from trees with quick flapping wings. Castor watched them, a moment, before bounding ahead on feet, surprisingly light for someone so tall and muscular. 

“I am an amazing hunter,” Pollux insisted. 

“You should swear that on Artemis. I would love to see what misfortune she would make befall you for ruining her reputation like that.”

“Oh, Clytemnestra no talk of the gods—” Helen interjected quickly. She knew them to be watching. But perhaps, if she pretended they weren’t, they would…go away. Yes . Go away. Leave her be, no hanging prophecies or expectations or…anything of the sort.

“Fine! Fine.” Clytemnestra turned over her shoulder, speaking to the trees, the wood. Not to Pollux, of course. Helen knew she’d rather die than do that.  “Forgive me.”

“There’s a creek nearby . Maybe go… wash your hair, or something? Stop scaring away my game?” 

“You get no game, Pollux. Women or deer. None. Zero.” Clytemnestra glared. “...Though I suppose that doesn’t sound awful. Anything to be out of your company, darling brother.” 

“Hm. ” 

Helen watched his jaw, how it worked itself back and forth, as though he was chewing something. Perhaps that something was his tongue, to prevent it from firing anymore insults in Clytemnestra’s direction…though that never really stopped him. Never had she seen two people curse each other more. They said things so vile, she was sure even the depths of Tartarus grimaced at them. 

“Just east of here, you should find it. You can stay if you want, Helen,” His eyes squinted ahead. He looked very serious like that, a true hunter.  

“No! I will go with Clytemnestra,” Helen chirped. It was, after all, her natural place in the world. Besides, she felt the fluttering of excitement in her stomach. She must talk with someone! As much as she loved Pollux and Castor, somethings were just meant to be discussed between sisters. Helen grasped one of Clytemnestra’s hands in hers, and tugged her off in the direction Pollux had motioned with the tip of his blonde head. 

“You’re chipper,” Clytemnestra raised a faint eyebrow. 

“Why shouldn’t I be?” Helen smiled. “The birds are singing, the sky is blue, the grass is—” 

“I get it, the world is beautiful. Lucky you.” 

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“I had an idea,” Penelope began, “for what we might—” 

“Not interested.” Perilaos grimaced as he sparred, hitting the dummy with his wooden sword over and over. Smart boy, he always went for where the organs would be. He paid attention…Penelope’s brother had always been smart. Always. Even when he dismissed her so quickly, as she sat in the shade observing him, she never questioned the fact that he was smart.

“It is a good test to give the suitors. If you would just listen, Peri—” 

“If you thought of it, I am not interested in it,” the prince of Sparta barked.  His words were sharp, the kind he could only get away with it when it was just the two of them. If Icarius heard even a hint of displeasure aimed towards her, he acted as though it was a ploy to himself. Perilaos had always been forced to behave himself.

Penelope frowned. It still stung, even after so many years. Her brother was barely younger than herself, but he was still little Perilaos. She remembered peering down at him in Asterodia’s arms, poking his little face with her finger as it scrunched and squished with baby fat. He had been so sweet . But sweetness gave way to haughtiness and scorn the older he grew, the more that baby fat gave way to sharp edges and the face of a man. 

“...You should tilt your sword a little to the right, the angle will help it cut cleaner,” Penelope offered. She only meant to help him, she always had. Information was a gift, giving it meant you were loved. Penelope did love Perilaos, he was her brother . The mothers were different, but the only person who had ever cared about that was Icarius. Penelope never cared.

“Gods!” Perilaos shouted suddenly, throwing his hands up. “I can’t do anything, can I?! No! Not even use a sword without you finding a way to tell me I am wrong or talking unprompted ! Pollux was right, women need to learn when to shut up!” For a moment, he was just like Icarius. Same scratching yell as he raved, same dark waves of hair, same scrunch of his face. All of their siblings looked like Icarius, except for Penelope. She looked more like a nymph than a Spartan princess. More like her mother, which had always been enough to soften Icarius’ edges. Never Perilaos’, though. 

“I never meant to offend you.” 

“Well you did . So stop. I will think of something on my own, I don’t need you constantly overseeing everything I do. You aren’t my mother, and I am a man .” Perilaos made another swing with his sword, though this time Penelope noticed how he changed the angle. When it worked, as she knew it would work, he grunted in disdain. “If I have to counsel my older sister on everything, what am I?! A weak idiot .” 

“You aren’t an idiot,” Penelope barely held back her sigh. He was smart, so smart, but he just…his temper was too testy, his wit so sharp it would cut. Just like Icarius. “I never said that.” 

“You implied it.” 

“I would never do that.” Penelope adjusted her veil with her hands, as she heard the barking laughter of Princes and Kings drifting through the air. A common occurrence, now. To hear men like that.

“It is all you imply. Everytime you speak it is what you imply. I did not ask for advice, I do not want it. So do not give it. You do not have to say everything you think, Penelope. Clytemnestra may care , but I hardly—” He swung again, a great overarching motion with his arm. She wanted to tell him not to exaggerate it so much, that theatrics didn’t equal power, but she forced herself quiet. 

“Prince Perilaos! What a wonderful blessing of the gods, to find you here.” Despite the short length of his legs, the unfortunate circumstance of his less than heroic height, Odysseus carried himself down the hill with a sort of ease that came with practiced movement, with walking very often. His smile was equally as practiced, as though he had done it a million times. It was meant, Penelope recognized, to lull you. To lure you to security, comfort, and trust. He had tried the same down at the lake, she had never seen him look any other way. 

Perilaos tensed at first. He was trying to make himself a man, but he could never shake the jumpiness he was born with. Perhaps it was a sign of intelligence, to be so wary of others, while it was a sign of cleverness to always be at ease.

“I hope I didn’t startle you. I’ve been trying to grow acquainted with the palace, the people here,” Odysseus stopped, before offering a swift bow of his head. “I’m Odysseus, King of Ithaca.” Upon seeing Perilaos’ face twist in confusion, Odysseus swiftly added, “it is an island northeast of Kefalonia, a lovely place. Not nearly as large as your fair Sparta, but very lovely.” 

Penelope adjusted her veil, shrunk back by way of instinct. It was… odd , seeing the two of them stand side by side. Perilaos had to tilt down his chin, to eye the grinning King of Ithaca, far too young to be a King, but still a King. 

“...I’ve never heard of it,” Perilaos offered rigidly. 

“Oh, it’s very small. More goats than people. Nothing like…” Odysseus gave a sweep of his arm, motioning to all around. Penelope caught sight of his eyes, gleaming like glazed pottery. There was something about them unplaceable, something hidden in the pupils or the iris she couldn’t grasp. She hated being left to flounder. It made her feel stupid. “This. Great nation, great Kings…well, Ithaca is humble in comparison.” 

“Thank you.” Perilaos’ own eyes flashed to her, and she swore she caught a hint of annoyance at such an interruption. He was smart enough to not find Odysseus charming …or he just needed more time before he found him charming. 

“The thanks is mine, Prince Perilaos…I’ve heard much about you, your father I believe mentioned you. Such pride he has for his son.” 

There. That is how he got him. Penelope blinked in surprise for a moment, at how quick of a shift Perilaos made. Impeccable , the quickness in which Odysseus could find someone’s underbelly. She found herself impressed with him. He was like the water hydra she drew out of rocks as a child. They always struck fast, quick, and ruthless. The nymph part of her made the average water snake bite nothing more than a slight sting, but to others…out of luck. 

“I—me?” Perilaos stammered. 

“Oh yes you! Eldest son of Icarius, everyone knows you. Your intelligence, your mind . I envy it. If only one could receive such an education in humble Ithaca…” Odysseus sighed, leaning back on his heels. Penelope fought back a scoff. He was kneading him, like clay, shaping him, and Perilaos fell for it head over fist. “In fact, I believe he called for you. I heard a guard say so. Oh yes, I’ll get Prince Perilaos at once! Or something like that —” 

“Me? My father summoned…me?” 

“It sounded like it…I don’t know for certain, I’m awful at hearing in passing.” 

Another lie. They flowed off his tongue like air brushes past trees, like honey flowed out of comb. It was impressive, if not highly dishonorable. The Gods favored heroes, not scoundrels. 

“Thank you, King Odysseus.” Perilaos turned on his heels quickly, setting his sword back on the rack with a mighty thud . He was eager, it showed on every faucet of his face. Eagerness made him foolish, not smart and methodical at all. It was only as he turned around to leave that he noticed Penelope, and his face fell. She recognized the fact that he wished her not to go along, that when she went along, Icarius never paid such attention to him.

“...I will wait for Epiphanes,” she murmured, conjuring all the poise a princess should have. 

“Good , good, thank you, Penelope—” 

Odysseus kept a respectable distance, shielding his mismatched eyes with a hand and watching Perilaos stumble away in Princely haste. He did not even think about the potential scandal of leaving his sister alone with such a…well, wolfish hardly a King King that was Odysseus. He probably thought Odysseus would be on his way, that he had no reason to stay, but the King of Ithaca stayed right where he was, wind shifting the dull brown of his waved hair.

“...You are far smarter than he is,” Odysseus noted, only after Perilaos had slipped away into the distance. He allowed his smile to blossom fully, dimpling his cheeks as his eyes cast back to her. “Hello, Penelope.” 

“Odysseus.” Penelope shrunk back into her shade, adjusted her veil over the plane of her face. “...I would have met you later. In a place better befitting such a meeting.” It was too open. Penelope never discussed her gossip in the open of the air, in clearings of grass or quiet training yards. Business like that was to be left to back hallways of the palace, or spoken in hushed whispers in busy, noisy council meetings where words could not be made out.

“This is business? I thought this was friendly.” He leaned back, elbows against the rack of swords. If it were anyone else they would have fallen, made quite the fool of themselves. Penelope couldn’t imagine him embarrassed by anything. He could walk around completely naked and be just as content as ever. 

“Is there anything friendly with you?

“Ah, you caught me!” he raised his hands as though in surrender. “I was just wondering about the whereabouts of our lovely Helen of Sparta. I knew you would know. There is very little here you don’t know, I’ve come to understand.”

Penelope could not help but feel like he was trying to tug her along too. He was clever enough that no one else recognized that he did it, but she did. His eyes glinted, and she got the idea that he liked the attention very much. Any attention.

“You wish to meet Helen? Without the presence of her father?” Penelope mumbled as she looked at her nails, studying the pale beds of them. He made very intense eye contact. All the time. She wondered if he ever didn’t do that. It was like looking into the sun, so she did not even try to keep his eyes. “You’ll be stabbed. Or gutted. Or best, sent back to Ithaca.” 

Odysseus laughed again, as though it were a joke. It was not. 

“Oh, it can't be that hard. The basis for a marriage needs to start on something personal . I can’t just expect to marry anyone without knowing them…besides, I am sneaky enough. They will never know! Unless you tell them, of course, which I trust you won’t.” 

“Mhm.” Penelope picked at the grass with her fingers. She did know where Helen was. She heard Perilaos speaking to Castor, who spoke to Pollux who was overheard by Zoë, who told Kyra who told Melantho, who whispered to Penelope of their plans to hunt. Penelope hated hunting. The observing was good, but the killing was so brutal, such a waste of a creature. “...she is with her brothers today. And Clytemnestra. Hunting.”

“I love a good hunt!” he smiled. “Did I ever tell you about this boar , I hunted? It was a frightful thing, I nearly died! It all began—” 

“She is afraid of men.” 

“Hm?” Odysseus tore himself away from his story to look at her. 

“Helen. Men make her nervous. She does not have a good history with them. If you wish to meet her, or impress or, or whatever you are seeking…” Penelope let her sandal nudge at a stone, rolling it over so it’s pale, grey underbelly faced the sun, rather than its withered front, “...you should not be so…chatting. It might overwhelm her.”

“...Ah. Shut up, is what you’re saying.” 

“I did not say that—” 

“No! It’s alright,” Odysseus smiled so wide, for a moment all she could see was teeth. He had very nice teeth, she observed. All of them accounted for, all neatly shown in his smile. “I think every man could afford to shut up every once in a while, don’t you?”

Penelope shrugged. He did not speak, for a while, and she was certainly not going to speak. So it left them in silence, until finally he broke it with a stretch of his arms and a grunt. 

“Well! I suppose I should be off. I will see you, won’t I?” 

“Per our agreement, yes.” Penelope tilted her head up to look at him. He seemed pleased when she said that. 

“Great. Goodbye, Penelope.” 

“Goodbye.”

He gave something of a bow. It was pure theatrics, probably something intended to make her embarrassed…which it did, frankly. He succeeded in that. Penelope willed herself to not go red, remembering his similar theatrics when he first arrived, his tendency to animate himself in such a way. Part of her wanted to ask, of all the people in Sparta, why she was the one he chose to pester. 

“...how did you find me?” 

“Hm?” He turned to look over his shoulder, cocking an eyebrow. 

“How did you know Perilaos and I sat here?” 

Odysseus smirked. He did not answer, simply held a finger to his lips. Secret . 

Penelope felt her face set in a grimace as he left her. What an infuriating man…sure, she had Melantho watching everything he did, but for him to send his eyes to watch her , as though anyone could watch better than her! Impossible. Impossible! 

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Clytemnestra knew something was off the second Helen opened her mouth that very morning. She was born knowing Helen. The only thing that separated them had been eggshell, but even then Clytemnestra had known her, already. It was strange to describe, but an older sister just… knew . A sort of intuition and observation a priest could only wish himself to have. 

The creek was nice enough. Fresh with water from off branching from the Eurotas, cool against the heat of the day. Far better than being in Pollux’ company, which made Clytemnestra’s head hot and aggravated.

“Oh! This is very nice, perhaps there are swans swimming about? I’d love to see one if there are.” Helen kicked off her sandals carelessly, setting aside the perfectly formed leather to rest on the rocks along the water’s edge. She said that now , of course. Swans were pretty, at a distance. But up close they were abrasive, loud, honking , and occasionally violent. Though always for a good reason. 

“You’re sure you’re alright?” Clytemnestra asked, with all the short, prompt temper of a mother. Who was she to judge the birds, though. She was often abrasive, loud, honking and violent.

People did not call out Helen very often. As children she was the special case in everything, rightfully so. Her beauty was a sharp interruption to the rest of her life, a stark opposer of normalcy. Special people required special treatment, special expectations and rules that did not apply to others…and besides, Helen had never really needed harsh words or direction. She did as she was asked, right as she was asked, usually. She was a lousy liar. Normally she would stumble and choke on her words until her cheeks grew red. This time she just sighed, plopping down on the rocks to let her feet rest in the cool water. 

“Oh, Clytemnestra…” Helen sighed, resting a chin in her hand. 

“You can tell me anything, you know.” It was true. Nothing Helen could say would ever make Clytemnestra reproach her. It frustrated Clytemnestra to no end, the tightness at which her heart grasped onto things. It did not love easily, but once it did it never stopped. 

“I know…” Helen’s brows furrowed. Clytemnestra felt her jaw tighten, to the point she felt dull pain behind her furthest molars. By the gods, if you are bothered, tell me now so I can fix it.

“I would never be mad at you, either.” 

“You get mad all the time,” Helen huffed. She poked at the water with her foot, creating little ripples that distorted the perfect reflection of her face. Though it always returned back to beauty, back to put-together perfection. Clytemnestra chuckled. 

“Never at you, though. Annoyed, yes. Frustrated, on the daily. But I’m never mad at you, Helen.” 

Clytemnestra reached for her hand, a motion she had done a million times. Their mother was the same, but so often they felt so different. It was the fathers, of course. Greeks always believed blood ran thicker in a father. In stories and the boasts no one ever proclaimed proudly who their mother was. It was always the father. Maybe that is where the differences started, with them. Or maybe they would have existed either way, different fathers be damned. Clytemnestra would never know. 

“...this is difficult for me,” Helen finally admitted. “I know, father thinks it is best to do. That marrying me off will insure I am safe and protected by a strong King but…I worry , of who will be chosen. I do not want a man like that. Most of them are just… brash and rude as Theseus was. Heroes are strong and they may protect me, I know, but are heroes good ? No one ever asks that, Clytemnestra. Or at least I've never heard it.” 

Clytemnestra just blinked at her, a moment. Helen never really… spoke , like that. Such deep questioning never made its way out into the world through her words, or at least it did so very rarely. Perhaps it was because, before, she never really had such things to worry about. She had people to worry for her; Clytemnestra, Penelope, and Tyndareus. Their mother, all of Sparta, and… 

“Heroes are egotistical fools,” Clytemnestra confided, tapping a finger on Helen’s knuckle. “Think of Pollux. That is a piece of work…besides, you don’t need one. Father be damned. Heroes are good for nothing but bringing glory to themselves. I will always be there to protect you. If you are married or not, I will be here.” 

“No, what about you?” Helen gripped her hand in turn, but she couldn’t help but smile. “What if you ever wish to marry yourself? I would not want you to refuse, just for me—”

“Eh, I have no interest in it,” Clytemnestra confided. “Penelope doesn’t either, you know her. If father forces you to marry, fine . But Penelope and I will stay in Sparta and keep him in line, whoever he chooses. Your marrying doesn’t mean your sister will disappear .” Clytemnestra leaned back on her hands, tilting her head to the side to pop her joints. She smirked. “ Besides , Sparta would be so lucky to get rid of me. And if father thinks he could find a poor bastard willing to marry me, he’s gone senile, I believe.” 

Helen finally smiled, bright like clouds clearing from the sky. 

“I forget sometimes how awful you are.” 

“It’s called balance , Helen. For however perfect you are, the gods needed to create a counteraction. Something to combat it, and create stability. As such—” Clytemnestra motioned to herself with a sweeping hand. Here it is! Your counter .

“I quite like that you are awful,” Helen admitted with a quick whisper, as though it were a closely guarded secret between them. “I wish I could say half the things you did—” 

“Eh, you could , you just don’t,” Clytemnestra shrugged. Really, she never wished Helen to act as she did. It would probably make Clytemnestra wish to rip her hair out. 

“...Nessie?” 

“Hm?” 

“If you could choose any of them, who would you choose?” Helen asked, suddenly far more serious than she had been. 

Clytemnestra thought, a long moment. None of them appealed to her. Most of them were handsome, sure, but in a way where their faces just sort of ran together. A man, another man, an older man, a younger man …only one had really stood out to her. But it was not for reason of his good looks, or his charms . No. He had none. He had just been thrust in her path one too many times. 

“ Anyone , but a Son of Atreus,” Clytemnestra concluded. Helen’s expression shifted through a myriad of different ones. First blinking surprise, then a flash of embarrassment was sent crumbling away for almost a grimace, then disappointment and finally an attempt at nonchalance. 

“Oh …well, I don’t see anything wrong with the—” 

“The eldest is a dick. Ungrateful, brooding, ugly if you look at him wrong. The whole bloodline is cursed, Helen. Its the last thing you need.” 

“What about the younger one, then?” Helen asked almost intently. Her eyes fluttered about, this way, then that, then that… 

Clytemnestra’s brows furrowed at the question. She tried to conjure up who she spoke of, but she came up with nothing. Agamemnon of Mycenae’s grimacing face was all that came to her, the only thing she cared to remember. As awful as he was, he was memorable, even if it was for the heaviness around him. 

“I don’t remember who you’re talking about, Helen,” Clytemnestra sighed. She glanced around for a rock to skip across the water, an activity Penelope had taught her time and time again. Pen always got them further, maybe it was the nymph in her. 

“...oh,” Helen murmured. She seemed to frizzle, the words she wanted to say dying on her tongue. 

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“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong? You didn’t ask me here for no reason.” 

Agamemnon could read his brother like a book . His father had been unusually cruel, absent, brutalistic…basically the same as everyone else who Agamemnon shared blood with. Their mother had been a cheater, adulteress, and Atreus hardly had patience for such a thing. So when it came to rearing Menelaus, Agamemnon was the last option he had. Raising him from a drooling babbling babe into the young exiled prince walking at Agammemon’s side, eyes searching for deer, meant that Agamemnon knew him quite well.

“Nothing is wrong ,” Menelaus snorted, an attempt at being nonchalant, at ease, though being at ease was hardly something natural to Menelaus. He had been in a constant state of fearing for his life for nineteen years, it hardly made a man relaxed. “I just…felt compelled to do it. Something told me too.” 

“Then why are you lying.” 

Agamemnon let his eyes search the forest. It was nothing like Mycenae. In Mycenae everything was quiet in the wood, like it was padded with heavy cloth and wool. But in Sparta, the sun filtered through the leaves, and birds sang and soared overhead. However it different it was, it was better than inside. Every single of the suitors was loud , too fucking loud, like they were trying to alert the Gods of their presence. It was not a nice thing, Agamemnon wanted to sneer, to be recognized by them. Especially when it led to a heaviness over you, your family, your future children. He wanted to bash in their faces, but if were to be cast out of Sparta, he would have nowhere else to go. So outside was better, and outside is where he went Menelaus went.

“I’m not.” Menelaus sighed. 

“...you could tell me anything, you know.” He spoke it in a murmur, trying not to scare away game. It was true, nothing Menelaus could do could make Agamemnon reproach him. It was fucking agravating times. That bronzed, freckled face and mess of red hair had weaseled into Agamemnon’s mess of a heart and was sure he would never be free again. “I wouldn’t be mad.” 

“You most certainly would be,” Menelaus murmured, though not to prevent deer from running. More so he heard Agamemnon whisper, so he whispered. It was an annoying habit, whatever Agamemnon did Menlaus always wanted too as well. Even when they were children, Menelaus would always run at his heels like a hunting dog, unable to be ditched because it would just sniff you out again. “You’re mad at me all the time.” 

“I’m annoyed at you. Sometimes I want to shake fucking sense into you” Agamemnon held up an arm to stop their footsteps, barring it over Menelaus’ chest. He spoke as softly as he breathed. “But never hate.” 

Menelaus went to respond, but a look from his brother was enough to silence him. 

Agamemnon locked eyes with the stag, standing proud as a God. Its head was held in highest esteem. It knew, in these woods at least, it was a King.

He reached for his spear, curled his fingers around its shaft. You are King here, yes, but I am Agamemnon.  

Agamemnon struck its heart with practiced ease, and it fell as heavy as a tree. 

Menelaus watched it fall, his face blinking in almost surprise at the accuracy, the deadliness. 

“...I wish I was great, like you. Then maybe I would be deserving of her,” he finally admitted in a murmur. “I am not strong enough to protect her. I am just me. She needs a great King, a hero—” 

Agamemnon stalked forward, lifted the stag’s head by its horns to examine it. A fine gift, for Tyndareus if he wished for it. 

“It doesn’t matter.” 

“It does matter!” 

“Your job is to marry her, get Sparta’s aid in reclaiming Mycenae. That is all you are meant to do. Don’t overcomplicate it.” 

Menelaus' words ended in a grumble of murmurs, as Agamemnon smacked a hand over his mouth. 

“Shut up. ”

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“Ah, there you are…no game? I told you, you’re a shitty hunter.” 

“I am not!” As Pollux pushed through the trees, he carried a sort of misery about him. He hated proving her right. “There was just nothing out , alright? Probably killed by wolves.” 

“Sure! Damned wolves,” Clytemnestra pouted alongside him, just to watch his back heave. “Ah, you’re too easy Polly.” She reached around to smack the back of his blonde head, but he snatched her wrist and shoved it into the grass before she could.

“Shut. Up .” 

“Oh, the two of you would tear each other to pieces if you could,” Helen sighed, crossing her arms over her chest. Who was to say Clytemnestra couldn’t ? She could if she wanted too, she just didn’t . Perhaps out of respect to their mother who would be saddened by Pollux’s death, no matter how unreasonable that was.  Or Helen, who had such an odd affection for him despite his constant habit of being an insufferable bastard. It eluded Clytemnestra constantly, why anyone would keep themselves around like that. 

“I’d fucking win,” Pollux insisted. 

“Hardly.” 

“Wha— you hear?!” Pollux yelled. Clytemnestra scoffed at the fact that it had lost its squeak. His voice was all man now, another thing to add to his boasting. “How she speaks to me?!” 

“Please,” Castor murmured. His hands were busy adjusting Helen’s hair, laying it out around her head like a crown of fire, like Hestia herself. 

“Don’t please me. She needs to learn respect, I tell you, resp—” 

He did not finish his words. Clytemnestra was rarely left speechless of anything, but the quickness in which he moved, positioning himself in front of her with his spear in hand left her blinking at his back. 

“You. I know you’re there.” Pollux called. “Out, before I make you.” 

“What?” Helen perked up a little, forced herself onto her elbows, then her hands, which grabbed quickly for her abandoned veil. 

“Pollux?” Clytemnestra had heard nothing. She didn’t know how he possibly did. Perhaps it was the demigod part of him, the son of Zeus part of his brain sparking with battle recognition and a quickness that Clytemnestra realized she could never match. It made her…uncomfortable . 

The leaves shifted and the brush gave way. 

“We’re sorry, we never meant—” Menelaus, of Mycenae, dropped the deer he held with a thud. He looked like a deer himself, eyes wide like making eye contact with a hunter. From behind him emerged Agamemnon. Agamenon could never look as pray did. It was a cruel trick of the fates. Just when she thought she was rid of him, here he came, shoved back into her presence.

“You speared it?” Pollux’s eyes flickered down to the deer. Clytemnestra watched his shoulders pull together in annoyance, a haughtiness as he scoffed. 

“I did.” Agamemnon’s voice was taut, and certainly in his hands he still gripped the spear, tip bloodied. He looked quite natural with it. Blood was his color. Clytemnestra looked at him, from around Pollux’s legs, and was met with the dark intensity of his eyes. Hello, you cursed, annoying thing.  

“These woods belong to my father.” Pollux sneered. He stepped, and as he did Agamemnon disappeared from her view. As if Clytemnestra grit her teeth, she needed him to defend her in any way. Especially not from the cursed bastard, whose very presence made the air a little heavier. “As does everything in it.” 

“I thank him for the hospitality. Keep the stag, if you wish.” Agamemnon dropped the head, letting the entire great body of the beast fall to the grass with a thud . “A gift for Helen of Sparta.” 

“How generous of you,” Clytemnestra rose to her feet, to see him, rather than be stuck behind Pollux. She leaned over his shoulder. She couldn’t resist it, he looked so stone faced all the time, Agamemnon did. “I do believe we spoke of a disdain for wanderers though, and…still bruised?” 

Agamemnon worked his jaw back and forth, like he chewed on something he didn’t have. Menelaus of Mycenae, the not so smart brother he had mentioned, let out a sound like the sputtering of sea water as he clamped a hand on Agamemnon’s shoulder. 

Pollux looked over his shoulder at her. “You know this man?”

“Me ? I know no men at all. I have quite the disdain for them.” 

Pollux shoved her back behind him. 

“I apologize again, I did not know, I never would have done it, if I did not…” Menelaus' eyes drifted behind them as well, though not to Clytemnestra.

“Apologies mean nothing,” Pollux sneered. “I am trying to spend an afternoon with my beloved sisters, and my brother. I was wondering where the game was. It makes sense that it was killed. You suitors have no regard for anything, do you?” 

“Don't speak to him like that.” 

“...Did you hear that?” Pollux looked this way, then that. “I think…was that a bastard exile of a cursed whore bloodline, telling me what to do? In my kingdom?” 

His fists twitched at his sides. Fingers curling into palms. 

“Stop!” Helen’s voice interrupted the chaos, almost panicked as it cut through the tension, the overwhelming suffocating of Agamemnon’s cursed displeasure,a dn Pollux…well, whatever the fuck he had going on for himself. Clytemnestra reached for her hand, but she was already stumbling forward against Pollux’s back, desperate to snatch his attention. “It-it is fine, they are guests! I do not mind at all, in fact I think it is a very good gesture…Menelaus!...if that is your name, of course. Not that I would know—” 

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“Hm …” 

Odysseus was no stranger to woods himself. He had, after all, grown up running around the forest of Ithaca, a hunting dog always at his heels seeking whatever adventures a Prince could have on an island. And so, he kept himself discrete. 

“I was hoping they’d tear each other apart, but if I did not know any better…” 

“Menelaus and Helen have met before. He has an advantage over you.” Athena’s thoughts, like a tension headache, surged his mind. “Aphrodite put her vile, disgusting claws into her. I would not be surprised if she sent them here, just to spite me. ” 

“How many goddesses exactly are meddling in this? ” Odysseus squinted past the trees. So much for his introduction, his well thought out supposed spontaneous meeting of Helen, one designed to sweep her off her feet, interrupted by cursed Agamemnon and red-haired Menelaus. 

“Too many .” Athena smoldered in his brain. She was not in his presence, not that he could see, but even then he could feel the displeasure radiating off of her. “ You need to destroy him. Menelaus of Mycenae is your enemy .” 

He smiled, apologized profusely. 

“She likes him because he is…kind ,” Odysseus finally recognized. She is afraid of men . And yet Menelaus was as awkwardly uncharming that he wouldn’t be intimidating to anyone! It was the perfect angle. He almost cursed himself for not thinking of it sooner, damn Menelaus— 

“Kind men get their entrails ripped out. ” Athena spat. “ I expect a fistful of  his copper hair.”

“...Aphrodite, eh? Perhaps I could…change her mind, convince her too—” 

“No,” Athena spat it immediately. “ You will have no part of her. You will stay away from her. You are not here to fall in love, you are here to marry Helen of Sparta.” 

“I apologize…again,” Menelaus professed. Oh, spare him! No one was so good-natured. It had to be an act . 

“He stole my meeting, that was my meeting!” Gods damned Mycenaean Princes. Menelaus wasn’t even smart ! Not as Odysseus was smart! Not even close! Not as he was smart. No . 

“It means nothing, ” Athena hissed softly, “nothing. You two are fated together. You will marry the Princess of Sparta. ”

Athena sounded so sure, so utterly convinced, it was hard not to agree with her. He would. Just as he planned it, as he intended. 

“You’re right, ” Odysseus allowed himself a breath, “ she will lov- ” 

“Do not use that word .”