Chapter 3: Early Years(3)

Helenos was seven.

The years had not lessened the frustration of being a web developer trapped in the body of a mythological character.

Yes, Hhe was no longer confined to the cushion, but his life remained a heavily monitored, meticulously scheduled tour of the royal residence.

His biggest problem remained the sheer, grinding boredom of an adult brain stuck in a time before electricity, decent plumbing, or anything remotely resembling a searchable database.

Seriously, the purity in here is terrible, he grumbled internally one morning, while pulling a face as a servant oiled his skin with flower scented unguents. I am subjected to this every day. It’s supposed to maintain my 'divine luminescence.' And why does everyone smell so intensely of lavender and goats? It’s a sensory assault.

Helenos had missed pockets. He missed shirts. Everyone wore draped sheets, looking like they were constantly late for a performance of Sophocles' Most Boring Play.

But it was the little details, the cumulative anomalies, that started to feel like a system crash.

First, the geography. He was subjected to lessons in the presence of his sister, Clytemnestra, who watched the tutor's hands like a guard protecting a fragile map. The maps were crude, drawn on scrolls of leather, and the major political entities were named things like Achaea and Mycenae and Sparta.

"Mycenae is the seat of power for the High Queen Agamemna," the tutor explained, tracing a finger across the scroll. "She holds the strongest claim to the throne of all Achaea."

Agamemna? he thought, trying to access his dusty mental library of trivia. That name is way too specific. It sounds like the person who got killed in the bathtub. He filed the name away as a piece of weird, old-world data.

Then there were the stories. The servants and nurses told him grand, terrifying bedtime myths. His mother, Leda, managed the state. The gods, however, were everywhere, always described as vengeful women.

One day, his tutor, a quiet woman named Thalia, recounted the story of his own legendary birth—a story Helenos had mostly tuned out before, prioritizing his silent attempts to construct a rudimentary catapult out of a piece of cheese and a silk ribbon.

"Your father, Helenos," Thalia whispered, her eyes wide, "was Zeus, The Swan Queen. He took the form of a swan to seduce your mother, Leda, by the riverbank."

He stopped moving entirely.

Wait. Hold on a second. Stop the scroll.

He looked over at Leda, who sat nearby, braiding gold into his hair—a gesture that was half motherly love, half ritualistic fortification. The Swan Queen?

"Thalia," Helenos asked, his voice slow and deliberate, using his best adult tone. "Why is Zeus a woman?"

Thalia looked genuinely confused, her brow furrowing with concern. "Zeus is the supreme ruler of the heavens, the Swan Queen, who commands the thunder. Everyone knows this. The heavens belong to Hera, the Queen of the Gods. Are you forgetting your lessons, little Lord?"

He slumped against the crimson cushion. It wasn't just the matriarchy. It was the names, the weird, ancient geography, the specific, disturbing shift in the mythology. The architecture, the reliance on marble, the complete reliance on boats for any significant travel.

Sparta. Agamemna. Zeus is a swan goddess.

He knew that name. He knew the stories. He had read enough history and mythology in his past life to recognize the setting. The realization hit him, cold and heavy, not as a cool fantasy game, but as a rigid, inescapable mythological trap.

I am not in some generic medieval place, he thought, staring at his perfect, manicured fingernails with a growing dread. I am in Ancient Greece. The mythical, bronze-age version of Ancient Greece.

The pieces clicked into place with a horrifying finality: the obsession with his looks, the fear, the constant guards, the talk of powerful Queens. The prophecy wasn't a metaphor. It was a plot summary.

He knew what Helen of Troy was famous for. And in this gender-flipped world, he now knew exactly what the name Helenos meant.

"Oh," he whispered, a soft, profound gasp of horror. "Oh, no."

***

The initial panic was overwhelming. He spent the next day in total silence, the internal sarcasm draining out of him, replaced by a cold dread. He was a character in a tragedy. His fate was written. There was no way out.

"Helenos," Clytemnestra asked that evening, sitting by his bedside with a rare look of concern. "You did not eat your dinner. Are you unwell?"

He looked at her, seeing his captor, his fierce protector, and his written doom all at once. "The world is on fire, Clytemnestra," he murmured. "And I am the match."

Clytemnestra stared at him, confused by the strange metaphor. "The world is fine," she replied, her voice firm.

Helenos ignored her.

Fine, Dodo thought, the sarcasm slowly returning, a vital defense mechanism against the overwhelming dread. If I am the asset, and the asset causes war, then the asset needs to make the Queen and the sister so dependent they refuse to put me in the supply chain.

His new goal was simple: Irreplaceability. He had to be more trouble, more essential, and more beloved as a person than he was valuable as a political object.

***

He approached his mother, Leda, while she was stressing over palace logistics. Instead of acting like a silent, perfect ornament, he began to act like a lovable, annoying child. He would approach her and gently blow a stream of air against her eyes, forcing her to blink and laugh.

"Helenos! Stop that, you rascal," Leda would sigh, trying to maintain her queenly composure, but the affection was clear. "You are too silly for a boy of such lineage."

"Lineage is overrated, Mother," Helenos chirped. He was using nonsense phrases, testing the limits of her acceptance. She didn’t get the reference, but she didn’t look angry either. Plan number one: reduce parental anxiety. Success.

Clytemnestra, however, was a harder shell to crack. Her possessive love was entirely focused on his protection and perfection. Helenos, now seven, decided to leverage physical contact—a dangerous move, given her rigid boundaries.

He found Clytemnestra sitting by a window, polishing a beautiful, sharp dagger. Her brow was furrowed, likely planning his next five years of guarded isolation.

Helenos didn't speak. He just walked up and delivered a full-body, unannounced hug, wrapping his small arms around her waist and resting his head on her shoulder.

Clytemnestra froze solid. Her dagger clattered onto the stone floor. She looked down at him with an expression of utter bewilderment, as if a wild, beautiful deer had suddenly walked into her trap and started cuddling.

"Helenos. What... are you doing?" she asked, her voice stiff with shock.

"Hugging," he replied simply, rubbing his cheek against her tunic. "It’s good for preventing stress fractures, Clyt. And for, you know, being good siblings." He used the casual nickname, a subtle, sharp jab against her authority.

Clytemnestra stood motionless for a long, agonizing moment. Then, slowly, tentatively, she put one arm around his shoulder. It was awkward, tense, and clearly painful for her to compromise her vigil, but she did it.

She didn’t lock me in a chest, Dodo thought, pulling away with a bright, satisfied smile. New strategy: become the family member who is too cute and loved to trade.

He replaced his sharp observations with intentionally ignorant questions. He ran around barefoot, forcing Leda to fuss over his potential injury. He started teasing Clytemnestra openly, giving her the constant nickname, Clyt.

"Why do you keep telling me the Queens are going to come for me, Clyt?" he asked one afternoon, blowing raspberries at a marble bust. "Are they all that desperate for a new brother-in-law? Seems pretty extreme."

Clytemnestra gave him a look of pure, proprietary distress. "Clytemnestra. The name is Clytemnestra," she snapped, her frustration growing. "And it's not extreme, you idiot! It's fate! If you would just learn to be silent, Mother and I could protect you!"

Helenos simply patted her arm. "Relax, Clyt. We’re family. Family sticks together. And family doesn’t auction off its members. Right?"

He chose to believe that his persistent, slightly idiotic charm was a better defense than any ancient oath or prophecy.

If they loved him enough as a family member, they would never risk him to be taken away by the Queens. He was convinced he could use sheer, disgusting cuteness to rewrite the myth.

His pride as a man did not matter one bit. It is still better than becoming a public trash can for everyone to taste. (Added this for the 1500-word mark... I am really sorry for the inconvenience. I know you must be disgusted by this act of ignorance, but could you please forgive me? I will say it again, I apologize for my actions of being ignorant to the reader.)