As soon as they arrived in Thessalonica, Irene concocted some sort of sleeping potion and fed it to Marcus. She gave them a sphere, almost identical to the ones Percy kept his memories in, and told them to get some rest.
Naturally, they tried to argue, but she was firm, and they supposed it was for the better. In the heat of the moment, who knows how brutally they would have mangled Marcus' body.
Instead, they decided to watch the memory inside the sphere.
"Thanas said it was disturbing," Xanthe warned. "It made him horrified and angry, enough to get him to actually react as if he was experiencing it in real life."
Leon took a deep breath. "We have to see it, though. She gave it to us for a reason. She wants us to understand why we're like this, why she's the way she is."
"But if Thanas found it disturbing—"
He grabbed her hand and squeezed it gently. "We may both be utterly horrified, but remember that it's only a memory. Watch it like you're analyzing a situation. Figure out how we can save Percy."
"I would kiss you if I wasn't so anxious," she muttered.
"Would it comfort you?"
She nodded.
Leon smiled and leaned down, pressing his lips to hers. "There. Remember that we're not there. We're just reliving her memory."
She nodded and squeezed his hand once more. She took the sphere with her free hand and cracked it open, placing it on the floor as it released the misty memory. It rose from the sphere slowly and steadily, filling the room.
The Mist looked like smoke, a dark cloud of gas surrounding them. Leon felt like he should have been suffocating, but it felt no different than breathing outside at the water's edge. The Mist formed itself into moving images around them, and they were thrust into the horrifying memory of Irene's past.
It was day time, and they were standing at the front steps of a magnificent palace. Its gates were golden, with beautiful marble pillars standing guard.
Xanthe gasped. She was looking out over the city, out into the distance where the shoreline glittered in the sunlight. Far in the distance, land jutted out into the sea, small enough to be visible from atop the hill of the palace, but large enough that it could probably hold the camp of an enormous army.
"This is Troy," Xanthe said.
A feeling of dread filled his chest as he turned back to the people standing in the courtyard.
There she was, young Irene, likely not older than ten, standing next to a young man and a middle-aged man as they bowed to the Trojan royals. Leon didn't recognize who was who, but he knew, somehow, that they were her brother and father, respectively. And the Trojan royals were lined up right across from them.
These were legends and stories to him and Xanthe. And Irene had been one of them.
"Welcome," the eldest Trojan royal said to the bowing Trio. "It must have been an arduous journey from Dardanus, dear Anchises."
"It was, King Priam," the middle-aged man chuckled. He gestured to his two companions. "My children do keep me in good company, though."
"Prince Aeneas," King Priam said, spreading his arms out for an embrace. His mouth was turned upward in a smile, but his eyes were full of hesitation and caution. "It is good to see you again after so many weeks."
Aeneas accepted the embrace, though he didn't look particularly happy about it. "As it is to see you again, King Priam."
Leon turned to look at Xanthe, who was staring at him, equally shocked. They knew Irene was a daughter of Aphrodite. But she and Percy had been relatively secret about her background. They never said anything about it, though it didn't really matter to the Trio. Percy and Irene were their mentors in the present, regardless of their past.
In spite of all that, they were here, watching a memory, discovering that Irene had been the daughter of Aphrodite. Of all children of Aphrodite, only one had ever made his or her mark on history: Aeneas. He was legendary to Romans. He was their founder and their prized ancestor. He embodied the last living spirit of the Trojan royal line.
From all the talks with Percy and dreams of his past, they knew that Aeneas' descendants had been killed, by Percy personally, centuries ago.
That meant Irene was the last living Trojan royal.
King Priam smiled and knelt down in front of Irene. "And you were but a baby when I last saw you, Irene."
Irene glanced up at Anchises, who nudged her to go on. She nodded and bowed again to Priam. "Although I can't remember the last time we met, it is an honor to see you again, King Priam."
"Perhaps this time you shall remember," King Priam chuckled. The tension and animosity that existed between the Trojan king and Aeneas didn't exist between the king and Irene. "Do you want to greet your cousins?"
They all went in a random order.
Hector was present, along with Andromache. There was Paris with no Helen in sight. There was Cassandra and Creusa, the to-be-wife of Aeneas. And Helenus was there too. It wasn't until Irene got to the end that the chill went up Leon's spine.
"I'm Deiphobus," the last man introduced. He gave her a long look, up and down. "It's a pleasure to meet you."
"I'm Irene," she introduced, smiling for courtesy's sake.
"You're already so beautiful for a young lady," Deiphobus remarked, a suggestive smile dancing across his lips. "Your mother must have blessed you. Surely, you will become an even prettier young woman. I'm certain of it."
"Stop trying to be so flattering," Hector sighed. "She's still a child. She won't understand."
I didn't understand, Irene's voice narrated. I wouldn't understand even after it all began. Not until a year after the torturous hell that I endured. And, even then, no one would stop it till the day Paris died.
The scene switched to night time inside the palace, and the true terror began.
It was too graphic to describe, too stunning to properly process, too angering to think about rationally.
To put the action in as few words as possible: it was rape.
And not just a single instance of rape. The memory wasn't just one memory, but a whole collection of memories. It went through years and years and years of sexual abuse. It happened frequently. It felt like it was a daily occurrence. Maybe it was. The sequences were moving too fast for him to count.
It continued to happen, right from when she had a child's body, through her growing phase. She knew it was bad at the age of eleven. By the time she was about thirteen, she began to truly understand the terror her life had become. And every time she called out for help, no one was there to help her. Not even her brother, who simply turned away and said, "Wait, we'll get revenge in the future."
Not only was she enduring some of the cruelest and most savage abuse Leon had ever seen, but war raged on outside the city's walls. The Trojan War had come. And, despite that fact, Deiphobus kept coming and coming and coming and coming.
Xanthe was in hysteric tears, holding her hands over her mouth and sobbing. His pep talk before they started watching wasn't enough for him to keep holding her hand. He felt like a tree, rooted to the spot and as still as could be.
Irene, as a child, began to learn about to fight back, taking secret lessons from Hector on how to fight. But that only made Deiphobus crueler and rougher.
Irene probably should have died from a plethora of diseases and infections from all the damage she took from Deiphobus. But she continued to live, as though the gods wanted to prolong her suffering.
By the time she was fifteen, the sixth year of the war, she'd given up. Servants and maids and attendants kept an eye on her, preventing her from killing herself, and carefully monitoring her when she practiced her weapons skills. Even after six years, no one batted an eye when she tried to tell them what was happening.
Even graceful Hector, who seemed to feel sorry for her, said he couldn't interfere. He had a war to fight.
Aeneas continued to make excuses, saying that it was natural for men to do such things, that he needed the Trojans' attention on the war so that he could ultimately win and take the throne.
Irene began to hate the world. Leon could feel it.
She hated her brother for what he was letting happen to her. She hated the Trojans for turning their backs on her when she was suffering so much. She hated the Greeks for fighting this stupid war and distracting everyone from what was happening to her.
Then, Paris died, and Deiphobus married Helen.
The abuse ceased immediately, but the damage had been done.
It was all supposed to end that night, the night that Troy fell.
"What's going on?" Irene asked her attendant, hearing the screams from outside.
The woman was freaking out. "The Greeks are here! They were hiding in the horse! By the gods, we need to escape!"
"What?"
"They're going to kill us all!" the attendant cried. She was collecting her things. "We have to escape! Now!"
"Through the back?" Irene asked.
The attendant nodded. "Aeneas is leading a group. They're meeting up at the gate."
"Aeneas?" Irene's voice turned cold. There was a dark glint in her eyes. "Is Creusa with him?"
"Of... of course..."
An idea seemed to form in Irene's mind, and Leon didn't like the look she was giving the attendant. Irene turned on her heel, walking toward the bed. She went over to the cupboard and produced a sword.
"Irene, what are you doing?" the attendant asked in surprise. "We can't afford to fight. We have to leave, or we'll die!"
"Ah, survival instincts..." Irene stalked over toward her, clutching the hilt of the sword tightly. She looked as deadly as she did beautiful. "It's natural, isn't it? To want to survive? Unless you're broken and beaten to the point where you feel you and your life is worse than death. Except... people are told to suck it up and live, even when life is a depressing shithole. They're told to suck it up and live, enduring and remembering the unspeakable things that were done to them."
The attendant's eyes glimmered with worry. "Listen, Irene... I was following orders. Deiphobus... he would've killed me if I didn't obey him."
"And now you've become my attendant, now that Deiphobus left me, ordered by King Priam himself," Irene said with a cold sneer. "I am the princess of Dardanus, sister of Aeneas, and a royal heir to the lineage of Tros!"
The attendant realized what was going to happen and immediately turned.
But the chubby woman was no match for someone who had been trained by the best warrior in all of the Troad. She was no match for someone who had nothing left to lose, who was ready to give her life for revenge.
Irene cut her down, stabbing her twice in the chest to make sure the job was finished.
"Now... time for the rest of them..."
She walked through the palace, cutting down each and every servant she could find. She didn't discriminate between Trojan civilian, Trojan soldier or Greek soldier. She didn't discriminate between man, woman, boy or girl. It didn't matter if they looked upper-class, or were lower-class citizens, she killed anyone in her sight.
"Back gate?" Irene muttered, seemingly looking for her brother.
Seeing the fall of Troy visually was almost as terrifying as watching the abuse Irene had suffered. Soldiers were raping, pillaging and looting. Several were even cannibalizing others, almost as some sign of victory.
As Irene navigated through the city, eventually she found her target.
Aeneas was leading a small group, which included Andromache, Hector's wife, toward the rear of the city, away from all the fighting. Irene rushed forward, ducking through buildings as she tried to cut down the angles and reach the group.
No, she wasn't trying to reach the group. She was trying to pass them.
Irene slipped into an alley and drew a cut on her left arm, giving herself a nasty-looking injury.
As the group passed, she stumbled forward, leaning on her sword.
"Creusa!" Irene called out. "Brother!"
Both Creusa and Aeneas turned, seeing her, eyes widening in shock.
Irene collapsed to the ground. If it wasn't for the fact that he could see Irene's hidden face, he might've believed that she was actually injured. But all she was doing was putting on a really, really good act.
"Irene!" Aeneas glanced at the group and gritted his teeth. "Help her, Creusa. I'll get the others closer to the exit. I'll come back for you two when I'm done."
Creusa nodded and dropped to a knee to help her.
"Irene, can you stand up?"
Irene took a shaky breath. She put her hand on the wound, pressing it hard. It hurt more than she'd expected. When she drew her trembling hand away, it was stained red with fresh blood. Not that it mattered. Her clothes were splattered with the blood of dead Trojans and Greeks.
Creusa grabbed a cloth from her sack and wrapped it tightly around Irene's arm. "Here, this should stop the wound from getting worse."
"I..."
"If it's too painful, you don't have to say anything," her sister-in-law told her. "You'll need the energy for the escape."
There was a roar from somewhere back in the chaos. The air around them suddenly turned frigid. The winds began to pick up, like a swirling storm was forming. They couldn't hear it through their ears, but Leon's mind was processing some sort of scream, like the cry of an agonized warrior. It must have been Percy.
"The son of Poseidon..." Creusa whispered, looking over her shoulder in fear. "The only one strong enough to defeat Achilles."
Irene suddenly jabbed her sword into the ground and tried to use it to balance as she pulled herself up to her feet. Creusa snapped to attention, giving her all the extra support she needed.
Looking at Creusa, she didn't strike Leon as particularly evil or conniving. She was just a woman who wanted to help her sister-in-law. Even though Leon knew where this vision was headed, he couldn't help but think that Creusa didn't deserve such a cruel fate.
Creusa gave Irene a weak smile. "Use my shoulder as a crutch. We can use the sword for protection just in case—"
Without warning, Irene drove the sword into Creusa's chest. Her sister-in-law and cousin gasped in shock.
"Doesn't feel so good to be a tool, does it?" Irene snarled, twisting the blade and slamming Creusa into the wall. She hadn't even been listening to Creusa's words, too caught up in her fury. "It's too bad you had to be Aeneas' wife. You wouldn't have suffered such a fate if you had been lucky."
"I'm... sorry..." Creusa croaked.
Then she went limp, and Irene yanked the sword away. She let go, watching as Creusa's body hit the stone pavement.
She walked down the alleyway and turned back one last time.
Aeneas burst around the corner, clearly expecting Creusa to be tending to Irene's wound. When he saw his wife lying motionless on the ground with a bloody wound in her chest, he dropped to his knees instantly. His eyes trailed up toward Irene, who was staring at him coldly.
"You..." Aeneas looked mystified, as if he couldn't believe it.
"As of this moment, you are no longer a Trojan prince," Irene told him. "You are no longer a Dardanid prince. Escape and survive. But live knowing that you abandoned your home and your city. Live knowing that you abandoned your family so you can watch the sun rise another day. I wish nothing but eternal pain and suffering for you and your soul. Just like what I had to endure for the past decade."
"Irene!" he screamed, his voice full of pain and sorrow from the grief of losing his wife and the betrayal he felt from his sister's actions. "You wench!"
"If I survive all this," she said icily, "I will make sure your descendants never stop suffering. They will all suffer a cruel fate, just like their ancestral aunt. Just like Creusa. And I will be there when you die to make sure your body never receives the respect it doesn't deserve."
She turned and walked away. The Mist dissipated.
The vision was over.