She is Helen of Troy. She will always be Helen of Troy. Oneshot.
[A/N]: Summary says all. Enjoy. And leave a review, please :D
Note: I have the suspicion that Helen chose to marry Menelaus, instead of her father, but it doesn't go very well with the plotline. And I'm too lazy to research it. If there are any errors in the facts, tell me. I wrote everything about Helen and her life down from memory; I didn't do any research, so if something is wrong, then I must have remembered it incorrectly.
Ah, yeah. Most of this is influenced by Caroline B. Cooney's Goddess of Yesterday.
-Hate-
By: zynaofthenight
She hates her sister.
They never liked each other. She would ask to play, and Clytemnestra would refuse, saying, "No one wants to play with a person like you, Helen. You are different from all of us. Different."
At that time, she had always wondered why Clytemnestra said they were different. They were both the children of Zeus—what did her sister mean? But whatever the reason, she was shunned from the eyes of her sibling.
So she would spend her days in her room, weaving at her loom from sunrise to sunset. "You are so fair, Helen," adults would tell her. "You are so pretty. You are so skilled at weaving. Athena must have blessed you with the art of the loom." They praised her, they gave her costly gifts, and they thought she was the angel of their lives. She had no fault, no flaw in the eyes of the visiting nobles, subjects of the king.
But Clytemnestra would gather a group of servants with her, and they would gather about her door and mock her as she hid in her room, wishing they would go away. "Oooh, pretty, pretty Helen. Are you going to come out of your room now? Beautiful Helen, fair Helen, be my savior in this world. Why don't you come and walk with us? But no! We are too lowly for your angelic stature! I wonder if you are so delicate that you cannot even walk two steps without falling flat on your face?"
Even when she had been captured by Theseus and then saved by her brothers, Clytemnestra didn't show any worry or caring. In fact, when Helen came back safely the palace, escorted by her brothers, all Clytemnestra was glance once her way. But in that glance she saw eons of hatred, misery, and wrath.
When she was fifteen, her other father, the king, began to look for suitors. He didn't really need to, however; suitors began flowing into the halls of the palace immediately, crowding the rooms with their loud talking and showing off. Whispers of "Princess Helen of Argos, marry me,"filled the air around her. They were here for her. They were here for the Princess Helen, the most beautiful woman in the world.
She liked Agamemnon. Not, perhaps, in love, but of his title and stature. She imagined herself as Helen of Mycenae, queen of the king of kings, Agamemnon. Everyone would admire her, everyone would know of her—not as just the most beautiful woman in the world, but also the most beautiful queen. Helen of Mycenae, the queen of all queens.
So she dreamed, and she hoped. Her father the king made the suitors to make an oath on the blood of a horse, vowing their support for each other and Helen no matter what, and he told her he would now choose a suitor for her to marry. She had pleaded in her mind, whispering softly to herself: Agamemnon, please, let it be Agamemnon.
And so when her father announced to the suitors, "Agamemnon, king of kings, son of Atreus, come forth," her heart raced with happiness, and for a split second, just a split second, she was filled with joy—and her entire world came crashing down as her father the king continued, "Agamemnon of Mycenae, will you accept my daughter, Clytemnestra, as your queen?"
Clytemnestra? She could have screamed in rage and despair, but all she could do was smile politely and, when no one was looking, glare at her sister sharply. The next few moments passed with a blur of jealousy, envy, and finally, numbness. She was past caring now.
And so when her father called Menelaus, brother of Agamemnon, to be her husband, she smiled and looked delighted on the outside, but inside, she was seething with hatred towards her sister, her father the king, herself, the man in front of her who was to be her husband—everything.
And when they parted ways from home, each to her new palace as the queen of a distant country, she swore that she saw a cruel smirk on Clytemnestra's face, mocking her in her failure. Mocking her in that for once, Clytemnestra had bested her.
Ω
She hates her husband.
Menelaus was kind—she had to admit that. He was caring, he was gentle, and he was a fierce warrior who paid attention to her needs and troubles. He loved her, she knew that. He was what any woman could have considered the perfect husband—tender and loving, powerful and fierce, a king, brother to the lord of all kings.
She did not love him.
In fact, she despised everything that had to do with him. It was all his fault—all his fault that she could not have Agamemnon, that her sister, who was never as beautiful as she was, would be higher in rank that she would be, even though she was better.
But all she did was sit there, smile, and look pretty. Pretending that she did love her husband, that she was definitely satisfied with living in Sparta, when she was yearning in her heart to be at Mycenae.
Years passed, so many she lost count. Sometime in the beginning of her marriage she bore Menelaus a daughter, Hermione. Sometime during the endless time of faking and lying, she began to feel a despair wash over her. She was going die here, an old lady, devoid of her beauty, doomed forever to this palace in this harsh land of soldiers.
Sometimes, her sister would visit with Agamemnon, and she would have to endure the hours making polite conversation with Clytemnestra, listening to how Iphigenia and Electra were both doing fine, how Orestes was already growing into a strong boy—on and on and on. Always, there would be some sort of stinging remark made by Clytemnestra that left her in deeper despair than before. She hated Menelaus so much she almost couldn't stand it.
More time passed; her twenty-seventh year came and disappeared with nothing important happening. Three and nine were numbers that brought luck and happiness, but even with a number made of threes and nines, nothing happened. She really was stuck here, falling into a chasm of nothing.
Then Paris came.
What caught her eyes at first was the confidence he carried himself with. A beautiful, handsome prince kneeling in front of her—for the first time in her life, she felt as if her heart had been thawed out. For the first time in her life, she felt love.
And for the first time in her life, her love was returned. He understood her pain, he respected her for the beautiful woman she was, he comforted her, he knew her. She belonged with him. She belonged with Paris of Troy like how Zeus belonged with the heavens, Poseidon belonged with the sea, and Hades belonged with the afterlife. And so, slowly, the image of Helen of Mycenae was replaced with Helen of Troy.
Helen of Troy, O Helen of Troy. She whispered the name to herself, to Paris, and Paris whispered it back to her.
And so when Menelaus went off with Paris's cousin, Aeneas, son of Aphrodite, she slipped away with her lover, leaving Sparta to ruin and disgrace. She didn't care. She hated Menelaus and she would never be happy until she was with Paris.
Inside, she was more than happy. She was seized by an almost maniacal feeling of joy. Because now, she had hurt Menelaus, and all she knew was that when she hated someone, she had to hurt them.
Ω
She hates Cassandra.
Troy was a beautiful, grand city, so much more sophisticated and luxurious than Sparta. Priam was a kind, caring king, Paris's forty-nine other brothers were respectful to her, and even her lover's sisters were very helpful, always finding what she asked for. Hecuba was a motherly figure to her, busying herself with preparing for the wedding. She felt home here. This city was the city of her dreams, flawlessly perfect.
Almost.
There was Cassandra, the prophetess who shrieked to the heavens every few minutes, screaming, "Helen is a curse to us! Helen will destroy us all! Turn her away! She is the blight of the gods!" But no one ever listened to the girl. "Went a bit off, my sister," Paris had told her one night, as they were watching the stars together. "Don't listen to her, Helen dearest. All her visions have made her gone completely insane."
They said that Apollo had cursed Cassandra to never have anyone believe the girl again. She didn't believe the oracle—at least, on the outside, she did not. The dread she felt inside her told her otherwise, for she could not shake off the feeling that trouble was not far away, and she, Helen of Troy, would be the cause of it.
She would be a curse, a blight.
Cassandra spent her time wandering about the halls of palace, until she finally was locked up after several annoyed nobles reported that they had woken up one morning to a blank-eyed girl whispering words of doom and destruction.
As Cassandra was passing her in the halls, flanked by soldiers, she felt the prophetess's eyes bore into her. "Helen of Troy," the hoarse voice whispered in her ear, "people don't believe me. But you do, deep inside. No one here thinks that a war will happen. They think Menelaus is too weak to do anything. But you know better. Aphrodite has brought a gift of destruction to the Trojans: you."
She ran. She ran from the calm oracle predicting her doom. She ran from her troubles, she ran from her pain. She would find some way to lock Cassandra away, forever. She would stop those words from spinning around in her head—those words she wanted to believe to be false, but knew to be true.
Ω
She hates the Fates.
The war came like the wrath of an angry god, ripping everything aside like soft clay, molding it until nothing looked familiar anymore.
She remembers only bits, tiny specks of memory among a sea of blurs. Everything happened so fast that she wasn't sure what was what, and who was who. The enemy and her own side melded into one, and she was even more confused.
She remembers the day Hector died, killed by Achilles. How Andromache cried into her shoulder, how the future queen was led away to a life of slavery. And still, she stood there, not caring, because Paris was all she cared about. She remembers the day when Paris died, and she spent an entire day staring at the walls of the palace as the battles raged on outside. He was gone, and without Paris, she was a numb shell of nothing.
She remembers that night when they pulled inside the huge wooden horse the Greeks had made. She remembers how Cassandra had told them all not to take in the horse, but of course, no one listened to the prophetess. They called the oracle crazy, and the Trojans just wen back celebrating their assumed victory.
But she heard Cassandra, and for once, she admitted to herself that she believed the girl. So she crept out of bed that night, bringing a guard along with her. Was it a guard? Or was it one of Paris's brothers…Deiphobos? She crept in front of the horse, and called out to men in each of his wife's voice. Was she doing that to save Troy? She must have been. But she only remembers a fogged mind and confusion, then going back to bed.
The next morning, she woke up to find herself with the Spartans again, when the rest of the army was sacking Troy. She cursed the Fates for weaving such despair into her life. Troy, O Troy. Her city was burning now, along with all her dreams.
Ω
She hates Sparta.
The war ended, and she came home with Menelaus, feigning that it all wasn't her fault. Pretending that she never had any feelings whatsoever for Paris. She grieved over the Spartans and their allies instead of the Trojans. She voiced her regret that so many people had died for her. She said that she was forced by Paris, kidnapped to Troy.
Years later, when Telemachus, son of Odysseus, came to inquire about his father, she was mild, she was gentle, and she hid all her true emotions away like she had been doing since childhood. She smiled and wore a façade of lies, touched with sweet honey and love.
Now she cries every night, silently so that Menelaus, who sleeps beside her once again, does not notice. She cries for Paris, she cries for herself, and she cries for Troy. She cries for the cruel fate the gods have given her—torn by her family, her husband, and her lover.
Sparta means nothing to her. It will never mean anything but nothing to her. She despises this place. She curses this place. She prays to the gods that one day her true father will strike this place from the heavens with his mighty lightning and put an end to this miserable, blighted existence she is forced to bear. She will never think of this land as home. Helen of Sparta means nothing to her. It is not her name.
She is Helen of Troy. She will always be Helen of Troy.
[A/N]: Mm. The random past to present tense change in the last two paragraphs feel kinda weird…but it's done on purpose.
Review please :D