Chapter 26
There was a sound.
Chirp.
It was a bird.
A sparrow, perhaps.
Then the smell.
Lilies.
Suffocating, white lilies.
Helenos opened his eyes.
No screaming. No thrashing. No clawing at his chest for a spear wound that wasn't there.
He stared at the sun filtering through the olive leaves. The light came dappled and golden-green, dancing across his vision like it was mocking him.
He sat up slowly and looked at his hands.
Still small.
Pale.
And soft.
"Prince Helenos? My Lord?" Thalia’s voice.
Helenos turned his head.
She was there, holding the bronze cup.
The water inside rippled, reflecting his own calm face.
He took the cup.
The metal was cool against his fingers.
"Thank you, Thalia," he said. His voice didn't waver.
Thalia blinked. Usually, the Prince was erratic—fits of giggles, sudden naps.
Today, he looked... old.
"You are welcome, My Lord."
Helenos drank the water.
It tasted like iron and earth.
He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the darkness center him.
He was back.
Again.
The cliffside in Sparta.
The spear in his thigh.
The cold, rushing wind of the fall.
Gone, like writing on sand when the tide comes in.
But the memory remained.
Why?
He thought about his previous attempts. First time: Ignorant. Sold at fourteen. Dead at fifteen. Second time: Idiot. Same result.
The outcome was fixed.
The Queen of Sparta, Menelaia, would come with her fleet and her gold.
And his mother, Queen Leda, would sell him.
Because he was beautiful.
That was why
So, how does one avoid being sold?
He couldn't run—the world was too small, and he was too weak.
He couldn't fight.
A child can't kill a Queen.
He needed to make himself unsellable.
Not broken.
But claimed.
If someone else owned him—someone right here, inside these walls—someone so powerful they would burn the world rather than let him go... then Leda couldn't sell him.
His eyes shifted to the balcony overlooking the training grounds. A young girl stood there. Dark hair whipping in the wind. A wooden sword in her hand.
Clytemnestra. His sister.
In his first life, she had tried to protect him, but her loyalty to the throne was stronger.
She had been cold. She had been a soldier first, a sister second.
I have to change that. Helenos lowered the cup. A small, cruel smile touched his lips.
Terrifying, on a seven-year-old’s face. He didn't need to be strong. He needed to be a shackle around her heart.
…
He couldn’t remember why it felt so familiar
He stood up, smoothing his tunic.
"Thalia," he said.
"Yes, Prince?"
"I want to go watch my sister train."
***
Year 8
Clytemnestra finished her drills, sweat pouring down her neck, her chest heaving. She was strong for her age, stronger than most of the girls.
She wiped her brow with a rough cloth, scowling at the target dummy she had just battered.
"Sister."
She turned.
Helenos stood there. He was holding a damp towel and a cup of water mixed with honey and lemon.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, suspicious.
"Go back to your flowers."
"You looked thirsty," Helenos said softly.
He stepped forward, raising the cup.
"And incredible. That last strike... it was like watching a goddess of war." Clytemnestra froze. She was used to being told she was unladylike, used to Leda's disapproval.
She took the cup.
She drank it in one gulp.
"It was just a drill," she muttered, but the scowl softened.
"To you," Helenos said, reaching up to wipe a smudge of dirt from her cheek. His fingers were gentle. "To me, it was protection."
"Protection?" "When you fight like that," he whispered, looking up at her with wide, worshipping eyes, "I know that no one can ever hurt us."
Clytemnestra looked at him. Really looked at him. For the first time, she didn't see her number one treasure that was needed to be protected... maybe
Year 10
It wasn't enough to be useful. He had to be intimate. Helenos hated the lilies, but he picked them anyway.
He sat on the floor of Clytemnestra’s chambers, sorting the petals while she sharpened her dagger.
"Why do you follow me everywhere?" she asked, though there was no bite in her voice anymore.
"Because the rest of the palace is cold," Helenos replied.
He stood up and walked over to her chair.
He stood behind her.
"Your hair is tangled," he noted.
"I was riding."
"Let me."
He picked up the ivory comb and worked through the knots in her dark hair.
Careful.
Methodical.
He touched her scalp with a rhythm he knew would ease the tension in her neck.
Clytemnestra sighed.
Her shoulders dropped.
"You are too soft for a prince," she said, leaning back against him.
"I don't need to be hard," Helenos murmured, leaning down so his breath ghosted against her ear. "You are hard enough for both of us. You are the shield, sister. I am just... the one who holds it."
He saw her reflection in the bronze mirror. Her eyes were closed. She looked peaceful. He looked at his own reflection.
He tried to act as affectionate as possible.
It was easy to do.
"Thanks," Clytemnestra whispered.
"Well, it would be nice if you’d keep me safe,"
Year 12
He began to turn her away from Leda, their mother.
"I know." Helenos sighed, resting his head on her shoulder, wrapping his arm around her waist. "But she fears you, sister. Your strength. She wants you to be a broodmare, like the others."
Clytemnestra’s hand clenched into a fist. "I will never be a broodmare."
"I know," Helenos said, pressing his face into her neck. "That is why she prefers me. Because I am weak. Because I can be sold."
"Sold?" Clytemnestra turned to him, her eyes flashing. "Who said anything about selling?"
"I hear the whispers," Helenos lied. "The ambassadors from the south. They talk of dowries. They talk of trading the pretty prince for ships."
He felt her body tense. Her muscles became rock hard. "No one touches you," she growled. "You are mine."
Helenos suppressed a shiver. It was working.
"Promise me," he whispered, looking at her with tears in his eyes. "Promise me you won't let them take me. I would rather die than leave you."
"I promise," Clytemnestra swore. She grabbed his face, her fingers digging into his cheeks. "If they try to take you, I will burn their ships. I will burn the world."
Helenos smiled weakly.
Year 13
They were inseparable.
The council whispered about him, but Helenos didn't care.
Let them whisper.
The more they whispered, the tighter Clytemnestra held him.
He slept in her room, on a pallet at the foot of her bed. When she had nightmares of war, he would crawl up and hold her hand until she slept.
Her confessor. Her balm. Her mirror. He fed her ambition. He told her she should be King, not just Queen.
"We will rule together," she told him one night, stroking his hair. "You will be my advisor. My heart. And I will be the sword."
He had now succeeded…
He believed it. He truly believed it.
But something was telling him.
It wasn’t complete.
…
No.
She was obsessed with him.
She looked at him like a treasure.
He had won.
Menelaia could bring a thousand ships.
Clytemnestra would never sell her heart.
He wondered why her eyes felt so familiar.
Year 14
The smell of lilies was overwhelming in the Great Hall.
Helenos stood beside Clytemnestra.
He wore a tunic of deep blue, the color she liked.
He stood close enough that their arms brushed.
The doors opened. Menelaia entered.
She was exactly as he remembered.
The red cloak.
The beautiful belt… so…
… He forgot.
Helenos felt a wave of emotion, love?, but he pushed it down.
He glanced at Clytemnestra.
She was standing tall, her chin raised.
Her hand was resting on the hilt of her dagger.
It was a staggering price. An empire-building price. Helenos looked at Clytemnestra.
Now, he urged silently. Now, sister. Burn the world. Clytemnestra didn't move.
She was staring at Menelaia.
At the Spartan guards. At the map of the Aegean on the wall.
"Sister?" Helenos whispered. Clytemnestra turned her head.
Her eyes were clear. Violet. And sad.
"The promise…," Clytemnestra murmured.
Clytemnestra looked at Helenos.
For a second, Helenos saw the years flash between them. The flowers.
The hair brushing.
He saw her weigh them. He saw her put his love on one side of the scale, and fifty warships on the other. The scale slammed down.
"He is a good price," Clytemnestra said. Helenos stopped breathing. The world tilted.
"What?" he choked out. Clytemnestra turned to him. Her face was a mask of stone. The face of a King.
"You said you wanted me to rule," she said. Her voice was flat. With only a bit of shaking . "You said I should be the power of Mycenae."
"I... I said we would rule together." "You are a boy, Helenos," she said, brushing his arm off her sleeve as if he were dirt. "Boys do not rule. But ships... ships make empires."
She looked at Menelaia. "Take him."
Helenos stumbled back. He felt as if he had been stabbed. Not in the thigh. In the chest.
Seven years degrading himself. Playing the pet, the servant, the shadow. Molding her, loving her, making her need him.
And she sold him for wood and canvas. He laughed. It started as a wheeze, then bubbled up into a hysterical, broken sound.
"You..." he gasped. "You lied."
"I… I grew up," Clytemnestra said coldly. "You should do the same, brother. Sparta will make a woman of you."
Menelaia stepped forward, grabbing Helenos by the wrist.
The grip was hot. Possessive.
"Come, little husband," Menelaia purred.
Helenos looked at Clytemnestra one last time.
She wasn't looking at him. She was looking at the Spartan captain, already discussing the deployment of the fleet.
She'd already forgotten him. He wasn't a person. He was currency.
I failed. The realization opened like a black hole. He had played the game of hearts, and he had lost to the game of war.
Menelaia charmingly pulled him toward the door.
"No," Helenos whispered.
"Don't struggle," Menelaia said lovingly.
"I said no." Helenos’s hand moved.
He didn't reach for Menelaia.
He didn't reach for Leda.
He reached for the fruit knife on the banquet table. Small. Bronze. Sharp enough to peel a pear. Sharp enough for a neck.
"Helenos!" Leda shouted. Helenos didn't hesitate.
He didn't want the boat. He didn't want the tower. He didn't want the years of waiting for the spear.
He looked at Clytemnestra.
She had finally turned to look at him, her eyes wide with sudden shock.
He drove the knife into his own throat. Thump. The pain was immediate. Hot. Wet.
He fell to the floor. The marble was cold against his cheek. He heard screaming. Menelaia was cursing.
Clytemnestra was shouting for a healer. But it was fading. The smell of lilies was gone. Replaced by the smell of iron.
As the darkness closed in, Helenos had one final thought.
Ha… What did I do wrong…
.
