Prologue

Blood. Most women smelled exotic spices and fragrances on their wedding day. Helen had no such luck. The ever present stench still haunted her even when she was by her 'beloved' new husband. Deiphobus stood beside her, erect with a giant smile on his face.

Helen found him disgusting. A man, so quick to take his brother's wife, when he was not yet cold in the grave was not a man at all. And he glanced at her with leering eyes that frightened now felt like chains upon her swan-like neck.

More than ever now, she cursed her beauty; it was now as disdainful as the war that carried on even now. She cursed the poisonous lips that sealed her fate. It was unlike her and Paris's wedding, joyous and a spiteful gesture to the Greeks. Now, there was silence and hateful glances toward her person. Priam did not look at her.

His eyes were shut as if he was blocking out the world around him. His beard was gray and the dreaded lines of age were vengefully upon his face. As the king of Troy he had seen so much of his family and people slaughtered that it had aged him drastically. Guilt stabbed her like the ridged blade of a dagger and she turned on her heel back to Deiphobus. He was suddenly a much more pleasant sight.

"Come, my bride," Deiphobus's voice was gruff with desire. Color drained from Helen's face. She followed him dutifully to his chambers wishing the sounds of war on the outside the city walls could drown her thoughts.

He undressed quickly and enthusiastically while Helen undid her garments slowly. Her eyes were not on him, but the floor below her. She damned Hades for not swallowing her up and whisking her away to the underworld.

"Look at me." He asked her.

She could not. His face screwed up in anger and he grabbed her by her chin roughly. His lustful gaze seared itself into her being.
"Even if you do not give yourself to me willingly, I will take what is rightfully mine."

She shivered with fear, but held eye contact defiantly.
"What is yours has already belonged to Paris," She whispered.

He roared with indignation and grabbed at her creamy, white neck, throwing her on the silk sheets. Everything about his body was hard unlike Paris, whose soft skin rivaled her own. As he spread her legs, she braced herself and let out a blood curdling scream as he finally entered her. With each thrust she was ripped at the seams. She cried into the mattress, her sobs muffled. No one came to her aid, no matter how loud she screamed. A pox on the city of Troy, she thought spitefully.

The city of Troy burned. Helen saw the dark, charred remains burning in the river Scamander, a dreary reflection of the once proud city. The boats of the victorious Greeks snaked across with many a soldier cheering. Helen could not find it in her to celebrate. She was empty inside, hollow. She could still see the cut up body of Deiphobus in her mind's eye.

She had no pity for him, but for Priam who had lost another son and his beloved city. Menelaus's arm was wrapped around her with a possessive grip. She accepted it without a murmur.

"By Zeus, that was a good ploy! I thought your sentiments were with Troy." He told her.

They had been but, she didn't dare voice this. Her sentiments of Troy died with Paris. When she had spotted the Trojan Horse she had thought of nothing but Deiphobus' destruction. Hiding his sword, and watching him be torn apart by Menelaus and Odysseus was the best revenge against him.

The days leading up to their return to Sparta were long and tortuous. No matter how she tried Helen could not keep her food down. Fear shrouded her like a veil. She was carrying Deiphobus's child. She heard the Fates laughing spitefully at her. Please Hera, do not make it so, her prayers fell on deaf ears.

Helen saw the creases in Menelaus's forehead and his suspicious glances. She bedded him the instant they set foot in their palace. His thrusts were wild and without any rhythms like a hounds. She quietly imagined Paris in his place and joined him in completion. The day after she smiled ruefully, if she could somehow make him think that it was his child she would be spared.

Lies. Just so many lies and half truths. Her daughter Hermione tended to her, her soft voice telling all that had happened in Sparta in her absence. Helen thanked her silently for her kind soul. No one else talked to her.

Not even Menelaus, whose nightly visits had stepped well into the pregnancy. Is this it for me? Am I to just be a trophy of war? The Gods did not answer her. So this is the punishment for my sins? She laughed darkly.

I do not repent being loved and returning that love. Many nights she remembered Paris and his soft looks and tender gestures. Their had been a pure love, tainted only by the bloody war in its wake. Her soul and heart ached for him. She began to weave again.

As a young girl, weaving had been something she avoid with all her being; now, it was her solstice in the world. Oh, how things change and the wheel of time turns. It was there, when the birthing pains first hit was whisked away to their bed chambers and the midwife was called in.

It was an easy birth as compare to Hermione's. The midwife stayed vigorously be her side and whispered soothing nothings in her ear. His feet came first, then his head. The woman held him up for her so see and Helen held back a scream.
Those eyes, those wide eyes belonged to Deiphobus. She knew that she could not keep him in fear of Menelaus.

"Woman listen to me carefully," The mid wife's smile fell. Helen was almost saddened to see it go. "Take him away. He is not safe here. Go now while Menelaus is on the other side of the palace and not yet alarmed of his son's birth."

The midwife clutched the child to her chest and nodded.

"D-do you have a name for him my lady?"

Names, Helen would have laughed had the situation not been so dire. This woman speaks of names. There can only be one for him.

"Abaddon." She whispered and the midwife widened her eyes.

"But-but my lady-!"

"Go! NOW!"

The woman quickly left, sprinting. Helen eased back onto her pillows with a ghost of a smile on her face. All through that the lad had been quiet, his eyes holding much strength. It reminded her so much of Paris. Fare thee well oh prince of Troy.
She awaited calmly for Menelaus's arrival.

She ran. Her breath came out in harsh gasps with each slap her sandals made on the stones. The baby in her arms did not make a sound, as if he knew the situation at hand. He really was a beautiful child, with his dark blond curls, rosy cheeks and mouth, and the expressive gray eyes of Deiphobus. She placed the sheet back over him as she approached the palace guards.
She could tell that they had been drinking ceremonial wine in celebration of the royal birth. The midwife couldn't imagine how they would take the coming news of Abaddon's still birth. They allowed her to pass and she walked on, pointedly ignoring their cat-calls and taunts. They were too intoxicated to follow-up their threats.

She still allowed herself to run although her heart no longer rapidly beat inside her chest. The worst was now over. She felt pity for the poor baby boy that she held in her arms. He was only just born and was tossed aside, like a rag. She slowed down as the nearest town, Pellana, appeared into view. The people on the street were sparse and consisted of men, traders and men of low social rank who scavenged the streets at night for a drink or loose women.

The humble abodes about her were small and white, made of stone and twigs. Doors were footed shut and the sounds of festivities were ebbing from inside. After the long war, the news of the approaching birth was welcomed into the hearts of the town's people. So many of their own sons had grown up, only to join the conflict and be slaughtered like pigs that they welcomed the new prince as a symbol of renewal and bloodless future to come.

The midwife's eyes were downcast, hardly able to stare at the houses and the light heartedness within. A few ships, rocking back and forth with the soft waves, were in the harbor, their goods tucked away into the helm for the morning's market. The sea itself was calm, almost deathly still. The midwife could see herself in the emerald tinted waters, her brown, mousy hair was wild and her cheeks flushed with exhaustion. Oh, she looked like a crazy fool!

Abaddon made a small noise and she unwrapped him once more. He was laughing and his small arms reached outward to her. He wanted to play. Tears blurred her vision and she briefly hugged the boy. I am sorry young one, she thought solemnly. There is not a safe place for you here on Earth.
Her heart clenched painfully and she lifted him up over her head. He was still laughing. Stop, she pleaded. Please, st-

"STOP!"

A loud, stern voice made her jolt and a burly hand reached out to grab the child. She made a noise of protest and clawed at her offender. He pushed her to the ground scowling. The loud sounds of Abaddon's cries filled the air. She glared at the man who stood stiffly over her; his eyes were filled with righteous judgement as if he was sent from the Gods themselves.

He was tall and broad shouldered. His skin was tanned alerting her of his merchant status. His beard was short and the color of the finest ebony. His body was hard and chiseled like he was made from the hands of an expert sculptor. His handsome face was scrunched up in distaste.

"Woman what is it that you named him?" He asked, his attention now focused on the baby. His face was now emotionless as he calmed the frightened child.

"His mother has named him Abaddon."

Anger flashed once more in his eyes.

"What mother would be cruel enough to name him such a thing?"

"Helen of Troy." That was all that needed to be said and he nodded as of confirming something.

"I shall take the child and will raise him as my own son. This I promise to the Gods."
The midwife thanked him profusely and he waved her away, distrust still within his eyes. He turned and began to leave.

"Wait," He stopped in his tracks. "What is your name sir?"

"I am Solon of Crete."