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The metallic fragrance of blood assaulted her nostrils with its putrid stench. Most women smelled exotic spices and fragrances on their wedding day, Helen had no such luck. Why does it continue to haunt me? Deiphobus stood beside her, erect with a giant smile on his face. How can he be smiling when his brothers are dead and his armies lay about on the battlefield with their corpses decorating the beach?
Helen found him disgusting. A man, so quick to take his brother's wife, when he was not yet cold in the grave was not a man at all. He glanced in her direction with leering eyes that sent fear through her being. Marriage felt like chains upon her swan-like neck, just as it had when she was married to Menelaus.
She cursed her beauty; it was as disdainful as the war that carried on outside the walls, staining them scarlet. She cursed the poisonous lips that sealed her fate, the priest was solemn and mumbled his words halfheartedly. It was unlike her and Paris's wedding, a joyous and a spiteful gesture to the Greeks. Now, there was silence and hateful glances toward her person. Priam did not look at her.
His eyes were shut as if he was blocking out the world around him. His beard was gray and the dreaded lines of age were vengeful upon his face. Guilt stabbed her like the ridged blade of a dagger. Paris, how could our love, so innocent and pure in its intentions cause so much strife, Helen thought tearfully. She turned on her heel back to Deiphobus. He was suddenly a much more pleasant sight.
"Come my bride," Deiphobus's voice was gruff with desire. Color drained itself from Helen's face. She followed him dutifully to his chambers wishing the sounds of war on the outside could drown her thoughts.
He undressed quickly and enthusiastically while Helen undid her garments slowly. Her icy blue eyes were not on him, but the floor below her.
"Look at me." He asked her.
She could not. His face screwed up in anger and he grabbed her by her chin roughly. His lustful, cloudy grey gaze seared itself into her.
"Even if you do not give yourself to me willingly, I will take what is rightfully mine."
She shivered with fear but held eye contact defiantly.
"What is yours has already belonged to Paris." She whispered.
He roared with indignation and grabbed at her creamy, white neck, throwing her on the silk sheets. Everything about his body was hard unlike Paris, whose soft skin rivaled her own. As he spread her legs, she braved herself and let out a blood-curdling scream as he finally entered her. With each thrust, she was ripped at the seams. She cried into the mattress, her sobs muffled. No one came to her aid, no matter how loud she screamed. A pox on the city of Troy, she thought through her tears.
---
The days passed on as a blur of nothingness. After the first night, she did not try to fight him and have him what he wished, spitefully laying limp as she did so. Deiphobus would curse and smack her, but to no avail. He eventually realized his actions were futile and used other women for his animalistic urges. He forced Helen to watch and she watched them, with half lidded eyes of hatred.
Only when her husband was on the battlefield did she finally obtain peace. All that resided in Priam's palace avoided her as if she was plagued, with the occasional servant indulging her whims with blank faces and eyes alight with loathing. She was more than content to do such menial tasks herself than to look into the eyes of the wives whose husbands she had involuntarily killed.
This left her to her thoughts and memories of the tender Paris and, unfortunately, of the day she last saw him.
---
Their lovemaking was desperate, hungry and they clawed at each other passionately. She didn't know how, but she knew this would be their last time together. Her tears fell like raindrops onto the sheets. Paris stopped and held her close to him, rocking her gently.
"Why do you cry my love?" he asked, running his hands through her silk like dark blonde locks.
"You shall die tomorrow," now that she had spoken it, she knew for sure that it would come to pass. She could see his body now in her mind's eye, mangled and run through with the gleaming blade of Menelaus.
"You have been to the oracle." he scolded.
"I shall be fine Helen. I tire of being a coward while my brothers and fellow Trojans fight my battles. My brother Hector has already died by the cruel hand of Achilles. Surely the gods will take pity on me and spare my life."
Oh, Paris if they didn't spare Hector's life, what makes you think they will spare yours, she thought and held him tightly through the night.
--
When she had seen his body the next day, there was no more tears to shed, only curses, more for herself than Paris. If only she had done more to convince him, if only. It did not surprise her that they married her off as quickly as they could to another one of Priam's sons. Without Paris, nothing kept her on the side of the Trojans. She was their last desperate attempt to keep back the Greeks. Paris might have been gone, but they still had the main spoil.
She sat in her room, decorated with only the barest of furniture, brooding. Deiphobus came to her, carrying wine pitcher and two wine cups for the both of them. She eyed him disdainfully.
"What is it that you desire that you come to me carrying wine?" she asked, pinch-faced.
"Are you so cold even on a day such as this?"
"It is a normal day of bloodshed," she told him, with more emotion than she had wanted to show. "There is nothing new."
"The Greeks have surrendered and made us a fabulous wooden horse the size of Titan!" Deiphobus exclaimed his face flushed with pleasure. It wouldn't surprise her if he wasn't already drunk.
"Wooden...horse?"
Odysseus you brilliant man! A warm feeling swelled up from the belly to consume her whole being. The Trojans were fools if they thought it was an average wooden horse. They underestimated the Greeks cunning, especially Odysseus. She drank from her cup in celebration of her freedom.
Deiphobus drunk much more than she did, sloshing the violet colored drink on his chiton. He fondled at her breasts drunkenly, trying desperately to strip away her clothing. She allowed him with a small smile on her face. After all, soon he would be dead. Well into the night, he slept against her, snoring loud enough to awaken the titans themselves. She laid awake, waiting for the sound of her salvation.
Then, there it was. The hard stomping, the loud clashes of metal against metal and the splattering of blood across the palace walls. The Greeks had arrived. The yelps and cries of agony of those that had once been her friends chilled her heart. All her fault, all of it. Only with her surrender did they stand a chance of being spared.
"Deiphobus, Greeks," she screamed as loudly as she could, praying to Metis all would go as planned.
He awoke from his slumber with a jolt and reached ran for his sword, tumbling about pathetically, wine still fully in his system. A commotion sounded by their door and in came Menelaus and Odysseus, covered head to toe in the blood of the Trojans she once had loved. The ten years had been good to her once husband, turning him stronger and bronze from the sun of Iliad. His beard that had once been a fox like red was now beginning the metamorphosis of graying.
He only had eyes for her, his brown eyes alert with hatred and smoldering passion for her exposed body.
"Wrench! So you betray us once more?" he hissed, inching his way closer to her, sword in hand.
She ran dutifully to Deiphobus who was more than happy than to protect her, despite barely being able to stand.
"She is mine now Greek!" he slurred, swinging about his sword.
Menelaus rushed towards him roaring, with Odysseus in tow and easily parried Deiphobus's weak attacks, knocking his sword out of his hands. The gray eyed Trojan fell to his knees and begged for mercy, his words slurring together the harder he pleaded. Helen could almost weep at how far he had fallen.
"There can be no mercy for those who take what isn't theirs," Menelaus's replied coldly.
His sword whistled through the air and solidly chopped off the Trojan's head as swift as an executioner. Helen couldn't bear to watch as he was hacked at until nothing much else of him remained but shriveled strips of human flesh, she had never seen such a murderous look in one's eyes before. Odysseus brought him back to earth and gestured in her direction. Grimly, he walked leisurely to her and the sharp point of his blade dug into the base of her throat, drawing blood.
"Tell me Helen, are you Trojan or Greek?"
"I am Greek," she proclaimed unflinchingly.
Menelaus grinned maliciously and retracted his sword from her neck. Odysseus still gazed at her. His eyes burned into her body.
"That is what I wanted to hear!"
"Menelaus be wise about this," Odysseus commented. "How do we know she can fully be trusted? She married a Trojan, twice."
"Both times against my will," Helen found herself saying. Please forgive me Paris. "Paris stole me away that night and I have been held prisoner by the Trojans ever since."
"I knew it," He still held that bright-eyed young look he had at their wedding. For a flicker of a moment Helen wondered, if she had stayed, would she have eventually fallen in love with him? "I always knew."
"There is no more time for conversation," Odysseus hissed and they could hear the sounds of soldier footfalls. "We must go now. Our warriors will handle the rest."
Menelaus nodded and waited only moment for her to re-robe herself and grabbed a hold of Helen and they ran through the halls of the palace, slaying all that came in their way as they went. Helen shielded her eyes from the sight but could not shield herself from the blood which splattered on her clothes. It was if the gods were telling her that it was futile for her to ease her guilt. She still had the blood of thousands on her hands.
"Menelaus go," Odysseus commanded him as soon as they reached the outskirts of the palace. "I made sure that a ship is ready for you."
"But Odysseus what of you? Shall I just leave you here to be butchered," he asked gripping Helen's hand tighter.
"I am as stubborn as an ox. If I go down, then I am proud to be going down fighting. You have the ultimate prize. Without Helen, the Trojans have nothing to keep fighting for."
"But-"
"Go," he said calmly to him.
His eyes peered into Helen as they ran.
---
The city of Troy burned. Helen saw the dark, charred remains burning in the river Scamander, a dreary reflection of the once proud city. The boats of the victorious Greeks snaked across with many a soldier cheering within them. Helen could not find it in her to celebrate. She was empty inside, hollow. She could still see the cut up body of Deiphobus in her mind's eye.
She had no pity for him, but for Priam who had lost another son and his beloved city. Menelaus's arm was wrapped around her with a possessive grip. She accepted it without a murmur
"By Zeus, that was a good ploy! For a moment I thought your sentiments were with Troy," He told her.
They had been. She didn't dare voice this. Her sentiments of Troy died with Paris. The days leading up to their return to Sparta were long and tortuous. No matter how she tried Helen could not keep her food down. Fear shrouded her like a veil. She was carrying Deiphobus's child. She heard the Fates laughing spitefully at her. Please Hera, do not make it so! Her prayers fell on deaf ears.
Helen saw the creases in Menelaus's forehead and his suspicious glances. She bedded him the instant they set foot in their palace. His thrusts were wild and without any rhythm like a hound. She quietly imagined Paris in his place and joined him in completion. The day after she smiled ruefully, if she could somehow make him think that it was his child she would be spared.
Lies. Just so many lies and half-truths. Her daughter Hermione tended to her, her soft voice telling all that had happened in Sparta in her absence. Helen thanked her silently for her kind soul. No one else talked to her.
Not even Menelaus, whose nightly visits had stepped well into the pregnancy. Is this it for me? Am I to just be a trophy of war? The Gods did not answer her. So this is the punishment for my sins? She laughed darkly.
I do not repent being loved and returning that love. Many nights she remembered Paris and his soft looks and tender gestures. Theirs had been a pure love, tainted only by the bloody war in its wake. Her soul and heart ached for him.
She began to weave again. As a young girl, weaving had been something she avoided with all her being; now, it was her solstice in the world. Oh, how things change and the wheel of time turns. It was there, when the birthing pains first hit her.
She was whisked away to their bed chambers and the midwife was called in. It was an easy birth as compared to Hermione's. The midwife stayed vigorously be her side and whispered soothing nothings in her ear. His feet came first, then his head. The woman held him up for her so see and Helen held back a scream.
Those eyes, those wide eyes belonged to Deiphobus. She knew that she could not keep him in fear of Menelaus.
"Woman listen to me carefully," The midwife's smile fell. Helen was almost saddened to see it go. "Take him away. He is not safe here. Go now while Menelaus is on the other side of the palace and not yet alarmed of his son's birth."
The midwife clutched the child to her chest and nodded.
"D-do you have a name for him my lady?"
Names, Helen would have laughed had the situation not been so dire. This woman speaks of names. There can only be one for him.
"Abaddon." She whispered and the midwife widened her eyes.
"But-but my lady-"
"Go! NOW!"
The woman quickly left, sprinting. Helen eased back onto her pillows with a ghost of a smile on her face. All through that the lad had been quiet, his eyes holding much strength. It reminded her so much of Paris. Fare thee well oh Prince of Troy.
She waited calmly for Menelaus's arrival.
---
The midwife ran. Her breath came out in harsh gasps with each slap her sandals made on the stones. The baby in her arms did not make a sound, as if he knew the situation at hand. He really was a beautiful child, with his dark blond curls, rosy cheeks and mouth, and the expressive gray eyes of Deiphobus. She placed the sheet back over him as she approached the palace guards.
She could tell that they had been drinking ceremonial wine in celebration of the royal birth. The midwife couldn't imagine how they would take the coming news of Abaddon's stillbirth. They allowed her to pass and she walked on, pointedly ignoring their cat-calls and taunts. They were far too intoxicated to follow-up their threats.
She still allowed herself to run although her heart no longer rapidly beat inside her chest. The worst was now over. She felt pity for the poor baby boy that she held in her arms. He was only just born and was tossed aside, like a rag. She slowed down as the homes appeared into view. The people on the street were sparse and consisted of men, traders and men of low social rank who scavenged the streets at night for a drink or loose women.
The humble abodes about her were small and white, made of stone and twigs. Doors were footed shut and the sounds of festivities were ebbing from inside. After the long war, the news of the approaching birth was welcomed into the hearts of the town's people. So many of their own sons had grown up, only to join the conflict and be slaughtered like pigs that they welcomed the new prince as a symbol of renewal and a bloodless future to come.
The midwife's eyes were downcast, hardly able to stare at the houses and the light hearted people within. A few ships, rocking back and forth with the soft waves, were in the harbor, their goods tucked away into the helm for the morning's market. The sea itself was calm, almost deathly still as the soft winds caressed the sands upon her feet. The midwife could see herself in the emerald tinted waters, her brown, mousy hair was wild and her cheeks flushed with exhaustion. Oh, she looked like a crazy fool!
Abaddon made a small noise and she unwrapped him once more. He was laughing and his small arms reached outward to her. He wanted to play. Tears blurred her vision and she briefly hugged the boy. I am sorry young one, she thought solemnly. There is not a safe place for you here, or really anywhere.
Her heart clenched painfully and she lifted him up over her head. He was still laughing. Stop, she pleaded. Please, st-
"STOP!"
A loud, stern voice made her jolt and a burly hand reached out to grab the child. She made a noise of protest and clawed at her offender. He pushed her to the ground scowling. The loud sounds of Abaddon's cries filled the air. She glared at the man who stood stiffly over her; his eyes filled with righteous judgment as if he was sent from the Gods themselves.
He was tall and broad-shouldered. His skin was tanned alerting her of his merchant status. His beard was short and the color of the finest ebony. His body was hard and chiseled like he was made from the hands of an expert sculptor. His handsome face was scrunched up in distaste.
"Woman what is it that you named him," He asked, his attention now focused on the baby. His face was now emotionless as he calmed the frightened child.
"His mother has named him Abaddon, destruction."
Anger flashed once more in his eyes.
"What mother would be cruel enough to name him such a thing?"
"Helen of Troy."
That was all that needed to be said and he nodded as if confirming something.
"I shall take the child and will raise him as my own son. This I promise to the Gods."
The midwife thanked him profusely and he waved her away, distrust still within his eyes. He turned and began to leave.
"Wait," He stopped in his tracks. "What is your name sir?"
"My name is Solon of Crete."
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