Chapter 10: Sold To Whom?(3)

The morning had arrived.

Helenos was lying in his bed while staring at the canopy. He did not sleep.

His body was fine. His mind was not. It was full of guilt, shame, and terror.

Leda’s whisper—"I am done with you"—was ringing in his ear. He had not only failed to save himself; he had broken his mother’s will.

He rolled onto his side, his hands clenching the soft, useless silk of the sheets.

The guilt was a suffocating physical weight, a far greater than the physical strain of Lysandra’s drills.

The loss of Lysandra had hit him hard. He realized now that he had run to her not for information, nor even for just a hug, but for the stability of her presence.

Now that the stability of Lysandra was gone, and was replaced by the uncertain, hostile territory of his own fear.

Helenos was alone.

Around mid-morning, three silent, highly trained servants entered his chamber.

No one spoke a word to him.

They bathed him, scented him with expensive, mild oils, and dressed him in layers of silk and soft wool dyed the deepest crimson—the color of royalty and, Helenos noted grimly, the color of blood.

His mother did not come. Clytemnestra did not come. He was stripped of all familial contact, left in a state of suspended isolation until the moment of his delivery.

***

The official welcome was held in the throne room, but the private meeting took place immediately afterward in Leda’s seldom-used conservatory—a brightly lit, humid room filled with exotic plants.

Helenos walked in, feeling like a specimen under glass. Leda sat stiffly on a gilded chair, her eyes red, her posture rigid, looking exhausted and defeated.

Clytemnestra stood behind her, a perfectly still shadow of disdain.

Then Helenos saw her.

The Spartan Queen was not the hulking brute Helenos had prepared himself to face.

She was tall, certainly, and moved with a muscular grace that bespoke constant training, but she wore a simple, expertly tailored tunic of dark wool, fastened with a bronze clasp in the shape of a hunting hound. She carried herself with an air of effortless authority, yet her face was surprisingly open, framed by dark hair that fell in soft waves. And her belt… her belt was beautiful.

And when she saw Helenos, she smiled.

It was a genuine, warm smile. It wasn't the possessive and full of lust he was used to. It was the smile of someone who was profoundly pleased to finally see someone.

“Prince Helenos,” Menelaia said, her voice smooth and rich, completely lacking the harsh, demanding edge he had expected. She walked toward him, not like a predator, but like a host, her hand extended in a respectful gesture.

Helenos, thrown utterly off balance by the reality of her kindness, fumbled a bow.

“Your Majesty,” he managed.

Menelaia waved a hand. “Please, none of this formality. Leda tells me you are already weary of palace life. I believe it. Come, sit with me. Ignore the politics for a moment. You look as though you haven’t slept in a week.”

She directed him toward a small, secluded marble bench tucked beneath a wilting citrus tree. Helenos looked at his mother, who stared at the floor, offering no help. He looked at Clytemnestra, whose eyes were dangerously narrowed, her smirk now gone, replaced by careful vigilance.

Helenos went down to his seat. Menelaia sat beside him. She did not grab his arm or touch his shoulder; she maintained a respectful distance that felt new to him.

“Your mother has been telling me about your… interests,” Menelaia said, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Art, poetry, the study of ancient dialects. It is rare to find such intellectual curiosity in a young royal, especially one so occupied with his… duties.” She glanced at his face, then quickly away, as if respecting his aversion to focus on his looks.

Helenos felt a rush of astonished relief. She was talking to him like a person. No one in his life, aside from Lysandra, had ever done that.

“The duties are, I think, a constant chore,” Helenos said, testing the water with a light attempt at sarcasm.

Menelaia laughed—a short, genuine sound. “I understand completely. Life here, I imagine, is entirely consumed by the spectacle of what you represent. It must be tiresome. I imagine you spend most of your time trying to avoid being seen.”

“It is a constant effort,” Helenos admitted.

“I know the feeling,” Menelaia replied easily. “To be constantly sought, constantly judged, and never truly seen. It is exhausting. But that will change now.”

She turned slightly, and her voice dropped to a level of intimate sincerity that sent a strange warmth through Helenos’s guilt-ridden heart.

“Helenos, I will be direct with you,” she continued. “I have not come here for a political convenience. I have not come here for territory. I came here for you. I know the truth about your position. I know people are wanting to get you. I can protect you from that.”

The statement hit him with the force of an answer to a prayer he hadn't known he could make. Protection. Security. A defense against the chaos of the history ahead.

“Why?” Helenos whispered, the single word breaking free of his fear. It was the question he had asked Lysandra a hundred times, the question Leda had never been able to truly answer.

Menelaia did not offer a grand, calculating political answer. She looked at his eyes—not his beautiful, perfect eyes, but the nervous, trapped intelligence behind them—and her expression softened with what appeared to be genuine understanding.

“Because it is you, Helenos,” she said simply. “Because I recognize something in you that the other Queens, and even your own house, do not. They see what you represent. I see who you are. You deserve a safe place, a home that values your mind as much as your face.”

Helenos felt his panic begin to recede, replaced by a dangerous, intoxicating rush of gratitude. This was not the monster Leda had prepared him for, nor the inevitable conqueror Lysandra had warned of.

This was a refuge.

Protection. He had lost Lysandra, his sole source of stability, his mind reeling from the betrayal of his mother’s love. He was emotionally bankrupt and mentally exhausted. Menelaia was offering him a lifeline disguised as a marriage, and his desperate, weak mind snatched it immediately.

“You would truly offer that?” Helenos asked, his voice shaking with the effort to contain his hope.

“Absolutely,” Menelaia affirmed, her smile now a promise. “In Sparta, you will be my companion, my equal, and my protected heir. Your mind will be respected. Your safety will be absolute. I am strong enough to defy the prophecy that binds you, and I am intelligent enough to appreciate what others only want to possess.”

She paused, and Helenos waited, breathless. The silence stretched, and he began to feel a deep, thrilling sense of attachment to this powerful, recognizing woman. The confusing surge of relief and dependence began to twist into something that felt alarmingly like true affection.

Menelaia stood, her movements smooth and commanding, subtly ending the conversation on her terms.

“I must return to the harbor now, to oversee the final arrangements. We leave tomorrow at first light, Helenos,” she said. Her voice was still kind, but the finality of the statement was absolute—a subtle reminder of her unquestioned control.

She placed her hand on the citrus tree beside her, her fingers wrapping around the thin, fragile trunk.

“In my house,” she added, her eyes serious, “you will never have to fear the outside world again. But I will expect your complete trust. No more running into the arms of others, even those who mean well. I protect what is mine. And when you are mine, your only loyalties will be to our new life, Helenos.”

She released the tree, leaving the faint impression of her strong grip on the bark. It was a fleeting image of force, quickly smoothed over by her continuing, charming smile.

Helenos stood up, his heart pounding. The chilling threat was there, but it was packaged in the promise of ultimate safety.

He was so starved for security, so lost without the stability of Lysandra's presence, that he accepted the bargain instantly.

She is strong. She is kind. She sees me. The fear had not vanished, but it had shifted. It was no longer directed at Menelaia, but toward the outside world she was promising to protect him from.

He looked at Leda, who still stared at the floor, and felt a surge of cold resentment for her emotional failure. He looked at Clytemnestra and felt something...

He had forgotten what he had thought of.

What a disgrace, not listening to someone who respects me.

He looked at Menelaia and felt a confused, desperate rush of genuine attraction and loyalty.

“I understand, Menelaia,” Helenos said, using her name without the title, a small, reckless step of intimacy that felt thrillingly earned. “I look forward to our journey.”

Menelaia’s smile widened, a true expression of triumph. She did not need to be a cruel conqueror. She had won her prize easily, simply by offering the respect that his own family had denied him.

She turned and left the conservatory, leaving Helenos bathed in the humid light, entirely convinced that his fate had taken a sudden, wonderful turn.

The world was not ending; it was beginning.

He loved her, or thought he did, because she was the only one left who could save him.

After reading SturdyHeart6318‘a comment, I found this piece of art:

There was a picture that went against the creation guide.

Damn.