With a weary shake of her head, Helen drew herself from her thoughts, focusing on the simple act of preparing for the day. She dressed herself slowly, as though putting on armor, readying herself for yet another day of condemnation, another day of bearing the hatred she had no power to soothe.
Once ready, she emerged from her chambers, her steps soft but purposeful. Immediately, she encountered the attendants assigned to her, moving in with practiced bows and murmured greetings. To others, they might seem loyal retainers, faithful to her needs and comfort. But Helen knew better; their duties lay far beyond servitude. Each was a pair of watchful eyes, a reminder that she, the “outsider” from Sparta, was considered a potential threat, forever under suspicion within the formidable walls of Troy.
Paris alone offered her sympathy, but she knew it was shallow, a love born of allure and desire rather than any true understanding. In his infatuation, he seemed blind to her isolation, caught in a fantasy that did not see the woman beyond the face.
Unperturbed by the scrutiny, Helen accepted it as her reality. Troy’s halls, however grand and filled with the tapestries of their victories, could never replace Sparta in her heart. The city she had left—her true home—was now as distant as a forgotten dream. She had left behind family, friends, and a life etched deeply into Spartan soil, torn away from it under the bewitching haze of forces she could not control.
Drifting through the ornate corridors, Helen paused at a towering window. Outside, the courtyard was a flurry of preparation as soldiers and townsfolk alike braced for the looming onslaught of the Greek armies. News had recently come of the fall of Lyrnessus, the gateway to Troy a week ago; now, the Greeks were free to press forward without obstruction, a tide moving steadily toward these walls.
King Priam, with the wisdom of age and the burden of command, had ordered the evacuation of every town in Troy’s path, refusing to ask his people to serve as sacrificial shields. Now, as the invading forces approached, they would find nothing but empty streets and shuttered homes until they reached the gates of Troy itself, walls said to be blessed by Apollo and Poseidon, standing tall and mighty against any enemy.
A figure at the far end of the corridor caught Helen’s attention, interrupting her thoughts. Andromache, Hector’s wife, moved gracefully toward her, her expression composed yet cool. Though she was indeed beautiful in her own right, Andromache’s looks were no match for Helen’s fabled allure—an undeniable reality that had only widened the chasm between them. From the moment Helen had arrived, Andromache’s disdain had been palpable. She made no attempt to mask her belief that Helen had entrapped Paris with her beauty, her charm a deceptive spell that had led him into folly.
To Andromache, Helen was a usurper of peace and a destroyer of family bonds, the cause of the inevitable bloodshed now hanging over Troy like a dark cloud. But Helen could sense her disdain wasn’t solely reserved for her; Paris, too, was scorned for his weakness and impulsivity, for falling prey to a charm he had neither the wisdom nor the maturity to resist.
“Helen,” she called.
“Andromache…” Helen’s voice was soft, almost hesitant, her gaze imploring.
“Do not address me so familiarly,” Andromache’s reply was sharp, her cold gaze unwavering as she fixed Helen with a look that was equal parts resentment and disdain.
“I apologize,” Helen said, and there was sincerity in her tone, an apology that seemed to go deeper than words. Her eyes softened, shadows flickering there—a sadness that many might mistake for regret. But Andromache saw only galling hypocrisy in Helen’s expression, a mockery of what the queen believed true penitence should look like.
That look. It was what infuriated Andromache the most about Helen. How dare she look apologetic after all she had brought upon them? After willingly coming here, after defying the bonds of marriage and nation to indulge in this selfish romance, did she have the audacity to appear sorrowful?
If she truly felt remorse, she could leave Troy, abandoning the city she had tainted with her presence. She didn’t need Paris or King Priam’s blessing; she could slip away in the dead of night. Andromache knew it would be challenging with the hundreds of guards patrolling the walls, but she doubted Helen had even tried.
Deep down, Andromache understood the truth Helen would never admit: leaving Troy would not undo the war, nor would it appease the Greeks. Agamemnon’s thirst for power was unquenchable, and Menelaus’s wrath toward Paris was an unyielding fire, fed by humiliation and wounded pride. If Helen’s return could bring peace, perhaps she might have gone long ago. But it was a futile hope; war was inevitable, and both sides would march to death and ruin regardless of her presence.
Still, Helen remained, clinging to life in a way that Andromache couldn’t fathom. Was it human instinct, a primal reluctance to face death, or was there something—someone—that kept her here? Perhaps she yearned for a final glimpse of her sister, to offer a last apology for Iphigenia’s tragic fate.
With a dismissive sneer, Andromache spun on her heel, unwilling to spare Helen another word. It was routine now, these silent clashes and daily encounters in the corridors. Each encounter sharpened her resentment and reminded her of the unbridgeable chasm between them.
“Lady Andromache!”
A guard’s voice shattered the tension, echoing through the corridor as he approached in haste, his steps urgent. Andromache turned to face him, her brow furrowing with worry at his expression.
“What is it?” she demanded, her voice edged with apprehension, bracing herself for whatever ill tidings might follow.
“The King has summoned both you and Lady Helen!” he announced, breathless. “It appears that one of the mercenaries we presumed lost has returned… and he has brought Lady Astynome back with him!”
“What?” Andromache’s voice rose in astonishment, and for a moment, her steely composure broke. Forgetting all else, she blinked, astonished by the name. Lady Astynome, alive? The favorite priestess of Apollo, revered across Troy, had been presumed dead, a loss that had struck fear into the hearts of all who feared Apollo’s wrath.
“She is truly alive?” Andromache asked, barely able to believe what she was hearing.
“Yes, alive and in perfect health!”
Without another word, Andromache turned and strode swiftly down the hall, her thoughts spinning. She felt relief, hope even, that Apollo’s wrath might be stayed with the priestess’s return. Helen followed in her wake, her steps slower, her expression unreadable. She could not share Andromache’s relief, knowing that her own role in Troy’s turmoil might forever overshadow any respite fate had temporarily granted them.
°°°°°°
Under the blazing midday sun, a single horse approached the formidable walls of Troy, carrying two travelers cloaked in dust from their long journey. Nathan sat tall and sturdy in the saddle, while Astynome leaned gently against his back, her body finally relaxing after days of relentless travel. Despite the tension between them, the ride had been peaceful, her faith finding unexpected solace in the strength she felt emanating from him. His back was firm, his muscles rippling with an unspoken assurance, making her feel safe in a way she had never expected.
When the towering walls of Troy loomed before them, Nathan spoke, his voice quiet yet firm. “We’ve arrived.”
Astynome stirred, pulling herself upright as her eyes slowly opened. She lifted her gaze, her breath catching as she beheld the mighty walls before them, so familiar yet almost surreal after the horror she had endured. “At last… Lord Heiron,” she murmured, gratitude evident in her eyes.
Her mind drifted back to the moment she had resigned herself to a darker fate, shackled within Agamemnon’s tent, awaiting the terrible violation that seemed inevitable. But somehow, in the chaos of her despair, Nathan had appeared, his presence a miracle she hadn’t dared to hope for. And now, against all odds, she stood once more before her home.
The massive gates of Troy groaned open slowly, revealing two figures standing at attention just inside. Prince Hector, his noble bearing casting an aura of steady calm, was there to greet them alongside Aeneas, his expression lit with a warmth that seemed to slice through the usual solemnity of the battlefield. As they entered, a broad smile broke across Aeneas’s face, and he stepped forward eagerly, extending his arms in welcome.
“Heiron!” Aeneas called, his voice brimming with genuine excitement.
Nathan slid down from the horse and turned to help Astynome dismount, his hands gentle but firm. Once she stood beside him, both Aeneas and Hector gave her a respectful nod.
“Lady Astynome,” they greeted, the reverence in their voices conveying the deep honor held for Apollo’s favored priestess.
She nodded in return, her expression both humbled and grateful, her heart swelling at the familiarity of Troy’s people who had not forgotten her. Aeneas moved closer to Nathan, his face brimming with gratitude and camaraderie.
“I can’t believe it,” Aeneas laughed, his arms pulling Nathan into a brotherly embrace, patting his back with a strength that betrayed his relief and admiration. “You really did it, my friend!”
Caught slightly off guard, Nathan hesitated but soon returned the embrace, feeling Aeneas’s sincerity in every word. There was something familial in the way Aeneas regarded him—a bond made stronger by the subtle influence of Aphrodite, who had granted Nathan her blessing. Aeneas, a son of the goddess, seemed to feel this kinship deeply, and for a moment, Nathan felt as if he, too, belonged to Aeneas’s family.
Hector then approached, his gaze steady and calm, extending his hand to Nathan. “I’ll admit, I doubted you. But I owe you an apology and my thanks for bringing the priestess back safely.”
Nathan met the prince’s hand, their grip firm as they shook. “No need,” Nathan replied simply, acknowledging Hector’s humility with a respectful nod.
Once their introductions and greetings were complete, Hector gestured toward the heart of the city, where the palace loomed. “Come. My father, King Priam, is eager to meet you both. He awaits your presence inside.”
Nathan and Astynome followed Hector and Aeneas, entering through Troy’s gates.
