Page 88 of Where Darkness Bloomed
The girl blinked, startled. “By whom, lady?”
“Theseus,” Helen answered. “Son of Poseidon, hero of Athens.” Her eyes darkened as the memory rose. “I was a girl of only fifteen summers.”
Even then, the stories had followed her. Tales that named her a daughter of Zeus. Whispers that Aphrodite had blessed her at birth. Proof that not all legends were lies. Hers had been fashioned from cruel, simple truth.
Her mother, Leda, had been bathing when the swan approached, majestic and unafraid. As it drew near, its form shifted, feathers smoothing into flesh, burning with divinity.
Zeus, radiant and ruinous.
From that strange and brutal union, Helen had been born.
“At my birth, Aphrodite gifted me with beauty. Though it became a curse.” The words tumbled out listlessly. “A daughter like me is a valuable prize.” Another truth, heavy and bitter. “King Tyndareus, my mother’s husband, spread tales of my beauty across the lands, luring suitors in droves to Sparta. He held tournaments for my hand, and Sparta flourished greatly.”
Her gaze drifted, past the palace walls, past the olive trees and hedgerows, into the shadows of memory.
“Then Theseus came,” she said, softer. “The hero of the labyrinth. The Minotaur’s slayer. But he had no patience for games or court rules. That night, he scaled the palace walls and took me from my bedchamber.”
She could still him clearly. Her young heart had quickened at the sight—his dark hair, sharp eyes, already the swagger of legend in his bearing. The Minotaur’s horn had swung from his belt, grim and triumphant.
But not all monsters bore claws and ate flesh. Some harbored their monstrosity within, beneath smiles and charm.
So it had been with Theseus. Her first lesson in the treachery of men.
“We rode through the night to Attica, stopping only once. A cave, just beyond the Spartan border. There, he robbed me of my innocence.” Her voice was flat, but the memory was etched into her bones. “I was left with his mother as he sailed away to chase another glory.”
The servant girl stared at her, stricken. But Helen didn’t notice. The words were pouring out, unspooling from deep within, like water spilling from a cracked vessel.
“In time, I was returned to Sparta. While I was gone, Menelaus won the contest for my hand, and we were wed the day I returned. He was so drunk, he never noticed. The blood on the sheets came from a prick to my heel.”
It had been a ruthless beginning to a marriage that had remained brutal.
Silence fell, heavy and complete.
Helen looked up, meeting the girl’s tear-bright eyes. “They will try to kill me,” she agreed softly. “But now you understand—Helen of Sparta died long ago.”
The girl’s face crumpled, and she sank to her knees. Grasping Helen’s hand, she pressed it to her forehead. “Do not go to them. I beg you, my lady.”
Helen’s fingers brushed the girl’s hair gently, a blessing or a farewell. “I cannot stay here. Not while so many die. There is none other to help, and I must try.”
The girl’s face turned up, her voice shaking. “What of the great warrior? The one in bronze.”
For a heartbeat, the night fell still.
“Achilles.” The name snagged in Helen’s throat, tasting of fire and iron.
“He hates the Greek king,” the girl whispered. “It is known. They say he fights only because Hector killed his beloved.”
Achilles, the firestorm. The fury no man could match, and none could survive.
Helen shook her head. “No one is safe from his wrath.”
“You are.”
The words struck her like a stone.
The girl leaned forward, voice hushed. “He watches you. Every day. There is no hatred in his eyes—I’ve seen it. He would not harm you.”
Helen said nothing. The silence between them deepened, filled with the weight of a truth she could barely force herself to admit.
