Chapter 2: Early Years(2)

Helenos was five years old. He lay on a cushion of crimson silk, mentally calculating how many days he’d been subjected to life in a world without functional infrastructure. The constant presence of his mother and sister meant he could never attempt to build anything or explore.

Inside, Dodo was irritated by the lack of practical furniture and the total absence of entertainment. 

His existence was a silent, frustrating loop: eat, sleep, and endure being admired by people who looked like they were attending a very important funeral.

His movement was restricted by his mother, Leda, who kept him tethered to her side. She had a habit of staring at him as if he were a loaded weapon ready to detonate. Every small, playful motion he made seemed to confirm the ancient, horrible prophecy in her mind.

Chill out, lady. I just need a nap. No world domination planned until after I figure out how to operate a simple pulley system, Dodo thought, utterly oblivious to the depth of her fear.

He attempted to speak to the servants, asking simple questions about the palace workings, hoping to gain some technical knowledge. 

The women would simply smile, stroke his hair, and refuse to answer, treating his questions as the cute chatter of a beautiful boy.

"The young lord has a mind for systems," one servant said once.

"He has a mind for trouble," Leda corrected, pulling him closer. 

Helenos sighed. This is a profound waste of resources.

The one constant feature of his day was his older sister, Clytemnestra.

Clytemnestra was ten. Before Helenos, she had been a normal, annoyingly energetic child, defined by her practicality. She ran the palace gardens with the focus of a middle manager and ignored the boring court politics, saying that they were them inefficient.

Then Helenos was born.

Clytemnestra saw him first when he was wrapped in the ridiculous gold linen.

His face, an accident of divine genetics, acted like a gravitational pull. It hooked her gaze and never let go. Her practical interests died instantly.

The plans were abandoned.

Helenos became her sole focus.

She ignored her weary tutors and their demands that she learn proper governance. The world was now divided into two categories: the Helenos and the things that threatened him.

She only spoke to her brother, in fierce, low whispers that were entirely unnecessary in the heavily guarded chamber.

"You're mine," she would try to hypnotize him, adjusting his blanket with proprietorial precision. "They will try to steal you. The Queens, the diplomats. Everyone here wants what you are. But you belong to me. I was here first."

Wow. Okay. Big sister energy is strong with this one, Dodo noted internally. She’s taking this whole brother and sister relationship thing way too seriously.

Clytemnestra did not treat him like a doll, but like a priceless, volatile investment. She supervised his care with the hawk-eyed diligence of a museum guard.

If a noblewoman or a visiting dignitary lingered too long, Clytemnestra’s eyes would turn flat and cold, forcing the visitor to move on immediately. She instituted a strict "No Staring" policy for every servant, her mere presence being a more effective deterrent than any armed guard.

Helenos, annoyed by the constant micromanagement, once attempted to grab her hair, hoping to provoke a reaction or just a normal, sibling rough-and-tumble moment.

Clytemnestra recoiled instantly, carefully removing his hand. "No. Not yet," she murmured, smoothing his silk sheet. Her voice was not affectionate, but a stern command. "You must stay pure. For me."

Helenos frowned.

He just saw a tense, sharp-faced girl who acted as his twenty-four-hour personal security.

His beauty was a known commodity, and his sister was the first, and most intensely possessive, to try to slap her seal of ownership on him.

Helenos started to ask questions about the world. He was tired of the silence and the suffocating atmosphere. He needed data.

"Clytemnestra," Helenos asked one afternoon, using the name only when he needed serious attention. "Why do the palace guards wear metal on their legs?"

Clytemnestra, who was mending a tear in his sleeve with a needle and thread, stopped. She looked at him with an expression of faint displeasure. "They wear armor because the outside world wants what we have. Metal protects the asset."

"The asset is the palace," Helenos corrected, trying to argue using simple logic. "Why would a Queen want a building? Shouldn't they want trade routes or control of the harbor?"

"They want you," Clytemnestra stated simply. "And to get you, they must take the palace. Therefore, the metal protects you."

Helenos stared at her. This circular logic is driving me insane. They are literally telling me I am the cause of war, and I am supposed to accept that as my purpose.

He tried a different line of inquiry. "The maps in the tutor's room. Where is the land across the sea?"

"The Western territories. The lands of the Achaeans. Where Queen Agamemna rules."

"And the King, my father?" Helenos asked. He knew the palace structure was strange. His mother commanded the guards; his father was rarely mentioned.

Clytemnestra paused, looking away toward the massive stone columns. "Our father is here sometimes. He handles the diplomacy when Mother is too busy. He is a good man. He is a good diplomat. His value is his mind."

Helenos processed this. His father's primary value was his diplomatic skill, not his military might or his royal lineage. His mother's was her queenship and power. The pattern was becoming clear, unsettling, and consistent.

The gender roles are backwards, Helenos concluded. Or at least, the power roles are.

He started playing small, deliberate games to test the limits. 

He would hide small objects—a polished stone, a wooden toy a visiting envoy gifted him—in the folds of his elaborate tunics. Leda or Clytemnestra would inevitably discover the items during a dressing change.

"Helenos, why do you hide this?" Leda asked, holding up a small, dark stone.

"It is a nice stone," Helenos replied with careful innocence. "I wanted to look at it later."

"Nice stones belong in the garden, not on you," Leda commanded, tossing the stone to a servant. "You must carry nothing that detracts from your focus. You must carry only your beauty ."

Clytemnestra’s reaction was always more possessive. She would inspect the hidden object, not for its value, but for its potential threat.

"Is this from a servant?" Clytemnestra demanded, grabbing a ribbon Helenos had found. "Who gave it to you? You cannot take gifts from unauthorized personnel. It could be a mark of claim."

"It was just a ribbon, Clyt," Helenos replied, experimenting with the nickname for the first time. The nickname was a casual dismissal of her full, regal title, a small rebellion.

Clytemnestra flinched. Her eyes narrowed. "Do not call me that name. Use my proper title. You must respect the order of the house."

She did not hit him. She did not yell. She just radiated a focused, intense displeasure that made the air around him feel thick and restrictive.

Helenos discovered the nickname was his most effective tool against her control. It made her vulnerable. It broke her perfect, rigid command.

He began to use it often.

"Clyt, where are we going today?"

"Clyt, tell me the story of the Swan Queen again."

Clytemnestra endured the nickname. She would correct him—"My name is Clytemnestra, Helenos"—but she never stopped sitting beside him. Her love for his perfection outweighed her need for formal respect. His continued presence was her victory.

Helenos was forced to attend occasional meetings with Queen Leda and various officials. The officials were almost always women of high rank, discussing matters of war, trade, and diplomacy. Helenos sat silently, listening to the flow of political power.

During one such meeting, an official from a distant territory spoke of her daughter.

"My daughter is a great warrior, Queen Leda. She commands twenty ships. She will be a formidable Queen. She requires a husband who brings equal status to her house."

Helenos felt a cold knot form in his stomach. The conversation was moving too close to his designated role.

"The Consort position is a matter of long-term planning," Leda replied, her voice cool and evasive. "My son is young. His perfection is too valuable to rush."

Helenos wanted to shout that he had no intention of being a status symbol.

Instead, he sat still, enduring the gaze of the official, who was appraising him with the professional calculation of a master merchant.

"He will be worth a great price when the time comes," the official noted, her face neutral. "Every house will want him."

Helenos stared at the mosaic on the floor. His worth was being calculated in terms of gold and political alliance.

He looked at Clytemnestra, who was seated across the room. 

Her body was tense, her hands balled into fists hidden in the folds of her skirt.

She hated the bidding. She hated the public appraisal. It confirmed that the world saw him not as her brother, but as a prize she might lose.

In that moment, Helenos understood his strategy had to change. His safety did not lie in becoming a cherished pet, but in becoming an irreplaceable family member. He needed to avoid the market by becoming too integral to sell. 

The thought was his only struggle against reality.

 

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