The palace in Sparta
The feast on the eve of travel...

The nighttime seemed to glisten. Vibrant reds and royal purples toyed with one's vision as they swooped in and out of one's senses. Courtiers swathed in elegant white meshed with painted nobles in crimson sashes, and the scene was one of ornate pageantry. The plumage of the peacocks dripped with jewels as they strutted in their colors. All of the city's finest had taken refuge between the draped walls and upon the perfumed rushes. All of the city's finest wanted to be present to bid Troy's fair princes adieu. But inside the rooms, the air was hot and thick with dust. Cloying scents clung to ladies' swathing, of spicy cinnamon and waxy vanilla, of pungent lavender and dewy roses, and the air was congested with the battling aromas. Hewn wooden tables bore the delegation and the burly soldiers, adding to the crowded stench, and the sharp aroma of seasoned meat pervaded when the food was placed down. And at the head of the table, Menelaus reigned, as boorish and unrefined as the masses supping at his feet. Paris was lost in a dream, however, that caused these realizations to dissipate. Clothed in finery and coiffed with the fine oils and waxes of the other wealthy, he was nonetheless apart from them. They both were. His dark gaze, unending and solemn, remained transfixed on hers. His breathing slowed to match hers. And though she tried to look away, she could not. Even now, beside the husband she had wedded, she could not resist him.

Helen sat at Menelaus's side, gracefully folded into an ornate seat as remarkable as her consort's. Strings of gold hammered as thin as wire had been wrought into a wreath for her head, and she had woven it between ocher locks as to giver her curls a brighter display. Fresh lilies, drooping in the heat, had been threaded in beside the gold. Metal and life, together as one. Iron will and the softness of petals, together as one. Pale eyes, as pale as his were dark, were riveted on his. They seemed sapped of color tonight, bleached and serene in mourning, and his face softened in sympathy. She was regal still. She was coiffed in jewelry and the finest silk wrappings, and she shimmered in her white cloth. Pale skin blended with the fabric and receded, and all of Helen that was left was the burnished sunlight of her hair and the tender blueness of her gaze. She had never seemed more isolated and apart. She had never seemed more queenly. Stirred despite himself, he blinked slowly and lifted his flagon to her in worship. She shifted, and she turned slow, impassive eyes on the goblet he had lifted. She gave a resigned nod to his toast, and that was it. Amid the chaos of the feast, he had said farewell, and she had nodded her acceptance. She would let him go.
Paris downed the liquid in his cup without tasting the richness of the wine. The queen's piercing vision had moved away from his burning eyes, and Troy's prince was left to feast on her majesty without her gaze condemning the action. He remained there, thus, sprawled backwards in his seat as he watched her. His finger stilled in their bored movements, and his body slump in the seat. And though the food on his plate grew cold, sticky in its own congealed juices and gravy, his appetite was finally sated.

There was much he noticed in his examination. As he watched her in her chair, he noted her posture and the rigid way she sat. Her back was arched, like a feline warning a predator of danger, and her eyes glinted in the evening light with loathing. The blueness of her eyes had not simply faded from sadness, he realized then with a start. It had been leeched by her disgust of the man sitting next to her. Speckled with boar chunks from his plate, Menelaus dripped grease and grime. Serving girls, scantily clad and whirling by in tune to the beat of the music, allured his rough gaze more frequently than the beauty of his wife. She was untouchable and sublime. She was unnoticed. Paris, if no other, saw her shrink backwards in her chair when her consort fingered a ruby-cheeked beauty, Polydora, and Paris seethed with disgust. When Menelaus heaved to his feet, cumbersome and swaying, to address the assembled guests, he did not listen.

"More wine," Paris ordered aloud in a silky voice as he stroked the stem of his goblet. The same beaming serving girl that the king had fondled sent him a commiserating glance as she swung by to receive his request and to dangle enticing fingers on his shoulder as she served him, but he paid her no attention. A burly hand had clasped his shoulder and now commanded his mind. He looked up in surprise to see who intruded on his solitude, but no visitor was more welcome than the one who stood before him.
"Hector," he realized with relief, and he stood to clasp his brother's hand.
"Enjoying your evening, Paris? Tomorrow we start for home." Theslowing of Hector's drawl proved his thoughts had strayed to Andromache, and Paris smiled despite himself. "By Apollo's will, tomorrow we start for home. Think of it, brother. Home. Fairer weather, fairer women... I am away often, but I never cease longing for it." Hector had resumed his seat beside the younger prince, and it was with grim eyes that he nursed his own mug of wine. The relief in his tone was colorful, and Paris responded without thinking, even as he allowed his gaze to drift back to Helen.
"Fairer women? Nay, you aremistaken. I know of a woman here to outshadow your Trojan maidens." Paris's faint murmur escaped despite himself, but it hung between them as transparent as gauze, as thick as iron. Long moments passed, and Hector's mouth thinned.
"Tell me about this nymph, then,brother. Who is the maiden to capture your heart so?" Hector's words were hard with suspicions despite his easy posture.
"Who is she, youask?"Paris was silent as he mused over the comment. "She is a fisherman's wife, brother. A lovely creature, but she is none of your concern," Paris spoke slowly, but neither listened. Hector was watching his younger brother, and he was watching the direction of his gaze.
"I hope, Paris, that the fisherman does not catch you."
The words were spoken heavily and with regret, and it was an apologetic hand that he placed on Paris' shoulder.
His brother's bitter retort would forever mystify him. With glittering eyes and an acidic tongue, Paris pronounced verdict.
"Never fear, Hector. He is too occupied withhis fishes to care."
When Hector was called away, Paris did not turn around.

Over the gilded rim of his cup, he watched her. Over the gilded edge of his cup, he dared her to have the courage to look at him back. Yes, she would let him go. But it was he, with the eyes of the ignited brimstone, that would not relinquish her.
Look at me, Queen of Sparta.
She bent forward, chin inclined upwards in response to a comment, to attend to her food. Her lashes swooped downwards in a blink and clung, feverishly holding to her cheeks as she closed her eyes.
Look at me, flower of Sparta.
She had turned, now, to answer Menelaus. A lily drooped from her wreath and had become entangled in her curls, where it hung, lifeless and prostrate.
Look at me, Princess of Troy.
Her eyes rose, unsure and wavering, to answer his. Chastened, frightened, she tried to tear her gaze away from his hot challenge. She could not. And, slowly, he saw her eyes melt into their tender vibrancy, and he saw an answering smile appear in their depths. The deadened lily was dropped to the floor as she stood majestically, offering her apologies to Menelaus, to retire upstairs. The lily was crushed under his boot when he, moments later, followed her flight.


Helen was sitting on her bed when he approached. Upright, closed to his touch, she had bent her face forward so as to be protected against the fire of his glance. Her slender knees were folded and bent as if for protection, and her solemn face was buried into her knees. Weathered hands, long and slender, clasped her legs as she waited for him upon their bed. White skin glimmered in the darkness, and the fallen lilies fell all around her in a shower of petals. They clung to her face and to her hair; they clung to her bare, thin shoulders and to the silk of her dress. Tenderly, he stood still in the doorway and watched her. Tenderly, he approached, and his steps were cautious. Falling to his knees, he plucked one flower from the array, already knocked loose from her wreath, and spun it between his fingers.
"My ships are readied to travel on the morrow." Paris's voice was dry and raw as he spoke into the stillness. The heat in his eyes was faltering now, unsure and helpless, and the quiet beauty of her features had tempered his wrath. Through it all, he watched her. His heart paused, his breathing stilled, and his eyes waited, unblinking, for a sign that she would speak to him. When she finally looked up, relinquishing her stunning face from the fragile prison of her clasped arms, his world returned to him. Gently, he moved closer on his knees to press his face into her lap, and she began to stroke his hair.
"You should not be here, Prince of Troy." Her murmur was regretful, but she bent one hand, white and tranquil, to stroke the head he had placed in her lap. The golden coronet she had worn was lopsided now, skewed, and the golden links of the chain fell through her hair like burnished rainfall. Unbidden, his own hands reached upwards to fix it, and she closed her eyes against the power of his touch.
"No, Helen," he gently withdrew her hand from his hair and held it between two of his, warming it against the chill. "I should be here. I deserve to be here. Will you let me stay? Helen," his voice urged her from the recesses of a dream. "Helen, open your eyes."
"I come here tonight, Helen, not as a Prince of Troy. I come here tonight as a lover, a humble lover who found you too late and begs to be forgiven for that travesty of timing." His voice was earnest and rich in its earnestness, but he spoke in the fluted tone of a whisper, meek and apologetic. She turned, finally, to meet his gaze. "We are meant to be together. I tried, tonight, to be without you. I watched you beside him, and I wondered if I could relinquish you to his soul for eternity."
"Do not ask me to endure such pain again. Come with me tomorrow. Come with me to Troy."

She turned ageless eyes upon him. She watched him quietly for a moment, evaluating his comment, before she leaned forward to murmur a response. Hesitant fingers moved forth and pulled the lily he held from his hands. Inspecting it for a moment, she twirled it between her finger and thumb carefully. When she moved forward to press her kiss to his sculpted forehead, she crushed the lily in the palm of her hand, and the perfume drifted upwards to bathe them both in its scent.
"Do you know what you are asking, Paris? You are asking me to leave my children. You are asking me to spike Menelaus's hatred and to leave the only life I know." Her tone was slow and unsure, and he raised one bold hand to cup her whitened cheek.
"Yes." He could barely utter the response.
Her exquisite features tightened as she held his gaze with somber eyes.
"You are asking me to leave my kingdom and my childhood. You are asking me to make a new life with you."
"Again, Helen, yes."
"Oh, Paris…What of when this game ends?" her eyes were luminous in the darkness. "You will move on to another, and I will be a queen without a kingdom, turned harlot in the bed you foresake nightly," the poison she had carried close to her heart spilled out in words, and she turned her head so that she might not see the truth in his eyes. "I know of you, Paris. I understand you. Do not do something you will regret, Trojan prince." The hand she placed on his arm was cautionary, but he twisted away from its weight. His eyes were hot with anger, but he spoke to her in a voice that was gentle and pleading. Defiantly, he captured the hand she had pulled away and held it between two of his, where he treasured it against his chest.
"When I was younger, I ventured out onto the beach one morn. Nay, listen to me, Helen." His voice was rough as he spoke, and though he played with her fingers when he uttered his words, his eyes had traversed into a memory she did not recognize.
"Please listen. It was a choppy day, vengeful and chill with wind. Poseidon was seeking his revenge for something, and I was cautioned to stay inside. But I had seen Hector go out, and I wanted to make sure he was safe. When I reached the shore, I saw that he had somebody with him, and I was stunned. I wanted to call out, but I was too surprised. She wore no cloak, and he was bracing them against the wind to offer shelter.The foam of the surf touched their feet and doused their legs, but they seemed not to care. He was in his own world with her. She created a dream for him, and there was utter peace in his eyes when he saw her."
"He married her, Helen. Andromache becamemy sister, and she birthed my nephew, Astyanax. I asked him, later, about how he chose her. He simply gazed into the distance, and his smile was not meant for me. He said I would simply know. That, in some way, it would be like coming home."
"You need to trust me now, " his hand moved up her arm, smooth and reassuring, before it traced circles on her shoulder. "Trust that I love you as you love me. Trust me when I say that this room has been more my home than Troy, and that I cannot leave you behind."
"What say you, Helen? Will you come?"

Her voice was small when she answered, but it was clear.
"Yes."