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The following nine months were the happiest of my time with Menelaus. He was pleased that I was carrying his heir, so he left me alone and contented himself with others. My stomach swelled and my back ached, but nothing could take away the joy I felt. I knew at that moment that my life would get better, for Clytemnestra had promised that children make living worthwhile.

I was smiling more often, and singing to myself when I thought no one could hear. Polydora came in one time to hear me seeing a lullaby, and she smiled.

"I have been in your service for my whole life," she began. "And this is the first time I've ever seen you smile."

I looked down at my bulging stomach and sighed softly. "This baby will love me," I said simply. "It will love me for who I am, not for what I look like, and I'll give it my heart in return."

"You've already given it your heart," Polydora answered softly, leaving me alone in my thoughts.

"I suppose I have," I said to no one, and continued my lullaby.

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The labor was difficult, though it never robbed me of my joy. I spent a long, sleepless night in pain, but it was only when the midwife shook her head that I began to get worried. But she patted my hand and went to get a few more rags.

A few hours later, she told me I was ready to deliver. In all my life I've never experienced such agonizing pain, and yet it didn't really hurt. There is pain that can be felt by the mind and pain that can be felt by the heart. This pain was only physical, and it was vastly overcome by my heart's joy, knowing that in awhile I'd hear the screaming cry of my baby.

I pushed and strained for hours, each time collapsing from weariness. I'd never been so tired in my life, as though I'd never be able to move again. Sweat rolled off me in buckets and I could see the midwife calling for more rags. Each time they brought new ones, old ones were taken away, covered in blood.

"What's wrong?" I managed to gasp out.

The midwife shook her head. "Everything's fine, my queen. You must keep trying."

I knew she was lying and I would have struck her, had I the energy. As it was, I collapsed on the pillow, biting my lip against the pain. I struggled all through the day and for most of the night, but with no results. Finally, in the early hours of the morning, after a particularly strenuous struggle, the midwife cried out, "I can see his head! Try, my queen, try! It won't be long now."

This gave me the encouragement I needed. I threw my entire body into the effort as though my life depended on it. I was nearly unconscious from the pain and the weariness, but I struggled on. Finally, I felt my body relax as the baby slid from me. I gasped, relieved that it was over, but I quickly felt panic surge through me.

No cry had greeted my ears; instead there was only frantic activity. "Elevate her legs," I heard the midwife say, and I felt my lower half being risen from the bed. "We must stop the bleeding."

"Am I dying?" I asked softly, my head reeling from dizziness.

"Bring me more rags!" were the only words that spoke.

It was nearly a quarter of an hour later before the midwife finally relaxed. "She's out of danger."

The dizziness had passed and I was able to gather my thoughts. "Where is my baby?" I demanded.

No one spoke.

"Answer me now or I'll have each an every one of you stripped and beaten until death," I threatened, an edge of panic in my voice.

"My queen-" began an assistant.

"Give my baby to me now." My voice held a dangerous edge to it and no one dared to disobey.

A maidservant walked over, holding a bundle wrapped in clean rags. There was no sound coming from the burden in her arms, nor was there movement. She handed the bundle to me and I took it from her, cradling the child against my chest and reaching to uncover its face with my free hand.

The face was pale, with none of the usual rosy color of a newborn's face. "No," I whispered, tears trickling down my cheeks.

"I'm sorry, my queen, your daughter was stillborn," the maid said quietly, backing away to give me a moment. She herded the other women out and quietly shut the door behind them, leaving me alone in my grief.

"Oh gods, no," I moaned, clutching the baby against my chest. My heart was broken and there was no stopping the torrent of tears that flooded down my cheeks. I hated myself for not delivering a healthy child, but most of all I hated myself for allowing my heart to hope. I had buried my heart behind a wall, never allowing it to feel or hope, until now. This is how I managed to keep it from pain, until I'd foolishly thrown caution to the wind and opened the doors to love. And now, it was broken, all because I'd hoped for something that I had known I'd never have. My life had been without love, what had made me think I'd find it now? The gods cursed me, and I had dared to hold out hope against them.

"Oh, my sweet, precious child," I murmured, tenderly touching her cheek. It was so soft, and yet so cold. She was beautiful, even in death. Her tiny, perfect hands were clutched into fists. Her head was bare, save for a few tuffs of pale, yellow hair, and her face looked so peaceful. "You are so beautiful," I whispered, my tears dripping off my face and onto the rags that covered her. "So much more than I ever was."

She'd been gifted with my ethereal beauty, but hers was untarnished and pure, everything the mirror told me I was. But I wasn't looking at a figure in the mirror. She held that mysterious glow, the one that showed she was as beautiful inside as she was outside. Her face showed that peace that I longed for.

"My angel, you are perfect," I tenderly told her, my heart longing to be able to look into her eyes. "And I have loved you your whole, short life."

She did not answer, as I knew she wouldn't. Her mouth did not smile nor did her eyes open to gaze at me in innocent love. Her hands did not grab at my robe, or her lips open to be fed. She was still and quiet, and I wanted to die.

That was my penalty, for allowing hope to creep back into my heart. For a few, short months, I had allowed myself to love and be happy, hoping that I'd finally be given what others take for granted. That's the penalty for loving, because if you don't then you don't feel, and so are not susceptible to hurt or pain.

I cast one last, loving glance at her face, kissed the lips that would never open in a smile, and retreated behind my walls. They surrounded my heart, high and impenetrable, opening only when I allowed them. And I would never allow them to again, the possibility- no, the assuredness- of hurt was too great.

I felt no emotion when my handmaidens came to take my child away, nor when my husband visited me in my room. "They tell me you were almost taken by death," he began gruffly. Oh, how I longed to die. I wanted to tell him that the gods would never allow death to take me; that would be too kind of them. It would grant me too much happiness. But I didn't speak, nor did I give any appearance of having heard him. "Don't worry, Helen, you'll bear other children. And they tell me that this one was a girl, so it is best to have lost this one than a son, eh?" He patted my hand and left.

His words should have infuriated me, but I felt no emotion. He tried in his rough, cruel way to comfort me, but there was no need. I did not need comfort, for I did not feel.

I had made a mistake in allowing my heart to feel, and I vowed never to do so again.