Page 171 of Where Darkness Bloomed
A week later, Helen reached Sparta.
Menelaus’s absence did nothing to quell the storm that awaited her. The moment her feet touched Spartan soil, rage spilled forth in a torrent.
Guards strained to hold back the seething crowds, their spears crossing in a wall as Helen was forced toward the palace steps.
“Keep her moving,” one of the commanders barked, his hard gaze sweeping the mob.
Women screamed her name, grief-shattered voices raw with anguish for the husbands, fathers, and sons who lay buried in Troy.
“Whore of Troy!”
“Harlot! Where is my son?”
“Slit her throat and be done with it!”
It rose, building into a malevolent maelstrom—screamed curses, spit, stones. An amphora was lobbed. It shattered at Helen’s feet, wine spraying like blood.
The title of queen meant nothing here. She was just a woman, a symbol they hated. One they wanted dead.
But the men... they were worse.
Hordes of them gathered, eyes glinting cruelly. Lewd jeers pierced the air, obscene taunts that curdled her blood. Their voices tangled in a chorus of rage and lust. They grabbed at her hair, her chiton as the guards circled her, shoving the crowd back.
Shock shattered through her when one man locked eyes with her, stroking himself openly.
“You pleased Paris of Troy well enough. Why not me?” he leered, offering his manhood shamelessly to her gaze.
The crowd roared—part fury, part frenzy. But when several men began to scramble up the palace gates, the guards’ swords were unsheathed. Screams tore the air as bronze bit into flesh. Blood spattered the stones, thick and crimson, as the palace door slammed behind Helen.
She stumbled over the threshold of her bedchamber, the door crashing shut behind her. The bolt dropped into place with a final, punishing thud.
She stood there, alone.
Years gone, thousands dead. And she was a prisoner once more—locked within the same walls as before.
Her body folded, sinking to the cold floor. Her breath rose and fell, shallow and distant, as if it belonged to someone else. The chill of the stone seeped into her bones as she lay still—lifeless in all but name.
A corpse cursed with beauty. Beauty that had summoned armies, toppled kingdoms, and turned man against man. Beauty that would destroy until the day she was burned on a pyre. A day she would welcome.
A cold tear slid down her cheek, tracing the hollow curve of her face.
Then the stone beneath her trembled.
The air grew still, silent as the hush of morning. Another shiver rippled through the floor—low and deep, like the stirring of roots beneath the earth.
Without warning, the ground gave way.
Not with a scream, but with a sigh. The world fell inward in a breath of air and shadow, and Helen slipped from it. She felt herself falling, but gently, drifting downward like a petal loosed from its stem.
No terror gripped her. The dark that enfolded her was not cruel or harsh. It was soft and soothing, almost familiar. Like the warmth that follows weeping, the steadying hands of a friend. It wrapped around her, not to take but to carry.
In the dark, she crossed a threshold, one far beyond grief and fear. Beyond the world that had used and possessed her. Time lost its meaning, stretching threadbare. Whether a heartbeat or an eternity passed, she had no idea. Until—
Light.
It bloomed slowly, like night pierced by the first pale star. Cool stone met her feet, and she lifted her eyes.
She stood on the slope of a vast, rugged mountain, where a grove of laurels rooted quietly along the edge of the stone riverside. An endless land of wild mountains and sweeping green valleys sprawled to the horizon.Beside her, a thunderous river tore past, its current crashing against jagged rocks, mist rising in soft, spectral veils.
