Chapter 23. A Redo
*This is a redo of chapter 23 since I didn’t really like it.
[Restarting...]
[Status: Dead]
[Checkpoint: Year 472 of the Lunar Calendar — The Sunken Garden]
There was a sound.
It was high and thin, girl’s voice.
Then the smell.
Lilies.
Too many lilies.
It might be coaking the scent of something metallic.
Not blood.
Just... old bronze.
The weight.
The weight was crushing him.
The crushing pressure on his ribs.
He clawed at the air, expecting the leather of a Spartan boot or the heavy grip of a guard.
He looked down at his hands.
They were small.
Unscarred.
No calluses, no blood.
It was a child’s hands.
Soft, pale, and trembling.
Why.
Why did it feel weird.
His head felt as if it was empty.
He couldn't think straight.
"Prince Helenos? My Lord, you’re trembling. Is it the sun?"
A voice echoed in Helenos’ ear.
It was soft.
He heard it somewhere…
…
Thalia.
It was Thalia.
Helenos’s eyes snapped open. The sun was a white-hot needle, sewing his eyelids shut. He groaned, squinting until the gold and green blur settled into shapes.
Yes.
It was Thalia
But she was... Her face was smooth, lacking the hollowed eyes of the woman who’d smuggled him through sewers.
She looked at him with simple concern.
He was on a bench made of marble.
He was in one of the gardens
The Sunken Garden.
The hedges of Mycenae rose up like green walls.
There were no cliffs.
No wind howling off the Eurotas.
No hounds.
He looked down.
A small wooden lyre sat on his lap.
His hands—gods, his hands—were tiny. Soft.
The skin was translucent, the nails clean.
No dirt.
No scars from running away.
No burns from the kitchen.
"I..."
His voice was a chirp.
A quiet, high-pitched voice.
Pathetic, like it’s owner’s.
"Here. Water," Thaila said.
She looked young.
No lines around her eyes.
No hollow exhaustion.
She held out a bronze cup, the surface catching the light.
It was…
It was like a…
A spear.
The memory slammed into him.
Mara’s face.
The sweat on her lip.
The white of her teeth.
The wet shlick of the bronze point entering his thigh.
The cold, indifferent slide of metal through muscle.
The way his head hit the rock—the vibration, the crack, the red dark.
"Ahack!"
He swiped at the cup.
It clattered on the marble, water splashing his feet.
"My Lord!"
Helenos didn't hear her. He was ripping at the fine linen of his tunic, his breath coming in
jagged, desperate gasps.
He had to look at the wound.
He had to stop the bleed. If he didn't, he’d die.
No.
He was already dead.
There was nothing.
Smooth skin.
Pale.
Perfect.
It was healthy, youthful warmth.
There was not even a scratch.
"Where is it?" he hissed. "Where did it go? She stabbed me. Right here!"
"Who stabbed you? We are in the palace. You’re safe," Thaila said.
Her voice had that tone.
It was soothing.
Like the way you talk to a child having a nightmare.
She reached for his shoulder.
He recoiled.
Scalded.
He scrambled off the bench, short legs tangling in his clothes.
He hit the grass. He didn't feel the turf. He felt the jagged edge of the Spartan cliff.
"Don't touch me! You gave me the tea! You let her lock me in the tower!"
Thaila went white. "The tea? The tower? My Lord, you’ve been dreaming."
It wasn't a dream.
It had to be real.
It had to be.
…
What if it wasn’t
Was he hallucinating?
Like before?
The pressing weight of the drugs.
That heavy, sweet fog that had eaten his mind for months.
The sting underneath his body.
The cold stone floor.
"Helenos? What’s this noise?"
A new figure.
Her shadow covered his shadow.
It was Clytemnestra.
That sharp, regal chin. The obsessive, terrifying concern.
Helenos felt his stomach roll.
He remembered her face when she handed him over.
He remembered her silence.
"Sister," he whispered. It tasted like ash.
"You’re making a scene," she said, walking toward him. "The Queen Mother is with the ambassadors. If she hears you wailing like a babe, she’ll be displeased."
She reached down and grabbed his arm.
Firm.
Familiar.
The grip made him remember.
Guards dragging him back to the tower.
The terror of being alone.
"LET GO!"
He didn't think.
He swung.
His small, soft fist caught her in the chest.
It was a weak blow, but the intent in it made her stagger.
"You're going to sell me! You're going to let them break me! I won't go! I'll kill myself first!"
"Have you lost your mind?" Her voice sharpened. "Sell you? You’re a Prince!"
"Ha!"
He turned and ran
His heart like a drum.
Everything felt wrong—the center of gravity was too high, his stride too short.
Past the fountains.
Past the statues. Their blank marble eyes watched him with indifference.
Courtyard.
Blinding sun.
Red robes.
Guards near the entrance.
They had crimson-dyed tunics.
To Helenos, they looked like the soldiers.
The ones on the cliff.
He veered away.
Sobbing.
He needed to hide.
A place where beauty couldn't find him.
The stables.
The smell of horses and hay acted like a tether.
He burst through the doors. Shadows swallowed him. He scrambled into a pile of hay in the corner, burying himself, shaking.
I'm dead. This is the underworld. Hades is playing a trick. Making me relive the beginning so the end hurts more.
He waited for something. Maybe the blue screen. A status bar. Anything. But nothing. It was just a dream when he was five.
He felt a dull throb at the base of his brain—a distant engine humming—but no words.
No help.
Just the smell of hay and the ghost of a wound.
"My Lord? You hiding in there?"
A shadow. Helenos shrieked, kicking out. Sandal hitting air.
"Easy, lad! Easy!"
Lysandra.
She was younger.
But the scars were the same. She knelt in the straw, hands up.
Peace.
Helenos stared. He remembered the knife. He remembered her being dragged away because he'd hugged her.
"Lysandra," he choked. He lunged. Buried his face in her rough tunic. He sobbed—a raw, ugly sound.
"They're coming," he wailed. "The Queen of Sparta. She’s coming. She's going to lock me in the dark. Make me forget."
Lysandra held him. Brow furrowed. She looked at the door, expecting a monster, but there was only sun.
"There’s no Queen of Sparta here, little one. No one’s locking you anywhere. You’re the Golden Prince. The world is yours."
Helenos pulled back. Face wet. Terror.
"No," he said. His voice dropped.
It was cold and hollow.
The panic didn't leave; it hardened.
"The world isn't mine, Lysandra. I’m the their’s."
He looked at his hands.
Trembling.
He forced them into fists.
"Teach me."
"Teach you what, My Lord?"
"How to kill," Helenos whispered. His eyes burned with an ancient, terrible light. "Before the tea comes. Teach me how to make them bleed."
The innocence of dodo was gone, burned away on a Spartan cliff.
He didn't know how he was back.
Maybe a god’s whim?
Or is it a system glitch?
He felt the phantom throb of the spear-wound in his perfect leg. He knew one thing.
He’d burn Mycenae down himself before he let them put him on that boat again.
***
“…”
And in front of him was a confused slave, hi king why the prince was here.
It was different from what she had heard from the fates.
Something was wrong.
Terribly wrong.
Either the fates or her eyes were incorrect.
Neither of them could be.
But if she could move her hand right now…
The fates has allowed this to happen.
But how.
It did not make sense.
Anything that went against the fates have been and will be erased.
“Lysandra?”
But she had to deal with the prince first. How did he know her name…
“Well, prince, I must ask; why did you come to the stables?”
“Teach me…” he said, “I want to-“
“My lord!” Guards rushed at him and stared at her.
She had to get out of this mess. She had to stay as a slave.
“I am not related to this.” Lysandra stated indifferently
“Huh…”
“…wait wait, guards hear me out”
But before he could speak, the guards safely took him away.
.
Well, first think before you do, helenos. Well, thank you for reading. I’ll try my best to please you. So tell me what I could do better. Have a nice day and a great New Year. B Y E! Thank you for reading. I want helenos to learn a bit so bear with me. If you don’t want to, just tell me what you want.
