You are somewhat of a legend when you are born.

Your mother is the famed Helen, queen of Sparta, known through all of Greece for her beauty. Her father—your grandfather—is Zeus, king of the gods, lord of the sky, master of the eagles. Her looks are admired, adored as otherworldly. Worthy of a goddess. She appears every inch a queen.

You like to believe she loves you. That she would care if you vanished. That she would do anything on Earth for you. You believe if you tell yourself these "facts" enough, you will begin to believe them.

But in truth, Queen Helen is not much of a mother.

You are adored by your father, King Menelaus. You share his red hair. But most often whisper you look too much alike your mother for you own good. With her, you share eyes blue and green at the same time, similar to water in a shallow pool. Skin the color of cream. Lips soft and red as rose petals. You wish you looked like the king, rather than the queen. You have nothing—absolutely nothing—in common with her.

You are a clever girl. You can see the queen is…bored. Women in Sparta are to learn to be good mothers, good wives, marry, have children, care for the household. You can tell Queen Helen does not want that. She is tired of bearing children, especially after your brother, Pleisthenes.

You and all your brothers share the same amount of neglect. You all despise your mother. Menelaus sees nothing of the kind. He smiles down on the four of you, then up at the queen, who smiles in return, but even your youngest brother can sense the falseness of the gesture.

You are suspicious when he arrives.

Paris. Prince of Troy.

He is beautiful. You can see that, when he passes by the palace gardens. His golden hair shines in the light. His eyes are the color of a Spartan summer sky. His shoulders are broad and strong.

You stop playing with your brothers, slowly getting to your feet.

Pleisthenes tugs at your skirts. "Hermione, where are you going?"

You hand him his toy and absentmindedly push him towards your other brothers. "I will be back. Go play." His innocent child eyes stare up at you for a moment. Then he accepts you will not tell him the truth, and waddles off.

It is easy to sneak into Queen Helen's chambers. No one knows this, but there is a false wall behind a large pithos of grain in the kitchens. You slip through, replace the wall, and silently tread through the musty hallway, up the steps, and through the final trapdoor above your head.

Unsurprisingly, your head sticks out of the tiles under your mother's bed. You can hear voices in the next room. Queen Helen's maids and ladies-in-waiting, tittering about nonsense.

Paris had not arrived yet.

You wriggle out from under the bed. "Mother!" The voices stop.

"Hermione?" The queen's voice is, again, bored. Exasperated.

You run into the room just as the door opens. Instinctively you hide behind the queen's skirts.

For a moment, time seems to freeze. A voice giggles behind you. You whirl around to see a small boy crouched in the corner, an ivory-carved bow notched with a tiny golden arrow in his hands. He grins at you, raising one plump finger to his red lips.

Shh.

Eros.

He giggles once more, then raises the bow and aims directly for your mother's heart.

Queen Helen blinks at Prince Paris standing in the doorway. Her hands slowly set aside the sewing.

You tug on her skirts desperately. Her hands reach down and push you to the side, into the arms of her maid. "Go and play, Hermione. The prince wants to speak with your father."

The mechanical words frighten you. You tear yourself from the maid's hands, run, and wrap your arms tightly around Queen Helen's legs. Tears squeeze through your eyelids.

"Hermione, let go."

"Mamma, please don't leave." You emphasize the word you have never called her, in a weak attempt to break her from her trance.

And for a second you are hopeful. She freezes. Her eyes—your eyes—stare down at you. Emotions are fighting for control over her. You hope the love for you will win. Silently you beg the gods to keep her there, with you.

But the eyes darken as lust defeats the rest. Without another word she pries you from her legs, hands you off to the nearest noblewoman, and sweeps out the door on Prince Paris's arm.

Your heart breaks as the last lock of glossy black hair, the final glint of her golden crown, leaves the room, only her perfume lingering in the air behind her. A mere memory.

You begin to cry.

She does not return. You are the only one of your siblings that refuses to weep tears. You will not cry for her. Not anymore.

You are in the room when King Menelaus receives the news. The queen fled. With him. To Troy. She took Pleisthenes with her. The king is frozen for a single heartbeat.

Then he flies into a rage so horrible you are swept from the room by terrified ladies. You can hear him destroying everything in the room behind you.

She broke him too.

The next thing you know, you are set on an oxcart to Mycenae, to live with your aunt Clytemnestra while Menelaus sets off to regain Helen. Your emotions fight for dominance. You feel too many things at once-to a point where you feel as though you will explode.

You are sorrowful Helen left you in the first place. Yes, perhaps she did not truly love you. But she was your mother, was she not? Regardless of disputes, a mother must care for her daughter. Hera, queen among mothers, should have taught this to mortals, right?

You are furious that Helen dared to ruin you this way. She took everything away from you: your home in Sparta, your beloved father, a mother's presence. She abandoned her post as mother and, now, as the eldest child, it is your duty to take the queen's place. You sit, composed, as your brothers cry into your dress. You are their mother now. For eternity, perhaps more. You do not want to know.

You are regretful, too. Perhaps you were not good enough as a daughter, perhaps it is your fault Helen ran away. You should have been better.

You force yourself not to cry. Mothers do not cry, you scold yourself, hugging one of your brothers. You are their mother now, remember.

Mycenae is nothing of your expectations. Queen Clytemnestra looks nothing like Helen. Plainer, as the moon is plainer than the sun.

Her hair is wispy brown rather than silky black, twisted tightly into the style of a noble lady. Her eyes are brown as well, and shallow, unlike your mother's blue-green pools of water. Her skin is flawed, browned by the harsh sun, not creamy white. Her mouth is thin and grim. Yet, she reminds you of Helen.

Everything reminds you of Helen.

Your days in the palace of Agamemnon are sad, quiet, and lonely. Yes, you have your brothers, but they are far too young to be true companions. And true, you spend most of your time with them. But you are not a friend to them. You feed them, dress them, put them to sleep, settle their disputes. You like to think you are their mother, as you told yourself so many times. But in truth you are more alike their nurse. They are not your friends. No one is. And your cousins?

Your cousins are different.

Iphigenia is the only one of them who is kind, who dares to smile at you at all. Electra is cold and withdrawn. She wants nothing to do with the offspring of her mother's sister. Orestes does anything Electra commands, but he looks at you with longing, for he is your betrothed.

Even with them there, the hours are silent.

Rain clicks on the palace walls nearly every day, sounding as if it speaks to the world with its rhythmic patter. Soon the rain becomes your only confidant. Often, after your brothers are asleep, you climb to the roof of the palace, simply to listen. Often you find yourself in sync with the beat. Your needle, flashing in and out of the cloth in your lap. Your fingers, clicking nimbly on the tables. Your voice, humming along with the tapping.

To you, each drop has a word inside, ready to burst and tell you everything. You speak to the rain sometimes, and you like to think the rain talks back.

It rains the first time you notice it.

You are sitting at supper, with your brothers, your cousin, your aunt and uncle. Years of listening to your parents' corrupted relationship made this almost impossible to miss. Queen Clytemnestra smiles at King Agamemnon over the rim of her goblet, but her eyes are on another Mycenaean nobleman. Aegisthus, you remember. You recognize the cold tension between the king and queen. Her eyes are cold when she looks at him. His—just like Menelaus's—see nothing.

Afterwards, you try to talk to Iphigenia, as the eldest, about it, but when you cannot find her you turn to Electra. Her sneers, taunts, and curses stop your attempts to warn her against your own misfortunes and force you to the only being that will listen.

The rain.

When the three of them disappear, first Electra and Orestes, then Iphigenia, you do not miss them. They did not understand. But the rain did.

You are older now. You were nine years of age when your mother abandoned you. Now you are fourteen.

You are surprised when you hear you are not to be the bride of Orestes, but Neoptolemus. Still, you keep your mouth tightly closed. A lonely princess as yourself is meant to be seen, not heard. Still, the rain listens to your worries, and speaks words of comfort in its beautiful, otherworldly language.

You hear stories of the war in Troy. You swell with pride when they say your father fights for your mother. They say he will have her killed. Only a single feeling overcomes you at these words; you ignore it. You do not even tell the rain.

News arrives over a period of nearly ten years. Each piece is scattered, told in many different ways. You listen to all of them, staying quietly in the shadows. And slowly, you are able to piece them together.

Hector, the beloved prince of Troy, has slain Patroclus, Achilles's favorite cousin. Achilles, mighty, invulnerable Greek warrior, murdering Hector in revenge and desecrating his corpse. It is Paris's duty to destroy Achilles to avenge Hector. All expect him to. But Achilles challenges him first, before it could happen the opposite way. He raves and teases Paris to the point of rage. They say Paris's hand was guided by the god Apollo himself. The arrow embedded directly into Achilles's heel. His mortal point.

Paris and Troy rejoices, while Greece mourns the loss of the great hero.

Paris was so proud he challenged Menelaus to a final duel. Winner takes Helen. Your face darkens as you hear the name, whispered by the servants. Yet you are glad. Menelaus will surely prove to be the better soldier. He will slay Paris. And he will come home. You will go home. You wait anxiously for the next report.

When it comes, you are furious, but unsurprised. Aphrodite was still in Paris's debt. She had hidden him from Menelaus's eyes in a cloud of mist, taking him to safety. And the war ensues.

Philoctetes is the one to end it all. Armed with the arrows of Heracles himself, he marched onto the battlefield, fighting his way to Paris, in the heart of Troy. One nick from the arrows, dipped in toxic hydra blood, is enough to drain all life out of the cursed prince.

The war is over.

Your father can come home.

The rain comes down in torrents, as if reflecting your excitement.

But the Fates prove their hatred of you once more. As if they need more.

Your hopes are shattered when Neoptolemus bursts into the Mycenaean palace, tearing through, searching for you.

He declares you are his wife, swearing at the absent Orestes with blistering curses strong and evil enough to send anyone to Tartarus. He drags you to Epirus, kicking and fighting, where you are forced to marry and have children of your own.

You curse Helen for your fate.

The cruel, wicked woman.

You are miserable in Epirus. There is no rain. No confidant.

You find yourself missing Orestes, with his dark eyes, black hair, and bright teeth. Even when Electra disallowed him to speak to you, he smiled at you behind her back. He was always kind to you. Just like Iphigenia.

That brings you to another point of sorrow. Poor girl. Her father, Agamemnon, sacrificed her to Artemis long ago.

Your husband brings back from the war a concubine, Andromache, the former wife of Hector. You are furious. You seethe in silence for a long while, thinking perhaps you can soothe Neoptolemus's irritation if you bring him a son, despite your hatred of him. Finally, after months, you snap. The skies darken.

If he is married to you, he should keep faithful to you, you swear at him. He shouts back at you. You scream Andromache is casting spells on you, keeping you from conceiving his son. He defends her. He punishes you. The rain floods Epirus.

You ask your father to get rid of Andromache for you. But to your displeasure, he disagrees. This is the first time he has spoken a word against you. Ever. Suddenly you see your life in tatters, like a tapestry withering slowly away. Even the rain stops speaking to you.

You curse your mother. You curse the gods. You curse the Fates. Why do they hate you so? Why must they ruin your existence?

That is when your savior arrives. Orestes. You think you see a glimpse of Eros, crouching in a corner, so like that cursed day. But you forget everything as soon as you see Orestes. He sneaks into your chambers, embraces you, promising to take you away.

"For you were mine to begin with, and you always will be."

You heart soars as you and Orestes leave Epirus behind. Neoptolemus can have Andromache. You care no more. Orestes is your world now, your point of focus. He will be yours for eternity, and you will be his.

He loves you. You love him. You live happily in the once dark Mycenae, a family, with your lovely child, Tisamenus.

You are happy.

Finally, the gods's anger ceases. The rain returns, tapping happily on the marble of your palace, singing along with your heart with a grace that would make the Sirens jealous. It only asks one thing of you, once every time it appears. It beseeches you to release your hatred of her. To let her be.

You turn away from the patter for the first time, assuming the gods are using your beloved rain to gain forgiveness of you. They will not have it, you think firmly. If my loathing is keeping her from Elysium, from the Fields of Asophel, good. She could stay that way.

But the rain persists.

Weeks, months, years after, you decide to take the rain's advice: Perhaps you can forgive her.

For no matter how much you hate her, no matter how many tears spilled in her favor, no matter how painful it was when she ripped your life apart, you love her.

Your mother.

Helen.