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Chapter Text

Many years ago, when Helen was just a young and foolish girl, something strange happened in Greece. Something that could have sparked a fratricidal war and destroyed each of the kingdoms.

The king of Sparta, Tyndareus, had always loved that strange, beautiful daughter with divine blood in her veins. He treated her as if she were his own blood and had always tried to protect her.

She had already been kidnapped once, when she was just a girl, and her father and brothers had saved her. But the salvation would not last long, Helen had always known. And so, every birthday locked in that distant palace reminded her and her entire family that the war was near, just a handful of birthdays away. Helen was almost old enough to marry and she was rich, lovable and, above all, beautiful.

Beautiful, beautiful Helen. She was all she had, herself and the image in the mirror.

So, the ships had begun to arrive and Tyndareus, with infinite sweetness, had given her a kiss on the forehead. <Everything will be fine,> he promised her.

So Helen appeared - beautiful, beautiful Helen - and stood beside her father in front of all the kings.

<Men and women of Greece,
I present to you the most beautiful woman in the world...
My daughter, Princess Helen of Argos!>

The crowd erupted, the men looking at her as if she were water in the desert, a meal after months of famine.

Helen, whose beauty was legend. Helen, whose legend was only a fraction of the truth.

Pick me, pick me, pick
Pick me, pick me, pick
Pick me, pick me, pick
Pick me, pick me

They thought she was a statue, or mute. Maybe just a woman, too stupid to understand.

A man beside her leaned toward his friend. Both were richly dressed, but the one who spoke was far more imposing. "And good-looking, at least," Helen thought. She hoped that whoever had started this war by marrying her was at least handsome. She had never had much hope for kindness; marrying her would require ruthlessness.

<I've heard the stories, I've heard the songs.
And they don't come close to the truth
'cause Helen's beauty is more than strong!>

He had a sweet voice, Helen considered. He didn't take his eyes off her but, at least, he looked at her face, unlike many others.

He smiled and something warm nestled in her, because there was a little sweetness, at least something other than that predatory hunger of hers, there.

<Helen, I would go to war for you.>

His friend gasped. <Menelaus.>

Taking advantage of the distraction, he tried to hide himself slightly in the shadows.

Menelaus, that was the man's name, had taken on a pleading tone. <Ody, you've gotta help me get her.
If she's not mine, I'll never
ever live this one down.>

Helen sighed. That was her story, she thought. There were no people capable of going beyond her.

She didn't hear his friend's response. She simply disappeared into that palace she had always known, the only place where she was allowed to exist. Home.

***

Many years had passed since then. Since that man and his gentle smile had been with her at the altar, since her cousin Penelope had found her true love, since her father had died.

Years had passed, since Odysseus had entered her family, since Menelaus had entered her heart. So many hours and minutes since the day Menelaus had given her Hermione.

In those ten years of war, he had done everything not to think about her, that sweet, beautiful child he had left behind.

Her daughter was beautiful. She was beautiful, and she was a woman, and Helen had cried the day she was born because those two things would have marked an immutable destiny. She didn't need an oracle, she already knew what a beautiful woman was: doomed.

<You look thoughtful, little sister> a voice called from her closed room.

She turned sharply, instinctively grabbing the first sharp object within reach: her sewing needle.

The man in the room laughed and held up his palms. <Calm down, dear. It's just me.>

Helen hesitated, studying her guest's eyes. They were blue and his hair was light brown, streaked with gold. She put down her makeshift weapon. <Apollo?>

He nodded. <I scared you. I didn't mean to.>

He held out his arm and she moved closer cautiously before taking it. The contact of her godly brother's bare arms slowly made the warmth envelop her enough to relax her shoulders.
<What are you doing here, Lord Apollo?>

He smiled slightly. <I worry about my little, beautiful sister. Isn't that what you were thinking, that you are truly beautiful?>

She hesitated, unsure of how to respond. She had never considered that Apollo might- Then again, gods were different from men. Having the same father was of no value to them.

Apollo let go of her abruptly and stepped back. <Holy Olympus, girl, no. I- You're safe. It's all right.>

She looked away slightly. <You can read my thoughts.>

The god's voice was calm, reassuring. <If I try. It's more of a feeling.>

For a moment, there was silence. Then, Helen dared to look up.

Apollo's blue eyes were filled with concern. <Sister?>

Helen touched her face, not surprised to find it wet; she had always cried silently, so no one could see her break down.

<I'll take you to Hecuba,> Apollo offered, holding out his hand. Something about her face must have changed his mind, because he shook his head slightly. <Hector? Andromache?>

Helen sat on the bed, bringing her knees to her chest. She had to force herself to breathe. <Is it a girl?>

Paris was due to arrive in a few hours. With him, on that distant ship, should have been the daughter she had left behind so long ago.

Apollo sat beside her, his chest warm as a human's. Even his touch as he caressed her back was almost human. He barely touched Helen's belly. <I didn't check.>

She squeezed his hand, pinning it to her belly. <If it's a girl, I should kill her, right? Fate->

<You're talking to the god of fate,> he reminded her. His tone was gentle, his voice seemed to make her feel better. She accepted a handkerchief he had pulled out of nowhere. It was gold and had a sun embroidered on it.
<Helen, I don't understand you.>

She raised her head, her eyes still swollen from crying, seeing herself reflected in her brother's irises. Beautiful, beautiful as a trampled rose.

<No?>

<He's here. Just a few steps away. If you want to see him, you can. Polites has seen Odysseus.>

<Menelaus,> she understood. His name was like a curse, a rope to salvation, a noose around her neck.

The god nodded. <Menelaus. Go to him.>

<Paris,> Helen tried to say. She took another breath. <I thought you'd want me to be loyal to Paris.>

Apollo shrugged. <Loyalty and marital fidelity don't always equate. Anyway, I didn't realize you'd have rough sex as soon as they put the two of you in the same room.>

Helen felt her cheeks flush, in disbelief at Apollo's casualness. <We-We won't have sex!>

He laughed. <Exactly. If you want to see him, go to him.>

The princess shook her head. <I can't. I should look him in the eyes and say... I can't.>
She patted her lap lightly, searching for something inside her. She felt something for that little life: despair.

Apollo studied her face. <You want me to make it go away?>

<What?>

The god's appearance changed slightly. His hair lightened, his eyes a deeper blue. Something about his face resembled Helen's reflection in her mirror.
He looked deadlier. And more familiar.
<You want me to make it go away? The child?> he asked again.

The waves swept over her. It was like being underwater, drowning while trying to grasp a rope that was too far away. Under her fingers, under that skin, there was something of hers. Of hers, and Paris's. Of hers, and Troy's.
<Is it a girl?>

Apollo barely opened his mouth but that second between the question and the answer had made her tremble.

<No. No, I don't> said Helen.

Paris had complicated everything. He had taken her away and her life had changed so much. And yet, she was still just a girl in a palace.
Paris, who dragged her through the halls to show her the dawn, who had no manners, slept with a god and made flirtatious jokes to everyone, male or female. Paris, the reason he hadn't seen Hermione grow up. Paris, who wasn't the real reason, because her choices were the real reason. Paris, who had never been a hero. Paris, who had not been the villain of the story for many years.

<I want this baby.>

Apollo nodded, his expression unchanged, as if both choices had the same weight. <Okay. In that case, I have something in mind that will distract you.>

***

As they descended the stairs, they passed Pammon. Like each of Paris's brothers, now accustomed to the sun god pacing the palace, he responded by bowing slightly, uttering a blessing, and disappearing from view.

<There are so many of them,> Apollo chuckled. <I don't know how Hector does it.>

Helen knew. <Lets Andromache handle them.>

The god seemed amused by her response. He helped her down the last step and led her toward a corridor that opened onto the inner garden.

There, with two wooden swords in his hands, Aeneas trained Ascanius with Creusa nearby.

Apollo followed her gaze. <You wouldn't say he was the son of the goddess of love, would you?>

<I would say so,> she contradicted him. <Aeneas is the sweet side of love.>

<Love is not sweet,> the god said solemnly. <If you don't believe me,> he added, pointing to the door, <ask him.>

Helen blinked, dazzled by a small ray of sunlight. When she opened her eyes again, Apollo had disappeared and a faint scent of laurel filled the air.

***

She knocked softly on the door, expecting literally anything. Instead, the voice inside was only vaguely familiar, like something she had only heard a couple of times years ago.

<Come in, excuse the mess.>

Helen cautiously opened the door, coming face to face with a face that, after a certain duel, everyone present would remember forever.

His eyes widened, hesitating a moment before bowing slightly. <Princess Helen,> Patroclus greeted as he fiddled with a speculum.

“Love is not sweet,” Apollo had told her.

<I was hoping you could examine me,> she said, unsteadily on her feet, her hand lightly touching her belly.

Patroclus, as a good doctor and even more so as a soldier, noticed the movement. <Of course,> he said gently, <please take a seat.>

He didn’t seem fazed by her presence there. He proceeded like a professional, uncovering her body without even lingering with his gaze.

Many years ago, Helen had heard an oath. The same oath she had heard many times before, but this time there had been something different.

<You never swore to fight for my marriage,> she began.

Patroclus' hand twitched before he returned to feel her lap. <No, I didn't. Achilles did.>

Helen studied his face for a moment. Achilles, the great, glorious, handsome, heroic Achilles.

Patroclus had gone to war for someone, too. But he was one of the few who hadn't done it for her.

The man spoke again. <You'll think it was useless. I didn't have much to give, and there was no need for me to come.>

Helen shook her head. <Not useless. Not for everyone.>

There were two men, and a spear piercing Patroclus from side to side. The flash of horror on Hector's face, and the shadow of death cast over Troy by an unstoppable warrior.

She wondered what it was like for him to be seen by everyone as an extension of Achilles, nothing more than what was needed to get to him.

He gave her belly one last pat. <It seems okay. Come back in a couple of weeks, or if you feel something is wrong, have me call.>

<Why do you do this?> she found herself asking. He had been so gentle, so careful. <Why work for the enemy?>

Something in him, in his gaze, deepened, knowing. <My enemy or yours, Princess Helen?>

Hector, speaking softly to her but ordering her not to leave the palace. Andromeda, who stroked her hair after a nightmare but had ordered that she always be escorted by at least ten men when she went out into the city. Paris, who was everything and nothing, friend and lover and kidnapper and jailer.

<I don't know. It's more complicated than you think.>

<No, I understand,> he surprised her, his tone calm as if he were remembering to drink some water. <You want to know why I do this?>

Helen nodded.

<I love healing people. I like people being okay. I especially like that people who never mattered are okay.>

Patroclus helped her up. <I talked to Hector, you know? About Achilles, and other things.>

Helen couldn't help but be surprised. If there was one thing she'd learned in those ten years, it was that Hector always did his best, with everyone. Even with her.

<Do you miss him?>

<Always,> Patroclus said with new confidence. <From the moment I open my eyes until I can sleep and go to him in my dreams.>

"Ten years of war," Helen thought. "Ten years of war, and he still looks like a boy having his first kiss."

<He had... a son,> Helen tried, not sure how to phrase the question.

Patroclus surprised her again. <Neoptolemus. I live in fear of the day when I have to make them get along.> He smiled, as if this world where Achilles and the boy got along was as beautiful as it was terrifying. <He looks like him.>

She wondered if Hermione still looked like her. Would the new child be like her, or like Paris?

<Do you miss him?> he asked.

Helen bit her lip lightly. <Menelaus? Or Paris?>

She felt as if she had admitted her greatest sin. The question had slipped out, instinctively, and was now exposed, showing her divided heart.

Patroclus shrugged. <Do you miss Paris?>

Ironic smiles, runs that were meaningless only because of the adrenaline, a strange complicity, small joint training sessions in which he secretly passed her weapons to continue practicing the art of Spartan war. <The break is welcome. But yes, a little.>

Patroclus smiled slightly. <And do you miss Menelaus?>

The man she had chosen, the sweet kisses, the beard that barely tickled her skin, his lips in her hair, a triumphant smile when he called her wife, an unshakeable love and constant discussions. Adoring eyes and jealousy. <Yes.>

Patroclus sighed. <You can come back whenever you want.>

Chapter Text

Paris was pretty sure he would wake up with a dagger in his chest. If he had a coin for every time he had been through that, he would be rich by now.

"You are a prince," he reminded himself. It was strange how, after more than twelve years, he still tended to forget that. "You are already rich, no need for the daggers." To be honest, Paris had never taken himself seriously.

This time, the threat came from the girl who would probably one day be the second most beautiful woman in the world.

<Don't look at me. If you touch me I will bite your fingers off,> she growled.

Paris raised an eyebrow, trying not to laugh and make the situation worse. Hermione, dear girl, was just like her mother: energetic, beautiful and full of anger.

<I have to keep an eye on you. I don’t trust the crew.>

<Hire better sailors,> she said. She was wearing a peplos, as befitted a visiting noble queen. Her hair, long and so light brown it was almost blonde, was tied in a delicate hairstyle embellished with small pearls. She had the same features as her mother, but without the slight wrinkles that had begun to mark Helen during the long years of war. The nostalgia for his wife was increasingly pressing, and so was the same old guilt.

She was so much like her that Paris had trouble seeing Menelaus' parts. He wondered what he would see if he put them side by side.

Thinking about Menelaus was dangerous, it sent him into a spiral of doubt. He wondered if Helen had been to him. He hadn't ordered her not to go, even though some generals and Deiphobus had suggested it. He had never been good at giving orders, least of all to his fierce Spartan wife.
Menelaus was a strange creature, in his head. He had collected fragments of him from Helen’s rare tales, and remembered him from his time in Sparta. It was hard to hate him. In fact, Paris hadn’t really tried; he had known for more than a decade that Menelaus loved Helen, and that Helen loved him, too.

When she’d collapsed, the day the war ended, Menelaus had seemed relieved when he’d taken her.

Menelaus probably hated him. He probably would never understand why Paris didn’t care.

Hermione had gone back to looking out to sea. Paris hesitated. <Do you look like your father, princess?>

She looked up, her eyes so blue they rivaled the sky. She was so young, and for a moment Paris wondered if he should turn the ship around, take her to a desert island, and abandon her there, far from fate and the world. <I haven’t seen him in ten years because of your and my mother’s reckless actions. You have to tell me if I look like him.>

<You look a lot like her,> Paris said softly.

Hermione rolled her eyes and looked away again.

For the rest of the journey, Paris didn't dare bring up the subject again.

***

The first one he saw, as always, was Hector. Paris still had the spirit of the shepherd of Mount Ida in him, and there was no one he hadn't already disappointed at that point, so he dropped everything, jumped off the bridge they were still mooring, and ran to hug his brother.

Hector smiled a moment before he found himself crushed. <You're home. How many declarations of war should I expect in the next few weeks?>

Paris rolled his eyes. <Try "welcome back".>

He felt his brother step back and put his hands on his shoulders. His smile was so bright. <Hello, Paris. Welcome home.>

Something between his chest and his heart vanished and Paris began to breathe again.

***

When the ship docked, Helen materialized beside Andromache like a shadow. <Paris.>

He studied her face. And, despite himself, his gaze wandered, searching for a sign of Menelaus on her.

<Paris?> she tried again, uncertainly.

<Sorry,> he smiled slightly. <She's fine. Come, I'll take you to her.>

Helen hesitated before taking his arm.

It was his fault. Once, that girl would have lit up everything. Now she was a woman, and there was so little light in her.

He stopped a few steps from the gangway. <Do you want to go alone?> he asked softly.

Helen looked vaguely at Hector, intent on speaking to Andromache, then at the guards. <May I?>

Marriages were strange things. For women, no authority was higher than that of the husband. And for Helen, Paris had never been authoritative.
<Go,> he said, trying to sound convincing. Helen's eyes twinkled a little.
<Go,> he repeated, much more confident. How foolish he was, he told himself, to still chase that light. <She looks like you.>

Helen gasped. <Yes. Same breathtaking beauty.>

<No,> Paris found himself smiling at Helen's confusion. <You know, he spent half the trip making me feel like my life was in danger.>

Paris was a fool, but sometimes fools win wars. Helen laughed, and the whole world lit up at least a little.

***

Hermione saw the woman so like her and so far from the legend she had always heard. She was laughing, with an enemy, but she didn't look happy. She looked like she was running away and that single man was just a temporary relief, a stopover on her escape.

She was good at reading people, especially men. She had been surrounded by them all her life. Paris was annoying, but not dangerous: she had failed to read skill, or courage, or desire in him.

She was good, but not good enough. Not to be prepared when she—Helen, the demigod Helen—held out her arms, her eyes shining with tears and her face so pathetically human and called her "daughter."

Hermione hated them, all of them: the man who had brought her here, the ones at the parties who bought her drinks, the ones who wanted to marry her and the ones who pretended not to. And her father, because he had left, because he had not taken her with him.

She didn't hate that strange, beautiful woman so similar to her.

Hermione just found her pathetic.

***

Apollo appeared soon, sooner than Paris had expected. <My little sister forgot to say welcome back, sunshine.>

<Give her a break,> Paris said instinctively. Then he realized who was in front of him. <Apollo!>

<Hey,> he greeted the god, sitting on his lap so that their chests were touching. <Can you unpack later?>

<We saw each other the day before yesterday on the ship,> Paris reminded him, laughing slightly.

Apollo snorted. <It's different in my city.>

He played with a lock of the prince's hair and Paris blushed. <Helen->

<With Hector and Andromache, they're arranging the girl's rooms. Polites' ship docks in two hours, dinner in three and a half. No one in danger, no attack in sight->

The god was interrupted by Paris' lips on his. <You've convinced me.>

***

Three quarters of an hour later, Apollo was on the bed strumming his harp and Paris was choosing what to wear to greet Polites.

<So, how is she?> Apollo asked.

Paris glared at him. <I know we're your favorite family but you mustn't bother Hermione.>

He wasn't serious, Apollo knew. Paris always thought the best of him.

<Look at you, future parent. The girl is my niece, I'm just curious.>

Paris nodded. <Red or light colors?>

<Light,> he said pointing to the chiton in his right hand.

Paris undressed and dressed without any shame. Apollo smiled as the notes flowed from the instrument.

<She's angry,> he said. <And scared. I'm not sure what to do with her.>

<What does Hector say?>

<That she must get married. Helen said so too.>

Apollo thought about it. <How old is she?>

Paris looked down slightly. <She's young. Fifteen, I think. Maybe sixteen. Will you tie me in the back?>

<Well, there’s always Troilus.> Apollo studied the chiton skeptically. <I’m a god, tie it yourself.>

Paris sat on the edge of the bed and folded his arms. Apollo resisted for three seconds before relenting and helping him with the laces.

<Are you serious about Troilus?>

Apollo grimaced slightly. <I can’t say I know him, honestly. I’m not around all the time. But if Hector thinks it might work…>

The entire royal family of Troy, through thick and thin, was under Apollo’s protection. Paris was obviously the favorite, but he wasn’t the only one he’d blessed. At least once a month, young Polyxena would bring a necklace of shells to his altar. In his spare time, he tried to train Troilus, and the boy was precious to him in that strange never-too-close way. Deiphobus was fierce, and sometimes Apollo was, too. It was his job in battle to keep arrows from hitting him when he charged. Antiphus was nothing special, but with his wedding approaching he was asking for help more and more. Apollo found it sweet, and had done what he could. He saw Pammon as his boyfriend’s strange, silent little brother, the one who was always there but never did anything. He had healed a couple of his wounds once. Creusa, on the other hand, was so into Aphrodite’s son, but had still asked for his blessing and not hers for Ascanius. He also liked Aeneas, the strange addition to the family. Priam had been a favorite of his, and he had had to remind himself more than once that he could never visit him again. And, of course, he adored Hecuba. He did his best to comfort her when she thought of the children she had buried. Finally, there were Helenus and Cassandra, two sides of the same coin and a constant tightness in his chest.

<Apollo?>

He blinked, turning back to Paris. <Did you say something?>

<Hector,> Paris repeated. <And Troilus and Hermione.>

Apollo stopped fiddling with the laces. <Honestly, I’d be lying if I said there were other mortals in the world whose opinions I cared about as much as Hector’s.>

All gods have favorite paladins or heroes. Usually, they were descendants or sons of those same gods.
Apollo, on the other hand, had favored Priam when he was young. An ordinary boy, and then a king like so many others. But that son, that glorious hero, that unshakable rock… Troy was his city, and he had given them Troilus as a gift, but no one in the world belonged to Troy like Hector.

Paris nodded. <He’s my favorite, too.>

Apollo shook his head. <Fool. You’re my favorite. Hector is my hero. It's different.>

His lover sank onto the bed beside him, his fingers brushing the strings of the harp. <Umh. I mean, just out of curiosity, you wouldn't have s->

<If your brother hears you, he'll have your tongue cut out.>

Hector was Andromache's all the way. Apollo, however, hadn't chosen him because he was handsome, or strong, or brave. Apollo adored him because he was an idiot who would tear himself to pieces for his family and their world had so few good people. It wasn't love in the form he felt for Paris.

<So no?>

Paris was smiling mischievously and Apollo knew him well enough to know it was just his way of turning off his brain and the pain.

He kissed him on the lips and one on the forehead. <Not Hector, not Polites, and for the love of Olympus, not Pammon. Not anyone else. Just you.>

It was a bit of a lie, and the memory of Cassandra was pressing under the skin. Then again, Paris also said he loved him and then went back to Helen. So neither of them were really lying.

Thinking about Helen brought another thought to his mind. <Have you thought of a name for the baby?>

Paris groaned. <You have a talent for ruining the mood.>
He didn't mean it. The atmosphere had been broken since the winking jokes. It was easy to read Paris; his mouth was the most lying thing in the world.

For a moment, he saw him think. Apollo began to play with his hair. <If it's a boy, maybe they'll expect me to name him Priam?>

Apollo would have liked that. <Helen wouldn't want that, I think.>

<Have you two talked?> Paris asked with a hint of curiosity.

<More or less,> he summarized. <She had a bad time, then she made friends with your new healer.>

Paris, who alternated between strange moments of jealousy and feigned nonchalance, still managed a shrug. <Polites loves him. I imagine there are worse things.>

<What if it's a girl?> Apollo asked instead, strangely curious.

The light in Paris' eyes faded. <Ida,> he whispered as if it were a secret. <But they'll never let me use it, will they?>

Apollo was about to answer when a strange feeling hit him.

<I have to go,> he announced. He saw the confusion in Paris' eyes, but the feeling was pressing.

Delphi.

***

Achilles hesitated, standing in front of the entrance. <Should I...?>

Thetis nodded, a sad smile like a beautiful shipwreck. <Your path to glory. Kneel down and ask the oracle about your fate.>

He knew his mother didn't approve. She didn't want that fate of glory and death for him.

But it wasn't just about glory anymore, nor honor. Behind those walls, someone was waiting.

<Achilles, son of Peleus, come forward and ask.>

There was green smoke all around him. Something with a strange smell was coming out of the cracks. His head was starting to hurt.

He knelt down, and there was only one name in his head.

<How can I get back to him?>

Chapter Text

Telemachus’s first night in Troy was quiet. Personally, he even found it disappointing: all his life he’d been tormented with stories of brave Trojans and walls reaching to the sky, but all he’d gotten was Hector—the legendary Hector—taking his suitcase and helping him up to his room.

Polites had gotten a hug from almost every brother present and from Queen Andromache, and so had Troilus. Neoptolemus had glared at anyone who looked at him for more than three seconds but had taken some more of Telemachus’s luggage.

<I can carry something.>

<No,> Andromache stopped him, carrying a basket.

<We’ll take care of it, boy,> Hector agreed.

<But->

Neoptolemus snorted. <At the very least, you’d drop everything.>

Polites rolled his eyes. He had one of the bags slung over his shoulder. <Easy, you two. And, Tele, we don't mind giving you a hand.>

Telemachus appreciated the help. But he didn't understand why the help was so extreme.

Eventually, Polites and Neoptolemus went to find Patroclus and left him with Hector and Andromache as if nothing had happened.

Telemachus wanted to tell them to wait but Hector was asking him in what order he liked the chitons - by color or temperature - and he was distracted.

<Here you go!> Andromache announced shortly after, smoothing the blankets with one hand. <I think we're done.>

Hector nodded as if they had just won a battle. <Good work, everyone. Can we help you with anything else?>

Telemachus looked in amazement at the things carefully and thoughtfully arranged around the room.
<Are there... any servants?> he asked almost out of habit.

Hector shrugged. <Yes, of course. But we still had to show you around, didn't we?>

Andromache stepped closer. <Are you tired?> she asked in a gentle voice.

Telemachus, so used to his mother, had no choice but to deny it. <No, thank you...>

<Andy,> she suggested. <If this isn't a public meeting, at least.>

Telemachus peered in Hector's direction, expecting a protest or at least a little surprise. The man, busy putting away his empty bags, didn't seem to have even heard the conversation.

He looked back at the queen. <I'm Telemachus,> he said, feeling a little stupid; Polites had introduced him earlier.

Andromache smiled. <It's nice to have you here, Telemachus. If you need anything, Hector and I are in the room at the top of the steps to your right, okay?>

It was the only staircase in the hallway and Telemachus had already seen it when he entered. Had they put him to sleep in the family area? Not in one of the guest rooms?

<Polites is two rooms down from you,> Hector added, making him jump. <And Neoptolemus and Patroclus, too. Otherwise, Aeneas and Creusa have the room at the end of the other corridor. If you go up the stairs there, there’s your aunt Helen and Paris’s room.>

Telemachus nodded shyly. <Thank you?>

The man hesitated for a moment. <I know... it can’t be easy arriving somewhere new, especially under these circumstances.>

He felt Andromache come closer and put a hand on his shoulder. The touch was gentle, and Telemachus wondered if she was trying to reassure him.

Hector was tall and muscular, and it made him feel a little… tiny. But Uncle Polites had been incredibly protective the entire trip, and hadn’t hesitated for a moment before leaving him with them.

<I’ll be fine,> he said.

Hector smiled slightly. <Sure. Do you want to go to your father's after dinner?>

Telemachus bit his lip and didn't answer.

***

Patroclus saw him before Neoptolemus could see him.

As they approached the infirmary, two arms wrapped around him and he found himself pressed against the healer. <You're back!>

Polites laughed, moving aside to give them space. <Hey, Pat. Sorry it took us a while.>

Patroclus replied calmly, still holding Neoptolemus. <Was everything okay? Telemachus?>

<With Hector, they're unpacking. You? Are you okay?>

Neoptolemus felt a hand stroking his hair. <Yes, everything's fine. I talked to Helen a bit and met Hermione. I also got the new supply of medicinal plants.>

Polites had to nod or something. Neoptolemus squirmed. <Let go, damn it.>

Patroclus looked almost surprised. <No.>

<No?> Neoptolemus' voice was incredulous.

Patroclus inhaled and exhaled. <Just a minute. I'm realizing you're okay.>

<This is absurd!> he blurted out, but stopped struggling. He had to admit to himself that, if he wanted to, he could have freed himself even before Patroclus had hugged him.

After a few more moments, he felt the arms release him and Patroclus step back. His eyes were slightly glossy. <Hey. Are you taller?>

Neoptolemus had no idea. <I don't know. Maybe. What's gotten into you all of a sudden?>

Patroclus shook his head. <Nothing, Neo. Welcome back. Would you like to tell me something about the trip?>

Polites was grinning like an idiot and Neoptolemus felt the urge to punch him. Why on earth did he have such a proud look on his face?

<If you must.>

Patroclus brightened. <Just give me a moment.>

Neoptolemus watched in shock as he and Polites exchanged a quick hug and a few whispers. Then, Polites walked away and Neoptolemus found himself inundated with questions.

***

The dinner had been pleasant. Troilus had shown up accompanied by Apollo himself, who had vanished immediately after. Then they had sat down, Hector had said a prayer to the gods - Telemachus was still realizing the presence of the true god who had been there moments before - and they had eaten. Polites had filled his cup with juice and made his portion for him.

<I can->

<Your mother has given orders for your diet. Eat.> Despite his sweetness, his uncle clearly had the look of someone who was ready to tie him to the chair until he had at least tasted something. Telemachus sighed: he had a scary mother, he had always known it. That was why he liked her.

The tiredness of the journey was starting to make itself felt and the grumbling of Hermione to his right and the non-stop chatter of Troilus to his left did not help.

Without knowing how it had happened, he found himself in a dreamless sleep.

***

Hector looked at the boy. He looked like a sleeping puppy, and the impulse was to take off his cloak and cover him.

<I'll take care of it,> Polites said immediately, standing up. In an instant, Neoptolemus had appeared beside him.

Hector studied them both for a moment before nodding. <Let me know if you need anything, okay?>

***

As they retired for the night, Hector passed Pammon, who was chatting with Polyxena, and Aeneas, who was trying to persuade Ascanius to go to bed. Paris and Helen were both looking at Hermione. The girl, with her arms folded, looked angrier than ever.

Andromache put a hand on his arm.<They’re fine, love. You did a good job. >

<But->

<Let’s go to bed,> she ordered. <The boys are grown and will be fine. And Helenus won’t keep Scamander forever.>

***

Polites hesitated at the entrance to the prison.

“You promised,” a voice all too similar to Penelope’s reminded him.

<You here too?> a voice so similar to the one in his head asked.

Polites turned, instinctively reaching for his spear. But his spear wasn’t there, he wasn’t bringing it to dinner.
<Helen?>

The woman emerged from the shadows, nodding slightly. <Welcome back. Have you seen Penelope?>

<She asked about you,> Polites said, his shoulders relaxing and smiling slightly. <She said to wish you well. She said she hoped you could be happy.>

Helen nodded, her eyes distant. <Are you coming in?>

Polites bit his lip, having no real answer.

She nodded as if that made everything clear. <If you come in, come to me first.>

***

The sun had barely risen when Aeneas found himself surrounded by the odd couple of Polites and Helen.

<Can I… help you?>

He had never really spoken to either of them, other than the strange battle in which Polites had acquired Neoptolemus.

Polites nodded. <Yes, we need a favor. Can you go to the prison and tell some things to… people?>

He had a feeling that was a bad idea. As often happened, he found himself sighing: the price for Creusa, the most extraordinary woman in the world, was her crazy, huge family. There was a reason they only had one child.

<What did Hector say?>

There was a look of pure panic between them. But beneath the surface, Aeneas could see it: the fire of his mother’s dominion, stretching underground and upward.

<Fine,> he relented. <Tell me what to do.>

***

Diomedes had been expecting someone to come down ever since the news of the ships in the harbor had reached him. But, admittedly, he hadn’t expected Aeneas.

The sun had already set when the prince entered, looking around as if a monster were about to leap out of the walls. He had the serious look that commanders had before battle.

All day, there had been singing and noise from outside, as if something had happened. In fact, the Trojan looked tired.

Slowly, everyone turned to look at him. He walked to the center of the prison and scanned their faces one by one.

<No,> he said solemnly. <I don’t recognize you by sight. Can Menelaus raise a hand, please? I have a message.>

Really? the voice in Diomedes’ head snapped. The warrior agreed. “Didn’t they have anyone else to send? Someone to give a physical description to?”

Luckily, Menelaus had never been the quarrelsome one. He had spent his time praying for his brother’s soul and his daughter’s health. Occasionally, he would chat with Odysseus.
So Diomedes wasn’t surprised to see him raise a hand.

<What’s going on?> he asked, his voice slightly hoarse.

Aeneas studied him for a moment. <Okay,> he said in a gentle voice. <It’s really not too long. Helen asked me to tell you that your daughter is here and safe and that they haven’t chosen a husband for her yet. Then to tell you that everything in Sparta is under control and that the proper rites have been performed for your brother Agamemnon. Finally, she asked me…> she paused for a moment, studying his face. <She asked me to tell you that she’s sorry.>

For a moment, Menelaus was silent. Then he took a deep breath. <Thank her… for the rites, and for the news about Hermione. You can-> His voice broke.

Aeneas did not laugh, nor did he try to do anything. He just stood there, still, waiting while the king of Sparta tried to compose himself.

That’s what emotions do: they make people pathetic, Athena reminded him. She’d been talking about that concept a lot lately, and she’d stopped visiting Odysseus. Diomedes hadn’t quite figured out what had happened that night, remembering only noises in the dark and crying. But it wasn’t hard to see that Odysseus had failed the goddess for the last time.

He’d tried to investigate. Odysseus was one of his closest friends, and the only other protege of Athena he knew. But he’d gotten nothing out of it.

Menelaus ran a hand over his face. When he spoke, his voice was still frail. <Can you… Did she tell you what she’s sorry for?>

<No,> Aeneas said softly. <But she seemed to mean it.>

Menelaus hesitated. <Tell her I’m sorry too. And to be careful.>

<Really?> Diomedes almost shouted. Really, after all these years, he was giving in so quickly?

Athena agreed with him. His weakness will get him killed.

Aeneas, however, didn't seem to find him pathetic. In fact, he even managed a nod of gratitude.
Then, again in a loud voice, <Okay. Odysseus?>

A long silence followed. The Trojan hero looked confused. <Odysseus?> he asked again.

His companion remained silent. Diomedes raised an eyebrow but did nothing to give it away.

Aeneas' gaze wandered between them, as if searching for something. When he met Odysseus' eyes, something changed. <It's you, isn't it?>

The man smiled bitterly. <If you know, then he really did it. He brought Telemachus here.>

"Smart move," Diomedes commented mentally.

Aeneas shrugged. <I'm literally here to tell you. Yes, he's here. He's had his room, his bags were unpacked yesterday. He's asleep now but Polites->

<Whatever prince Polites has to say, he can tell me in person. And you can tell him,> said Odysseus, <that there's no one in the world I find more disgusting than he is. But yes, you can also tell him that he won: I won't try to escape, now.>

<You don't think so,> Aeneas retorted. <Not really. He's your best friend, he->

<He's nothing to me!>

Aeneas took a step back, clutching his chest. <You're lying. Why do you lie about how you feel? Polites->

<I never want to hear his name again!> Odysseus growled. <Tell him to go to Tartarus. In fact,> he added with an almost dark light in his eyes, <tell him to have some sex and get fucked, for a change.>

Aeneas reacted as if he had just been stabbed. <I won't say anything like that to him. And I know you don't mean it,> he whispered. <But, for the love of the gods, give more weight to your words. Hurting him won't bring you home. It will only make you more alone.>

Odysseus looked up at the sky, deaf to the Trojan hero's words. Something in his voice was broken. <It doesn't matter. I'll tell him myself, if he ever has the courage to show his face again.>

***

Achilles watched the arrow fly and crash into the stable. As the fire rose, he began to climb.

Chapter Text

That morning, Telemachus woke up overwhelmed by the music coming from outside. Dazed, it took him a moment to realize where he was.

It was his first morning in Troy. This was his new room. Around him, he had all the things he had brought from home.

He heard a knock on the door. <Hey, sweetheart, are you awake yet?>

Telemachus sat up, a little shy. <Uncle Polites?>

The man gently opened the door. <Hey. Good morning.>

Telemachus looked down. <I... fell asleep on the table yesterday.>

He heard light footsteps and his uncle's hand in his hair. <Yes. You were really tired. Are you feeling better?>

<Sorry.>

He felt the mattress sag slightly as Polites sat down next to him. He didn't say anything, he just remained silent and the silence went on for so long that, finally, Telemachus couldn't stand it anymore.
He looked up. <I->

Polites smiled slightly. <A hug?>

He felt the tension melt away. Polites was always kind but, as he had learned from their time at sea, he wasn't kind to everyone equally.

He nodded and warmth enveloped him.
<Happy first day,> Polites whispered. <And happy birthday, Telemachus.>

***

Outside his room, there was total chaos. Polites had braided his hair in a brazenly Greek hairstyle and helped him choose his clothes for the day. Now, they were trying to get to the kitchens.

<It's late,> Telemachus said, looking at the sun. In Ithaca, he would have been awake for a couple of hours.

Polites shook his head. <You were tired, sweetheart. And you have nothing urgent to do. And it's your birthday. It's fine.>

Telemachus looked in amazement at a woman carrying three goats. <Is... something going on?>

<Oh,> Polites said. <You'll see.>

***

The kitchen was busy with preparations under Andromache's stern direction. Every few minutes, a messenger would come in and have her examine new papers.

When she saw them enter, the queen ran to hug Polites - Telemachus was slowly realizing that his uncle was a big fan of hugs, and that it was a family thing. Finally, she turned to him, giving him a kiss on both cheeks. <Happy birthday, Telemachus.>

<My queen,> one of the servants called before Telemachus could say thank you, <the two cakes are ready to be baked.>

<Cakes?> Telemachus asked. It was an old family tradition to make a small cake on his birthday but he had no idea how Andromache could know that.

Andromache smiled. <Didn't you tell him, Polites?>

<He's smart,> the man replied. <Let him figure it out for himself.>

Telemachus studied the kitchen and Andromache's dress, so formal. Outside, the music was growing. Goats to be sacrificed, general chaos.
<Are you celebrating something today?>

Andromache laughed. <Your birthday, dear. And Scamandrius' too.>

Telemachus blinked. His brain repeated the sentence once, twice. <Wait. Scamandrius, the crown prince?>

Polites nodded. <Yes.>

<Do we have the same birthday?>

Andromache put a hand on his shoulder. <Yes. Exactly ten years apart.>

Telemachus was incredulous. What were the chances? <And... I'm celebrating today too?>

Andromache's eyes darkened for a moment. <Of course. It's your birthday too.>

Polites ruffled his hair. <Your mom gave me a list. Plus, I had my fair share of Greek birthdays as a kid. This will be fun!>

Telemachus watched the cakes being put into the oven and something nestled in his chest. Emotion, and a hint of nostalgia.
He took Polites' hand. <Okay. Breakfast, and then we go.>

***

In the courtyard, ritual sacrifices were being prepared. Usually, his mother would sacrifice the most beautiful sheep in his honor, but Troy was much larger than Ithaca. So it was clear that there would be more than one sacrifice.
<They won't... do human sacrifices, right?>

Polites gasped. <What? No, don't be silly.> The grip on his hand tightened and became firmer and more reassuring. <Three sheep, a cow, and whatever Hector brought back from the hunt.>

That was a lot. Ithaca couldn't afford all that. Suddenly, Telemachus felt very small.

Polites seemed to notice. <Let's go see how Polyxena and Creusa are doing with the chorus, shall we?>

***

Even before reaching the inner courtyard, Telemachus heard the voices. A perfect harmony, so beautiful it seemed divine.

Polyxena was in the center, dressed in white, her hair loose. She had bright eyes and delicate golden bracelets on her wrists. Her voice was strong and pure.

Telemachus swore he had seen her shine in the light.

He remembered hearing Polites sing, and that his voice was also truly beautiful. <Are you all singers?>

<It's the city of the god Apollo,> Polites explained. <We are all at least a little inclined to one of his arts. You should have heard Laodice play the aulòs, she was so good.>

<Laodice?>

<Another of my sisters. She got married some time ago and sometimes sends letters.>

Telemachus nodded, lost and confused.

Polites brought him closer. <Come. You can try playing. Or do you prefer the chorus?>

Telemachus bit his lip, embarrassed at the thought of performing. At the same time, the courtyard was full of life, of voices, and it had been a long time since Telemachus had had any banquets other than those given by the suitors.
The thought struck him. <At home...>

Polites froze. <You must miss it very much. I'm sorry, Tele.>

He shook his head. <No, I... I was thinking about the fact that it's been years since I've had a banquet with singing and... The suitors hated celebrating me. All they wanted to celebrate was themselves.>

Realization dawned on Polites. He took both of his hands in his. <You have a fantastic voice. And you'll be fantastic. And even if you aren't...>

Telemachus' eyes widened. He had been prepared for an encouraging speech, he didn't think Polites would bring up the possibility of causing embarrassment.

Polites ignored his gaze. <Even if I were terrible, absolutely horrible, it would still be fine. When he was a kid, your father wasn't good at this at all! His voice would get high for no reason. It stabilized as he grew. Do you want to sing, Tele?>

It was the first time anyone had ever spoken to him about his father like that. He remembered the conversation with Neoptolemus just before he left.

The night before, Hector had said he would take him to his father. But this was his last birthday, he thought, before he knew if his father would accept him as his own.
<Yes, I would like to try.>

***

Hector returned half an hour later with two boars, and immediately the city came to life with cheers and homages.

Polites smiled as the crowd outside the palace roared. <It was like that even when he was a child. Everyone was crazy about him.>

As the corridors emptied and people flocked outside, Creusa approached them, dabbing her forehead with a handkerchief. <I think the choir rehearsals were pretty good.>

Polites nodded. <What do you think of Tele?>

Creusa looked from the boy, whose anxiety was clearly visible on his face, to his brother, who was, if anything, even more nervous. <He's doing well. He might join us, sometimes. We have a mixed choir that performs at sporting events, and occasionally at banquets or religious ceremonies.>

<Can I?> Telemachus looked at Polites, and Polites just wanted to show Odysseus how much little Tele had grown.

He hadn't missed the way the boy avoided the subject, though.

<Of course you can. You and Polixena are about the same age, it would be nice if you got along.>

***

They were heading to the temple for the sacrifice when Telemachus was swept away by a blond tornado. <Tele!>

<Prince Troilus!> Two guards immediately appeared next to the two. <You shouldn't move away.>

Polites moved aside, so as to give the two more space.

Telemachus looked confused. <Hey?>

Troilus laughed and pulled away. <Sorry. It's the first time I've been to a friend's birthday party, if you don't count Polyxena, but I shouldn't count Polyxena, since she's my sister. Or should I? 'Cause I think she's technically my friend, I mean, I don't treat Polyxena the way I treat Creusa. The point is, you're the first friend to have his birthday party somewhere accessible to me. Neoptolemus hasn't had his birthday since he's been here yet, and anyway, he said he doesn't celebrate, so->

<Troilus,> Polites stopped him, amused in spite of himself. <At least wish Telemachus a happy birthday first.>

Troilus' eyes widened, turning to his friend. <Oh. Right. Happy birthday, Telemachus!>

Telemachus nodded, a little dazed by the torrent of words. <Thanks. It's nice to have a friend at my birthday.>

Troilus was practically bouncing on the spot. <Are you sure? Are you happy? Can we sit together?>

The guards looked tired. Polites laughed. <You two can sit together at the banquet. Telemachus needs to be near the altar for the sacrifice.>

Telemachus watched the light in Troilus' eyes fade. <Right. I'll... be in the back.>

That was strange. <Isn't the royal family... in the front row?>

If he thought about it, he had never seen guards around Polites.

<You didn't tell him?> he actually asked his brother.

Troilus looked away. <There was no opportunity.>

Telemachus had met Troilus on the ship. After Neoptolemus had vaguely introduced them, or rather muttered their names as he pointed to them, the two of them had talked, trained together, dined together. <What didn’t you tell me?>

Troilus looked embarrassed. Telemachus didn’t think it was possible to shut him up.

Polites smiled slightly and nodded to the guards. A moment later, though they were still being watched, there was no one within earshot.

Troilus twisted his fingers. <I…>

Telemachus studied his face. He was clearly uncomfortable, but more than anything he looked scared. He remembered when Troilus had first hugged him, saying he knew how exciting it was to leave home for the first time. He was the only one who understood that, beneath the fear, a part of Telemachus wanted to leave, to see the world.

In the silence, he swore he heard an owl coo.

<You have personal guards.>

Troilus nodded. <To keep me safe.>

<But you can fight,> Telemachus remembered, who had ended up on his ass in almost every fight against him.

Troilus waved a hand. <Not like Py. Not like Hector.>

<The queen had no personal guard.>

<The war is over,> Troilus said. <It's different for me.>

<Why?>

Again, those sad eyes, that fading hope. <Who do you think I resemble? Which of my brothers and sisters?>

Telemachus thought about it. <A little... Polites? Maybe?>

It was a strange realization. Everyone looked alike, from Creusa to Polyxena. In the chaos, the only ones who stood out were Hector, with hair dark enough to be black, and Troilus, with freckles and all that gold. He had Polites’ smile, but Telemachus didn’t see much else.

Troilus shrugged. <You know that Apollo is the patron god of the city. One day, he decided to bless Troy with a gift. So he went to Queen Hecuba, my mother, and granted her a child, a son who could embody the strength and beauty of the city, a manifestation of his own power.>

It took Telemachus a moment to get the point. <Are you a demigod?>

Troilus nodded. <Yeah. It’s a mess. It’s been predicted that if I die before I’m twenty, the city will collapse. That’s why…>
He twirled, gesturing vaguely at the guards.

Telemachus sensed they were talking about something important. About fate, about divine blood.
The only thing on his mind was that room, the suitors, his mother ordering him not to go out, not to be seen.

He had never been allowed to train with boys his own age. He had never been allowed to risk his life.

Telemachus took Troilus' hand, struggling to breathe and calm himself. Suddenly, he had never been angrier. <You can't go out or hang out with people because you're a blessing?> he asked, even though he had already figured it out.

Troilus didn't seem to sense his anger. He looked at their clasped hands in utter confusion. He didn't release his grip. <That's how it was arranged. I already... I shouldn't have come to Ithaca. I just wanted to->

<To live!> Telemachus snapped. <You just wanted to live.>

<That was stupid,> Troilus admitted. <I'll be able to do what I want when I'm twenty.>

Telemachus had heard that all his life, too. "When you come of age, when you are king, then..."

<What do you do with those years?> he asked. <What do you do, with those first twenty that you spent alone in your room, waiting? Who will repay you for not being able to live? Who will apologize to you for twenty years in a cage that they call protection?>

Telemachus thought that Troilus would retreat. That he would let go. Instead, under his usual solar gleam, he saw a fire. Apollo was the god of the sun, of music, of the arts.
Apollo was the god of disease, of pestilence. Apollo was the god of sharp arrows.

<No one will give me anything.> Troilus had straightened his back. His voice was a whisper and Telemachus remembered the serious face he had when they trained. <That's why I keep doing foolish things.>

***

Neoptolemus was already there when Telemachus arrived. Troilus walked away, escorted by the guards, and Telemachus promised to see him after the ceremony.

He didn't even have time to say hello when something was pushed into his hand. <Here. Don't have too high expectations.>

<Did you give me a gift?> Telemachus could tell by Neoptolemus' look that his voice had been too loud.

<You'll open it later,> Polites said, then reached out to pat Neoptolemus on the shoulder. <Hector wants us at the altar.>

Neoptolemus nodded, stepping up beside Polites, and didn't look at Telemachus a second time.

They stood in a semicircle and Telemachus found himself immersed in the fumes. There was a man there, another of the princes.
<Helenus, he's a prophet,> Polites' voice suggested softly.

Hector had Scamandrius in his arms and Andromache at his side as the sacrifices were offered to the gods. They divided the boars equally between the two of them, and Telemachus felt a strange pang of emotion: no one had ever hunted anything for him.

Someone held out a hand, and Telemachus realized with growing panic that a ceremonial knife was needed. He saw Polites reach out to offer his when Neoptolemus patted him on the arm, indicating the gift.

Telemachus opened it with shaking hands, revealing a wooden blade with a rocky landscape on it.

Neoptolemus was smiling as if he had just won a battle.

***

As they walked toward the banquet, he took courage and approached Hector. <Hi...>

The king brightened. <Hey, Telemachus. Happy birthday.>

<Thank you,> he bowed his head slowly, then stood up to look at Scamandrius. <To the prince too?>

<Are you not sure?> Hector seemed amused.

Telemachus bit his lip. <I... Sorry. Yes, I'm sure. Happy birthday. Thank you for the sacrifices. And for... I...>

Hector's expression had become more serious. <Hey, it's okay, I was joking. Thanks for the good wishes, Telemachus.>

Scamandrius also waved a hand. The people were calling his name like a chorus— Astyanax, Astyanax, Astyanax!—but he reached out to Telemachus. <Down! Hand.>

Hector's eyes softened. He ignored the crisis still visible in the boy’s features.
< I think ‘Andrius wants you to accompany him to the banquet hall. Is that okay?>

Telemachus winced. The thing was, the child was so cute, and Telemachus had spent many years wishing he wasn’t so alone, wishing he had someone to share the palace with.

He nodded. <If… is that okay?>

Again, Hector’s expression became serious. <Of course.> He put his son down and Scamandrius clung to Telemachus. He imagined he was used to having new people around all the time.

Telemachus held out his hand and Scamandrius shook it very seriously. <Hall!>

<Yes,> Telemachus assured him. <Let’s go.>

Hector looked pleased, almost proud. He moved to the other side, so that Scamandrius was in the middle between the two of them. <Can I tell you something, Telemachus?>

Scamandrius' hand was really small. Telemachus was almost afraid to squeeze too hard.

Hector took his silence as a yes. <Do you know how I knew today was your birthday?>

It wasn't hard to know. <I guess Polites said that yesterday.>

<Yesterday?> Hector laughed. <Boy, I've known when you were born for years. Your uncle has bombarded me with letters about you. Polites talks about you like you're literally his nephew, like Ascanius and Scamandrius. He wrote to me when you were born and it was six pages of how adorable you were. Before that, I'd had four pages about why Telemachus was a wonderful name and why your father had such a wonderful idea.>

<I'm sorry,> Telemachus said, because it seemed awful to hear about a little unknown brat for all those pages. Part of him was a little emotional.

Hector shook his head. <You may not have noticed, but we put you in the family area. Besides, you should have heard me when Scamandrius was born.>

He said it so casually, as if he were saying the sky was blue.

In the same tone, as if everything was still exactly as it was before, he continued. <So, from what I understand, we’ll hear you sing today?>

Chapter Text

Odysseus, a voice called. And he flinched, confused. Athena no longer spoke to him, but if not his goddess, who was calling his name?

The prisons seemed to dissolve as someone materialized before him. He was in the domain of a deity, he realized.
The goddess was a woman with hair as black as a raven's wings and eyes as green as grass. Her face was thin but with lovely rosy cheeks. Her lips were like rosebuds and her eyelashes were long. <Odysseus> she called again.

Her dress was long, flowing on the hips, woven with pink and black. In her hair, a tiara.

<Who are you?> he asked, hesitantly.

She smiled, warm and sweet as honey. She was close. Closer and closer. <Me? Just a woman who wants a little taste of the truth.>

<Truth?> Odysseus asked, stepping back a little.

<On Polites,> she sang. Her fingers wandered, brushing his chest. <Or...>

She was really close, and her scent was as intoxicating as the alcohol.

Odysseus hesitated, his mouth feeling dry. <What- What's going on?>

<Do you want to go home, Odysseus?> she asked. <Do you want to save your companions, to see your homeland again?>

<More than anything in the world.>

She nodded. <Convince me.>

Odysseus knew he was talking to a goddess. But without Athena and with his mind clouded, he couldn't identify who he was talking to. <How?>

She smiled as sharp as a knife as her hands roamed and grazed his cheek, his lips, his chest, and further down...

There are other ways of persuasion
There are other modes of control
There are other means of deceit
There are other roads to the soul

"Wait," Odysseus wanted to say, but his head throbbed.

There are other actions of passion
You have so much left to learn
Want to save your men from the fire?
Show me that you're willing to burn, woah

He felt a shiver shake him as she began to play with the hem of his robe.

Who's to say, with the mistakes I've made

(Don't be afraid)

That they will be the last

(Think of your past)

Mistakes I ever make?

(Don't break when)

There is so much power, so much power
But there's no puppet here

It was like being in a bubble, like her fingers were everywhere and nowhere, and Ithaca was so far away, so unreachable.
"Convince me."

This is the price we pay to love.

(I'm just a man)

There is no line, never enough.

(I'm just a man)

So much power, so much power.

(Forgive me)

But there's no puppet here

A single finger began to lift the fabric and something inside Odysseus screamed. <I can't!>

The woman stopped, pulling her hands away from him with a curious expression on her face. <You can always answer my question instead.>

"Polites," Odysseus thought. And it worked like a prayer, because everything came out.
<Back at home, my wife awaits me.
She's my everything, my Penelope.
And she's all my power, all my power,
but it's been twelve long years.
Oh, twelve long years since I have seen my wife,
and now I've cut my best friend out of my life.>

The goddess smiled. <Did you really do that?>

Odysseus bit his lip. <He has... And then...>

<Do you still love him?> she asked, her voice gentle and soft as... flower petals. Something clicked in Odysseus' mind.

<Yes,> he admitted. <It would be easy, otherwise.>

<Does he love you?> the goddess asked, her voice sounding like she already knows the answer.

Odysseus hesitated. <Yes. Yes, because he keeps trying.>

She waved a hand slightly. <And now what will you do, little king of Ithaca?>

He did the only thing possible: he knelt and prayed. <I beg you, Persephone, grant us mercy,
and let us puppets leave...>

<You guessed my name,> she said, vaguely impressed. She waved a hand, but nothing happened. <Divine condemnation, huh?>

Odysseus blinked, remembering Hermes' words.

Persephone helped him up and took his hands in hers. <There might be a way to evade it,
There might be a way to get home.
Though this other way's very dangerous,
it might be your one final hope.
I know of a brilliant prophet,
problem is, this prophet is Trojan.
I can't get you home
but I'll get you to his chambers instead.
I'll release your men
and I'll take you to his chambers instead.>

Odysseus watched in amazement as the door opened. <Wait, are you helping us?>

The goddess gently let go of his hands. She looked taller and more mature, suddenly. <There are many ways of persuasion,
there are many modes of control.
Maybe showing one act of kindness
leads to kinder souls down the road.
I remember actions of passion,
I have been in love once before.
Maybe one day, the world will need a puppeteer no more.>

She pushed him slightly, making him advance towards the exit. When freedom was a step away, he felt her lips brush his ear. <Oh, maybe one day, the world will need a puppeteer
more.>

Odysseus tried to turn around, but she had already vanished, and the only evidence of her passage remained that perfume.

So much power, so much power
but there's no puppet here.
No, they're not players, they're puppeteers.
No, they're not players, they're puppeteers, yeah.

***

Menelaus watched in amazement as the door opened and Odysseus emerged from the purple smoke. <How did you do that?>

Diomedes emerged a moment later. <Was it a goddess? Which one?>

<It doesn’t matter,> Odysseus cut them off, remembering he had to find someone. <We have to go. Do any of you know of a Trojan prophet?>

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then Diomedes, his voice dramatically loud, made an exasperated sound. <Oh, no! Not that guy.>

***

Patroclus had to duck to avoid another beam while the grip around his wrist remained rock-solid. <Neo, can you slow down?>

The boy ignored him like the previous four times. <We need to find Polites, Troilus and Telemachus.>

The royal palace of Troy was in flames. Now that he was inside, he understood why Hector had been so upset the first time.

Neoptolemus was unstoppable, straight as an arrow towards the objective. And Patroclus, for some reason, had to go with him.

A couple of times, they glimpsed soldiers but in the darkness it was difficult to make out the coats of arms. It was certainly an organized attack.

Finally they reached the area of ​​the royal apartments. Neoptolemus let him go for just an instant, the time to call out Telemachus' name. Then, after half a minute of silence, he did the same with Troilus and again with Polites.

<We should look for Hec->

<Hector is Trojan, and an enemy. He has no reason to protect us,> Neoptolemus said solemnly. <We need to find the important people and go somewhere where I can move freely. I’ll take care of it from there.>

Patroclus nodded, stunned. He had almost forgotten what war was like, in love as he was with his few months of peace.

<You’re here, thank goodness!> A woman had appeared out of nowhere. <Follow me.>

Patroclus studied her: she was elegantly dressed, and vaguely reminiscent of Paris. She was not Creusa, nor Polyxena, so: <You're the famous Cassandra. We never->

<Follow me!> she pleaded. <Fate...>
Patroclus found himself backing away, sickened by the very idea of ​​following her. He had no idea why, it was simple instinct, almost as natural as drinking or breathing.

<Let's go,> suggested Neoptolemus, pointing in the opposite direction.

The woman, who until then had been screaming and trying to make him follow, faded away. <No,> she murmured.

Then, like a woman condemned to death, she came alongside Neoptolemus.

<Are you coming too?> asked Patroclus, confused.

She nodded. <Fate,> he repeated.

***

They found Polites and the others shortly after. Hector was trying to calm Scamandrius and Andromache was handing out blankets. They were in one of the areas where the fire had died down and the men were preparing to fight. Deiphobus was absent, rallying the troops, according to Hector.

He didn’t react to Patroclus’ presence outside the area where he had been confined. In fact, he seemed relieved to see him. Andromache gave him a blanket.

She tried to give one to Neo as well but the boy reacted as if it were poisonous. Beside them, Telemachus sighed and offered him his own, which Neo took without a word of protest.

<I’ll take that, Andy,> the boy added to Andromache.

Polites looked at them both with a proud smile but he could see the worry behind Patroclus. As a blond boy—Troilus— dragged the two towards Hermione and Polyxena, he approached his former colleague.
<Polites?>

<The prisons are under rubble,> he whispered, glancing at Telemachus. <I prayed, I looked for another way, but I can't go there. And Ody...>

Patroclus put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed lightly. He had no idea what to say.

<We're moving!> Hector announced. He looked in his direction for a moment before shaking his head and giving some orders.

Polites sighed. <He's afraid you'll do something impulsive and very Greek.>

Patroclus raised an eyebrow. <I could.>

The other shook his head. <No, you wouldn't risk killing the kids.>
He stopped as soon as he finished his sentence. <Right?>

Cassandra had come alongside Creusa and was trying to push her and Ascanius back.

Patroclus shook his head. <No. Not the kids.>

***

As soon as they stepped outside, everything fell apart. There was a flash of gold and an instant later Andromache was screaming and Hector was stepping back with a scratch on his armor.

There was a warrior in front of them, illuminated by the moonlight. Someone Patroclus would have recognized with his eyes closed. <Achilles?>

The reaction was instantaneous. Shock and fear among the Trojans, a sigh from Polites, an excited whisper from Telemachus. Hector moving to cover Troilus, Cassandra screaming.

And Achilles. Achilles took off his helmet and threw it away. <Patroclus?>

That voice. It was in his dreams, it was in his head and in his heart. That voice was the sun and the moon, the sky and the stars. That voice was just a demigod, not the first nor the last.
Patroclus was sure he was covered in ash and dust. Suddenly, he felt shy, as if every single minute apart was a wall between them.

He nodded. He didn’t have the right words.

Achilles, brave Achilles, dropped his sword and ran to him. No one dared move when he grabbed his shoulder and a moment later Achilles’ lips were on his and Patroclus was home.

<Oh, no,> Polites muttered at the edge of his vision.

Achilles reacted instinctively, putting himself between the Trojans and Patroclus but they weren’t the problem.

<Hold on!> someone shouted— Andromeda?— as the floor collapsed.

They fell, landing squarely in front of Odysseus.

***

Part of Patroclus sensed the problem of being stuck underground during a fire with enemies. The point, though, was that to deal with it, he had to let go of Achilles.

In the distance, he heard voices.
Polites, whose voice was barely an echo. <Odys?>
Andromache, confused. <How did you get here?>
Telemachus, in a whisper. <Is this my father?>

Then, they heard a thud. Instinctively, he and Achilles leapt into a defensive stance against the source. Patroclus' lips were already cold from being separated from his love's.

The chaos was coming from Hector, and the hero was already putting his shield down. <Before everything degenerates, a warning: we are stuck.>

<What?> Achilles moved Patroclus behind him and let his eyes wander to the walls. <Oh.>

Polites barely felt the walls with one hand. <Is anyone hurt? Telemachus?>

<I'm fine,> the boy muttered, his eyes still fixed on his father. Odysseus also looked completely lost.

Hector sighed. <Okay, now->

<I don't take orders from you!> Diomedes interrupted. <Odysseus?>

Polites looked between the prince and the former king of Ithaca. <Hector, let's go.>

The man looked like he was about to protest but Polites was quick to continue. <If we start fighting in a hole, we'll all die. Temporary truce and let's get out of here. You can scream and shed blood to decide who's the most manly when Telemachus, Ascanius and the kids are safe.>

Aeneas, standing nearby, nodded approvingly as he stroked his son's back. <I agree. Creusa is left outside and will be very worried.>

Hector hesitated before nodding. <Okay. Give me a moment to count. Polites, Aeneas, Cassandra, Ascanius, Andromache, Scamandrius, Ilus->
He paused, his gaze wandering between Telemachus, Hermione, and Patroclus himself.

Polites shrugged. <Neoptolemus too,> he reminded.

<Don't drag me into it,> the boy snapped from the shadows, startling half the crowd.

Polites raised an eyebrow, turning to him. <I'll have to get you out of here.>

<I'll get myself out, I'm a commander, remember.>

With each new exchange, Achilles looked more confused, Diomedes angrier, and Odysseus even more shocked.

Patroclus raised a hand. <Well, I guess I'll make the decision. Polites is right, better to continue together to the exit. If someone pulls out a weapon for no reason and breaks the truce, well, I hope you have learned to heal yourself because the next time you get sick or get infected you will have to do it yourself.>

Polites nodded, smiling slightly like someone who knew he was the only other healer. <Fine. Which direction?>

Hector hesitated. He had approached Andromache and Scamandrius. <There is only one way, isn't there?> he said, pointing to the tunnel that led down into the darkness.

Diomedes snorted. <Then let's go.>

Chapter Text

Before everything collapsed, Apollo wearily watched the Greeks try their way to freedom. Of all the men, Menelaus was the one who kept watching every glimmer of light, almost as if searching for new paths. As they advanced, they split into smaller groups. Odysseus and Diomedes seemed determined to cooperate and dragged him along with them.

They were almost at the beginning of a new tunnel when Apollo felt something change. It was a sequence of events, unfolding with almost divine precision, and it was no coincidence.
First of all, there was Helenus, kneeling at his altar, asking for help for what was to come. There was that electric buzz that was enveloping Menelaus, and the touch of his father on his skin. Finally, the thing that had made him snap: Cassandra, with her gaze downcast and hands clasped, asking for help in finding her family.

Apollo looked from Paris to Helen. <I have to go,> he said.

Paris looked like he was about to cry but nodded. <Okay. Okay, sure. Can you... Can you check if Hermione is okay with us?>

<I have to throw up again.> Helen was shaking. <Paris?>

Apollo nodded and kissed them both on the temple, throwing a few small blessings. He felt the life inside Helen change, that little heart racing.

<See you later,> he said, trying to sound confident. The future was far too hazy.

***

Menelaus was overwhelmed by the vision like a wave on the open sea.

A man. A monstrous figure. Blood.

<Argh! Who was that?>

<Menelaus?> called Odysseus, confused.

There were lightning bolts all around him. He quickly realized he was the only one seeing them. <Go, I'll catch up with you.>

A strange look passed between Odysseus and Diomedes. <You->

<Go!>

The clouds had taken on a humanoid shape. Menelaus, without knowing why, fell to his knees as Diomedes and Odysseus disappeared.

The divine Zeus waved a hand and spoke in a thunderous voice. <A vision of what is to come.
Cannot be outrun,
can only be dealt with right here and now.>

Menelaus thought about the blood. <Tell me how.>

The king of the gods laughed. <I don't think you're ready.>

Menelaus stood as he continued, leading the way toward one of the openings.

<A mission to kill someone's son.
A foe who won't run,
unlike anyone you have faced before.>

Menelaus nodded, preparing himself. <Say no more, I know that I'm ready.>

Zeus handed him a knife. <I don't think you're ready.>

The moment he touched the weapon, he knew it was a divine artifact: no mortal hand could have created something that seemed so alive.

Zeus led him up the stairs, and then up even higher. From behind the door, a faint cry could be heard.

Menelaus peered inside and almost dropped the weapon. <Helen...>

Paris was with her too. They both had their backs to him, and he was stroking her hair. <It hurts,> she repeated. <It hurts.>

The knife throbbed, and the image of the monstrous man returned to his mind. <It's just her...
It's just my wife...
What sort of imminent threat does she pose that I can't avoid?>

Zeus shook his head. <The dagger will kill the child in her womb. It won't be fatal to her. Just strike her anywhere.>

Menelaus shook his head. <I don't understand.>

Zeus snapped his fingers, and visions of the future followed one another.
<This is the son of none other than Troy's very own apple of discord.
Know that he will grow from a boy to a sword.
One fumed with rage as you're consumed by age.
If you don't end him now, you'll have no one left to save.>

Menelaus staggered as the vision grew darker, more merciless.

<You can say goodbye to... Hermione.>

Menelaus shook his head. <I can wait for him to be born. I can...>
He thought of Helen, of her smile, of the way she trembled in Paris's arms. <I could raise him as my own.>

Zeus shook his head. <He will burn your house and throne.>

<Or send him far away from home.>

The vision showed him a sword falling on him. <He'll find you wherever you go.>

Menelaus was now gripping the knife so tightly it hurt. <Make sure his past is never known.>

<The gods will make him know.>

Helen—his strong, unwavering Helen—was crying, clutching her stomach, and Paris was doing everything he could to help, but it was clear it was useless. <I'd rather bleed for you.>

<He's bringing you.>

He found himself on his knees, as the vision showed him Helen's womb opening to reveal a golden apple stained with blood. <Down on my knees for you.>

The dagger was heavy yet so light as Menelaus felt the tears begin to fall. <I'm begging, please.>

Zeus rolled his eyes as if his stories were useless. <Oh, this is the will of the gods.>

Menelaus trembled as the blade of the dagger seemed to tinge red from the external flashes. <Please don't make me do this, don't make me do this.>

Then, in a lower voice. <She's your daughter.>

Zeus didn't seem to understand what Menelaus meant.

<The blood on your hands is something you won't lose.
All you can choose is whose.>

***

Achilles kept looking at Patroclus. He felt a little foolish, staring at him like that, but there was this horrible feeling that, as soon as he looked away, he would vanish like Eurydice in the myths.

<I'm fine,> he promised. He had taken one hand in his. The grip was warm, and Achilles was clinging to it.
<How are your wounds? I need to check—>

<Mom took care of it,> he cut him off. At the edge of his vision, he saw Polites carrying Telemachus and Odysseus to the back of the group.
<Are you... okay?>

<Like I said, yes.> Patroclus brought his hand to his lips and kissed the fingers. <I knew you'd come back.>

Achilles only had a small heart, and it was bursting. Every night, he closed his eyes, and the images of Patroclus covered in blood haunted him. But with every glance at Hector, his wonderful Patroclus's grip tightened. Achilles wasn't stupid; he could read the man beside him better than anyone else in the world.

<Did something happen with Hector?>

<A little bit of everything has happened with everyone.> Patroclus glanced into the shadows, searching for something he couldn't find. "<There's something I need to talk to you about.>

His tone was serious, and Achilles's heart skipped a beat. <Of course. Anything.>

There was sweetness in Patroclus's gaze. Beneath it, just for him, was love. Achilles knew his better half could be ruthless, but no one was more steadfast in his emotions than Patroclus.

<Deidamia,> he began, and it was a strange beginning. Achilles had spent time with her some fifteen years ago. She was dear to him, in that strange way places and people from the past were dear.

<Her?>

<Your son,> Patroclus tried again.

<Did he do something to you?>

It was the wrong question. The light in his love's eyes turned to fury. <He's your son.>

It was a strange concept, having a son. Achilles had learned about Neoptolemus about three months after his birth and had never actually met him. In the brief time they'd both been at the Achaean camp, he could barely move from his bed, and the boy had never shown up. They said he looked like him. He wondered what Patroclus would say about that.

<I know. He wasn't supposed to.>

Patroclus let go of his hand and stopped walking.

Achilles also stopped, not understanding. <Patr->

<He's your son,> he repeated. <And he's your responsibility.>

<I never asked for a son,> Achilles replied instinctively. He had no idea why they were suddenly arguing. <You know how it went with Deidamia!>

It hadn't been his intention to create living proof of his relationship with someone else. Deidamia had been dear, but Patroclus was his entire world, and he was slowly realizing that perhaps the existence of that child could hurt him.

<He's very real, so I don't understand why you're making this argument!>

<I'm sorry,> Achilles snapped, unsure of what he was apologizing for. <I never wanted him to be born!>

Patroclus recoiled. <You're not serious. It's...>

<Seriously,> Achilles said instead. <I never wanted to be a father.>

<Yes,> Patroclus's voice held a new venom, and each exchange seemed worse than the last. <My father never wanted me either.>

Anger hit Achilles like a slap, and every bit of conversation overwhelmed him and transformed him.

Patroclus. Patroclus's family. Fatherhood.
<It's not->

<I need some alone time,> he cut him off. <We'll talk about it later.>

***

As soon as Patroclus was far enough away, Neoptolemus appeared beside him.
Terror gripped him. <Did you—>

<I heard,> the boy cut him off. <I already knew. He had five years, before the war.>

He walked beside Patroclus as Achilles' gaze, too distant to hear, bored into the back of his neck.

<Are you... are you okay?> the man asked.

<I thought you liked him,> Neoptolemus said only.

<Neo...> Patroclus sighed. <Okay. Listen, now: Achilles is, and always will be, the love of my life.>

He saw the boy grimace. He couldn't say he was surprised.

<It's true,> he repeated. <We've been through so much, and I'd do anything for him. Anything. My soul and his are meant to be together. But that doesn't mean he can't be a dickhead.>

Neoptolemus raised an eyebrow. <Maybe this is the first time I've heard you insult someone like that.>

Patroclus shrugged. <I don't waste insults on people who aren't important.>

He had extended an arm, and after a moment's hesitation, Neoptolemus allowed him to place a hand on his shoulder.

<I could always stay with Polites if—>

<It doesn't matter,> Patroclus interrupted. He sounded genuinely pissed. <It doesn't matter who you live with. He's your father, and I won't let him behave like that. He should at least know you. No one's asking him to be a parent if he doesn't want to, but that doesn't mean he can treat you like—>

<Like what?> Neoptolemus teased.

Patroclus raised an eyebrow, his fury turning to confusion. <Do you almost seem... amused by all this?>

<I've always wanted to be like Achilles,> Neoptolemus explained, lowering his voice just enough to make it clear he meant it. <But over the years, I accepted that he would never acknowledge me as his. And I hated it. And I hated you, because you were the only person in the world he would have claimed as worthy of him. Not me, not Mom. You.>

Patroclus felt a strange tightening in his stomach, but Neoptolemus's voice was calm, painless.

<Then Polites came along, and you started telling me about him, and it was so obvious that he was all you had. And that you had claimed him, too. But then, just before the journey, you...> Neoptolemus paused, studying his face, a question in his eyes.

<Oh,> Patroclus murmured. He found himself smiling. <I said you're my family, yes.>

Neoptolemus blushed slightly and looked away. <Yes. You... Yes, you did that. And then Polites did it too, and I don't know how, and Telemachus and Troilus— And now it's okay. I have other people. And... And you're still here and not with him. And it's funny, because I would have gladly killed you at some point, and you're absolutely unbearable, and...>

The more insults came from Neo's mouth, the more Patroclus felt the urge to hug him. <You're right,> he said. <It's funny.>

Neoptolemus paused. <Really?>

Patroclus nodded. Then, almost as if expecting Neo to actually stab him, he wrapped an arm around his shoulders. <Really. It's funny because I love you like you were mine too.>

He could feel Neoptolemus squirming, almost as if he were trying to escape. It lasted a short while, then he backed away and stopped. Patroclus pulled his arms back and let the boy study his expression.

<You're not serious,> Neo said then. <You can have children of your own with... I don't know, a pretty, kind girl.>

Patroclus laughed. It was stronger than he could bear; the very thought was so ridiculous he had to lean back on his knees for a second. In the distance, more than a few members of the group were looking at him as if he were crazy.

<Patroclus?>

<Sorry, sorry.> He stood up, trying to calm himself. <I was just thinking about the idea of ​​me with a woman. But that's beside the point.>

Neoptolemus rolled his eyes. <I was just saying, it's not like—>

<No, it's fine.> Patroclus straightened his back. <If Achilles doesn't want you, I'll take you. You're my son now.>

<You can't just announce it,> Neoptolemus said, completely panicked. Patroclus almost laughed again. Gods, that boy had no idea how much he resembled his father when he was young.

<And who's stopping me? You're literally the only person who's supposed to be okay with this.>

Neoptolemus froze for a moment. <I...>

He glanced over his shoulder, where Achilles was clearly trying to read lips or something.

Patroclus held out a hand, and again, Neoptolemus let him place it on his shoulder.

He felt the boy inhale and exhale a couple of times. <I'm no fun to be around. Ask Polites. I don't know how he hasn't thrown me into the sea yet.>

Patroclus rolled his eyes because Polites, of all people, was the one who had adored Neo since the very beginning. <If I tell him what you said, he'll really throw you into the sea.>

Neoptolemus shrugged.

Again, Patroclus searched for the right words. <You know, no one said it has to be pleasant, or fun, or cool. It just has to be a family. It almost always sucks; most of the time, you put up with people's flaws. The point isn't having nice people around. It's having someone who loves you and whom you love.>

Neoptolemus bit his lip. <What if you change your mind?>

<No way,> Patroclus said with a hint of irony. <I can't take you back to where I got you, can I? This cave looks inconvenient to get to.>

Neoptolemus smiled slightly, and Patroclus almost cheered.

<Okay,> the boy relented. <That seems like a terrible idea, but you're dating Achilles, so clearly the mistake was thinking you had any sense.>

Chapter Text

Menelaus twirled the blade in his hands. Not far away, Paris had begun to caress Helen's back. <No one could take the suffering from you.>

There was nothing reassuring about the song, yet it seemed to help Helen. Menelaus hadn't seen her in almost twelve years, and he wondered how much he knew about her now.

The knife in his hand felt heavy.

I look into your eyes and I think back to the wife of mine,
you're as beautiful as she was when I left for war.
Will these actions haunt my days? Every man I've slain?
Is the price I pay endless pain?

"One stab," he reminded himself. "One stab, and it'll all be over. Hermione will be safe, and you can go home."

Close your eyes and spare yourself the view.
How could I hurt you?

He could beat Paris in a duel, especially since the Trojan prince sported rather pronounced dark circles under his eyes and was completely absorbed in Helen. He could catch him by surprise, immobilize him in two moves.
Helen, on the other hand, was already destroyed. One stab. Just one stab.

I'm just a man who's trying to go home
even after all the years away from what I've known.
I'm just a man who's fighting for his life,
deep down, I would trade the world to see my daughter and wife.
I'm just a man.

Paris still sang sweet words to her, but she looked so hurt. Beautiful, as she had always been, but destroyed. She clutched her belly, but in her eyes there was the same fire, the same old desire to fight.

But when does the comet become a meteor?
When does a candle become a blaze?

She stood up, and Menelaus retreated to hide.
<I can do this,> she growled. <I'll be fine, I—>

<Please, sit down,> Paris begged. <You have to—>

<We can't be alone. Not if Apollo's busy. You know what could happen, she—>
Helen collapsed, and Paris was quick to catch her.

Menelaus watched in amazement as he gently brushed her hair back from her forehead. He whispered something to her, and her gaze grew even more desperate.

Perhaps she would be happy. Perhaps this pregnancy was just another burden.
Perhaps he was too cowardly to consider the other option.

When does a man become a monster?

Paris forced her back to her seat, her squirming. <I know,> he apologized. <But you can't do it, my dear. You can't—>

<I know exactly what I can and can't do!>

When does a ripple become a tidal wave?

He had started a war for her. She, who had been unhappy at his side. She, who was still unhappy, even away from him.

When does reason become blame?

The dagger seemed to pulse in his hand. They were facing away from each other, both with broken voices, and Menelaus dared to advance.

When does a man become a monster?

Then Helen looked up, and the whole world seemed to stand still. <Meli?>

Menelaus dropped the blade as a whirlwind of memories overwhelmed him.

There was Helen, young and newly betrothed to him, walking with her cousin in the garden. They stopped beside him, and he called her "khara," joy. And she blushed, and that was the first truly human, youthful, and genuine reaction he'd seen her have.

From that day on, he'd bombarded her with nicknames. She was "agapetē," beloved, but also "kálliste," the most beautiful.

She never reciprocated. Yet, the red on her cheeks filled him with a childlike joy, a boundless love.

Then, one day, she'd called him "Meli." So close to Menelaus, and with such a sweet meaning. He'd almost cried, and he hadn't only stopped because she'd looked at him with such anticipation, with a whole new fear in her eyes. He'd kissed her, that time. It seemed like so long ago.

<Helen,> he called, and her name was a plea. And then, remembering Aeneas's words, <I'm sorry.>

Helen raised her head. Her eyes were shining, and stray locks of hair fell gently over her shoulders. He saw her lips moisten. <I...>

Behind her, there was a creaking sound, and they both turned sharply.

<I'm sorry,> Paris raised his hands in surrender. <This bed hasn't been maintained for a while, and—>

<Shut up,> Helen begged.

He nodded slowly. There was a strange terror in his eyes.

She must have noticed it too, because she shifted slightly toward him. Paris' shoulders relaxed the moment Helen's touched his.

Paris reached out, almost as if to touch her back as he had done before, but he stopped. Then he looked up at him, and instead of anger, Menelaus saw only curiosity.

Helen was looking at him again too. <Meli?>

His hands were shaking. <Helen.>

Carefully, he moved close enough to sit on the other end of the bed, so he could touch her if he just reached out. <Is it you? Have my prayers been answered?
Is it really you sitting there, or am I dreaming once more?
You look different, your eyes look tired.
Your frame is lighter, your smile torn.
Is it really you, my love?>

He felt Paris hold his breath and practically press himself against the wall. Somehow, from the look of pure gratitude Helen gave him before looking back at him, that made sense to her.

She reached out a hand toward him, her fingers trembling, her face pale. Then, as if burned, she pulled it back an instant before touching him. <I am not the woman you fell in love with.
I am not the woman you once adored.
I am not your kind and gentle wife.
And I am not the love you knew before...>

Menelaus wanted to embrace her, or take her away, but he could only watch in horror as a tear rolled down her cheeks as she collapsed. <Would you fall in love with me again
if you knew all I've done?
The things I cannot change,
would you love me all the same?
I know that you've been waiting, waiting for love.>

And Menelaus already knew it, when her belly was swollen and there had been ten years of war between them, but it really didn't matter. <What kinds of things did you do?>

<Left a trail of red on every castle
as I traded friends like objects I could use.
Hurt more lives than I can count on my hands
but all of that was to bring me back to...>

She stopped, bringing a hand to her mouth. Menelaus had never seen her so fragile. <Helen?>

She pulled back, curling up as best she could.

Paris looked at him for a moment before gingerly placing a hand on his. <To...?>

She shook her head. <I don't know.>

Paris, at that point, did the most absurd thing Menelaus could imagine: he laughed. He laughed heartily, as if Helen had made the joke of the century.

<Paris?> she called, unable to understand.

He simply lifted her chin and kissed her hair. <You don't know? Really?>

<It's not... I don't...>

<I'm not angry,> he explained, still trying not to laugh. <I didn't even think there was a choice to make. This is Menelaus, damn it. I don't need the goddess of love to know you love him.>

Even though they were talking about him, Menelaus began to feel like he was in the way, almost as if he were stealing someone else's scene.

Paris, however, had gently taken Helen's hand and was drawing circles on it. <Patroclus said to breathe, right? Breathe.>

Menelaus watched in amazement as Paris looked up at him. <Do you hate her?>

<Excuse me?>

<You didn't answer,> he replied, as if nothing had ever happened between them. <She asked you something.>

<She hadn't finished explaining,> Menelaus instantly justified himself. Then he remembered what he himself had been thinking a moment before. <It doesn't matter,> he admitted.

Helen looked so fragile. At the same time, she seemed almost divine, as if touching her were sacrilege. One of her hands pressed against her lap, the other still in Paris'.
<Would you fall in love with me again?>

Menelaus hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath until he met Paris's eyes, so full of warmth and... love?

Helen was there. Helen, twelve years later.

Only his wife called him "Meli."

He exhaled, and everything came out of him. <I will fall in love with you
over and over again,
I don't care how, where, or when,
no matter how long it's been,
you're mine.
Don't tell me you're not the same person,
you're always my wife
and I've been waiting, waiting...>

She reached out a hand, and a moment later she was with her shoulder against Paris's, Helen's arms around her shoulders. He felt her tears wet his shoulder, and no, Menelaus no longer remembered that she didn't know who to choose.

Waiting, waiting,
waiting, waiting,
waiting, oh!

He managed to pull away just enough to look her in the eyes. <For you...>

(I'm)
(just)
(a)
(man)
(who's)
(trying)
(to)
(go)
(home)
(Even after)
(all the years away from what I've known)
(I'm)
(just)
(a)
(man)
(who's fighting for his life)
(Deep down I)
(would trade the world to see my daughter and wife)
(I'm)
(just)
(a)
(man.)

<We need to talk,> Menelaus whispered softly. Helen nodded almost instantly, and he found himself glancing at Paris, waiting for his nod.

<Oh, you meant all three of us? Yes, of course. Whenever you want. Maybe when the city isn't burning?>

Chapter Text

Odysseus almost recoiled as Polites advanced toward him, his expression far too serious.

His... former friend? Almost enemy? stopped in front of him, crossing his arms to study his expression. Odysseus watched him inhale and exhale a couple of times. <Okay. Penelope->

<Don't talk about->

<Let me speak!>

They both looked at each other for a moment, almost daring the other to speak.
Polites had never been good at letting go. <Penelope told me not to give up on you. And I don't intend to. She also told me that, as long as you're apart, Telemachus and I are all you have. So scream, try to kill me, but first you'll come with me, you'll talk to your son and tell him he will be a great king. And if I hear you even try to complain about him calling me uncle when there's no one else from Ithaca here, I swear—>

<It's fine,> Odysseus said, surprising even himself. <It's fine, I want to see Telemachus. He and his mother are all I've fought for.>

It wasn't true, and Polites knew it. Odysseus wondered if he would say it, if he would remember how he'd fought for each of them, but he didn't. Instead, he nodded, his eyes filled with a tremendous gratitude, a feeling that made his insides clench.

They walked together only a short while, side by side, and familiarity was a new enemy.

Then he saw him: Telemachus. A face so like his own, and Penelope's eyes.
Even his voice was sweet, and it would have been enough to break Odysseus. <Father?>

<...Son!>

Telemachus stood up, looking for Polites and waiting for his nod before approaching him. He was small, so young, and at the same time Odysseus had lost so many years.

"Telemachus."

He saw him run his fingers along the edge of a wooden knife, a question already rising in those strange yet familiar eyes. <All my life, I'd have died to meet you.
Thought about your name so much it hurts.
For twelve years, I'd dreamt of how I'd greet you.
Oh, and now you're here...
I can't find the words.>

Odysseus trembled as his son advanced a little further, so close he could have embraced him, if only he had found the strength.

<All my life, I'd have died to know you.
Days and nights I wish that I could show you.
For twelve years I could never outgrow you.
Oh, and now you're here.>

Odysseus gently held out a hand and was so surprised he jumped when he took it.

<I can't help but wonder
what your world must be
If we're like each other,
if I have your strength in me.
All this time I've wondered
if you'd embrace me as your own.
Twelve years I've wandered,
for so long I've felt alone.>

The mere thought of his child unable to understand how wonderful he was, how even looking into his eyes made every moment of suffering and war worth it, broke Odysseus's heart. He found himself on his knees, his hands on his son's shoulders.
Telemachus had always had the power to make him fall.
<Oh my son, look how much you've grown.
Oh my boy, the sweetest joy I've known.
Twelve years ago I held you in my arms. How time has flown, oh...>

Telemachus looked at him as if he were the sun, and Odysseus would never again allow anyone to make Telemachus feel alone. Not even himself. <Used to say I'd make the storm clouds cry for you.
Used to say I'd capture wind and sky for you.
Held you in my arms prepared to die for you, oh.
How time has flown...
I can only wonder
what your world has been.
Things you've had to suffer,
and the strength you hold within.
All I've ever wanted
was to reunite with my own.
Twelve years we've wandered,
but today you're not alone.>

The boy barely stretched his arms forward, fear visible on his face.

Ithaca was so far away. For the first time, and only for that moment, Odysseus didn't care. <My son, I'm finally home!>

(Home, home.)

Telemachus melted in her arms, a mess of snot and tears. He sobbed like a brat, and Odysseus couldn't remember the last time he'd been so happy.
"I'll never leave you again," he promised himself.

<Father, how I've longed to see you!>

(Home, home.)

His son. How much had he wanted to call him by name?
<Telemachus, I'm home!>

(Home.)

***

Polites was still there. As soon as he and Telemachus seemed a little calmer, he nodded to the boy.

Telemachus reacted completely casually, in a way that irritated Odysseus in a whole new way.
<Uncle Polites?>

Polites gestured vaguely toward the tunnel. <We need to rejoin the others. Are you okay?>

<He's fine,> Odysseus snapped, and Telemachus flinched.

Polites sighed, a warning in his eyes. <Ody, don't—>

<Don't call me Ody. And don't give Telemachus orders.>

Polites ignored the first part. <It wasn't an order. And I won't argue with you.>

Odysseus turned to Telemachus, ready to tell him to follow him, but the boy, under his gaze, instinctively backed away from Polites. He realized what he'd done a moment later, and fear returned to his eyes.

Odysseus saw Polites take a step forward, and the words from earlier came back to him. Something about complaining about Telemachus calling him uncle...

Odysseus's heart sank. <My joy, everything's fine. If you want to go to Polites, you can.>

<I...> Telemachus looked like he was about to cry. <I didn't mean to, I don't know why I did it, I'm sorry, I->

<Tele,> Polites called softly, holding out a hand. He had the reassuring tone Odysseus had seen him use so many times, but with a newfound affection. <You're fine, sweetheart. Everything's okay. No one's angry.>

Somehow, Odysseus already knew Polites was about to look at him, and he beat him to it.
<He's right,> he said, taking a step forward, holding his hands out in plain sight. <Everything's okay. You don't have to apologize. I must apologize: I left you alone for so long.>

<It wasn't your fault!> Telemachus snapped immediately, then lowered his gaze. <I'm sorry.>

Polites stopped, glancing at him. <Go,> he uttered.

Odysseus didn't need any encouragement. He simply reached out and gently took Telemachus's hands in his. <You're right. It wasn't my fault. But I wasn't with you anyway. I'm sorry, my heart.>

The boy barely looked up. He reminded him a little of his dog, Argos, when the puppy played tricks, and the thought hurt him in new ways. <Aren't you angry?>

<No, I promise.> Odysseus tried a small smile. <Can I hug you?>

Telemachus seemed surprised by the question, as if he'd thought the previous one would be a one-time event. <Do you want to?>

<Of course, you're my kid. All I wanted was to get back to you, and to Penelope.>

Telemachus moved and threw himself against his chest. He was already almost shoulder-high, but it was okay. His perfect son. <I'm here. You're okay. Everything's fine, Telemachus. Everything's fine.>

From his chest, Telemachus turned his head slightly to look at Polites. <Are you...?>

Polites smiled in that way that lit up the room. <Have you ever seen me angry?>

That sentence made Telemachus smile. <Well, Neoptolemus—>

<Every day since you two met my life has become more terrifying, but no, I'm not angry,> Polites replied, as if winning this argument was the most important thing to him.

Telemachus relented. <I'll remind you the next time we try to train in secret.>

Odysseus had questions, something about protocol and giving weapons to hostages, but Telemachus seemed calmer, so he let them go. He couldn't stop drawing circles on his back. His son.

<We have to catch up with the others,> Polites said.

Telemachus nodded and pulled away just enough to timidly take his hand. His were still small among Odysseus's, and without the warrior calluses.
<Let's go,> he relented.

Polites smiled like he did on those rare occasions when he beat him in practice, and his first instinct was to roll his eyes.

Then something else occurred to him. <Telemachus?>

<Yes, dad?>

Odysseus almost had to stop, take a breath, still unaccustomed to that word. <You will be a great king, my joy.>

Telemachus glanced at Polites, then at him, then back at Polites. <Did he tell you to tell me?>

Odysseus smiled, because his son was so smart. <Yes. But I truly believe so. You will be an extraordinary king, and I'm sure your mom taught you well. And I'll teach you everything I can.>

Telemachus's eyes lit up. <Can I learn to use your bow?>

Odysseus nodded, and Polites laughed. <Indeed, we really needed someone else with that trick.>

***

As soon as they returned to the group, Hector materialized in front of them. Instinctively, Odysseus had moved forward, putting Polites and Telemachus behind him.

Hector raised an eyebrow. <Could I... speak to my brother?>

Odysseus blushed at the look on Polites's face as he passed him. He wished he could get angry—how dare he be so genuinely happy, with so much love in his eyes?—but Telemachus was there.

Hector examined his brother. <Are you okay?>

Polites nodded. <Yes, of course. I just wanted Telemachus to meet his father.>

The king seemed to approve. He glanced over Odysseus's shoulder, smiling faintly at Telemachus. <And you? Are you good?>

His son nodded, shyly, and Hector didn't press him. <Okay. Polites, can you watch Scamandrius for a few minutes? Andy needs—>

<No problem!> Polites assured him. <Tele, do you want to come?>

Again, Odysseus didn’t understand why his son, a hostage, could be freely with the crown prince. On the other hand, Hector himself seemed genuinely concerned for him. And Odysseus hated feeling grateful, but deep down he knew he was. Maybe he hated Hector a little more after that moment. He even wanted to kill him less.

Telemachus nodded. <Can I ask Neoptolemus to join us?>

Hector seemed to approve of the idea. <Of course. Hermione is there too. If you want, I can send Ilus too.>

Telemachus slipped away and grabbed Polites’ wrist. <Let’s go.>

Polites half-laughed and ran a hand through Telemachus’s hair. <Just a second. Ody?>

He looked between Hector and Andromache, so far away. <Me?>

Polites sighed. <Come. Scamandrius is adorable. Let me introduce you.>

Hector nodded and walked off in the same direction as Patroclus, Neoptolemus, and Achilles.

<Tell Neoptolemus to join me!> Telemachus almost shouted at him.

Hector waved vaguely to indicate he'd heard, and Odysseus sighed, resigned to not understanding. It didn't matter: he had to stay with Telemachus. <Fine. Let's go, then.>

***

Hector loved his family. Sometimes, though, he wished he had someone to whom he could delegate those kinds of conversations.

He approached, careful to move so as to remain in Patroclus's line of sight. It felt like dancing with a poisonous snake.
When he was close enough, Neoptolemus materialized beside him, as he had often done with Polites. Hector had expected it, and for once he didn't react.

He took a step forward, ready to open his mouth and explain why he was there when a new shadow fell over him.
<What do you want?> Achilles snapped.

Hector had to do his best not to shout. He should have known it ran in the family.

He took a deep breath to calm himself, then looked at Patroclus. <Can I speak to you for a moment?>

Patroclus nodded. <Of course, what—>

<What do you want from him?> Achilles asked, narrowing his eyes slightly. Now that they were close and he saw him without his helmet and without the adrenaline of battle, Hector had to admit he was young. For some reason, he'd always imagined him to be his own age. How many years were there between him and Neoptolemus?

<It's private,> the king tried to explain. <It won't be long.>

<He's not going anywhere with you,> Neoptolemus intervened. His tone was less aggressive than his father, but his eyes were just as menacing.

<I could—> Patroclus began, immediately silenced by twin glares.

Hector was starting to feel like he was in the wrong place. <It's about Andy,> he explained to Patroclus, almost praying they would develop a telepathic connection.

Patroclus nodded as if the sentence made sense. <Okay, maybe I understand what's going on. Guys, I'll be right back.>

Achilles opened his mouth to protest as Neoptolemus grabbed the man's wrist.

Patroclus sighed. <I said I want to go.>

Achilles closed his mouth and took a step back. <Afterwards... we need to talk about something.>

Patroclus studied his face for a second, the most serious expression Hector had ever seen. <Sure. We can talk.>

He turned to Neoptolemus. <I'll be fine. Okay?>

Achilles looked from one to the other, but remained silent.

Neoptolemus let go of Patroclus, and the healer stepped up beside him, putting on his professional face.
<Shall we go?>

Hector nodded, then paused. <Wait. Uh, Neoptolemus?>

The boy looked ready enough to cut him into thirty pieces. <What do you want?>

<Telemachus asked me to tell you to join him and Polites.>

Neoptolemus looked from him to the future king of Ithaca. <Did Telemachus say that?>

<Go,> Patroclus encouraged. <We'll talk later.>

Again, his eyes darted. Hector had the feeling he was desperate to join the others.

<Just five minutes,> he finally relented. <Dare to play a few dirty tricks, and Polites will become Priam's second living son.>

Hector still had no idea how Polites was dealing with that boy. <Okay?>

Neoptolemus rolled his eyes and, without another word or even a glance at Achilles, headed toward the others.

<Shall we go?> Patroclus asked again.

***

<Is this about the queen's monthly retreat being interrupted?> Patroclus asked as soon as they were alone.

Hector blushed slightly but nodded.

Hector wasn't sure why, but Patroclus was immune to any revulsion brought on by carcasses, blood, or impurities. He reacted to female troubles like a minor cut.

<She asked me for an infusion before the fire broke out. I actually have it with me, if that's what you want.>

Deeply embarrassed, Hector could only nod again as Patroclus rummaged in his small bag and pulled out a vial. <Would you like Polites' opinion, too?>

Hector shook his head. <Thank you.>

An awkward silence fell between them as Hector put away the infusion.
He would have to dismiss Patroclus. Cut the damage, and not bring up the fire, or loyalty, or whatever had happened with Neoptolemus.

<Is everything okay?> he found himself asking instead.

The man studied him for a moment, as if the question had confused him. <We're stuck underground.>

<No, I know, I...> Hector sighed, running a hand over his face. <Is everything okay with Achilles? He seemed... possessive, before.>

Patroclus had raised both eyebrows. <Possessive?>

Hector was starting to regret the question. <I mean, are you... are you safe?>

<Oh.> Patroclus relaxed his shoulders. <Well, that's a strange question to ask someone you almost killed. But I appreciate the thoughtfulness.>

Hector flinched. <I->

<We're okay,> Patroclus assured him. <It's hard not to notice that you're not the type to just stab people at random. It's called war, it's not meant for people to survive.>

He hesitated before answering. <The war is over.>

Patroclus looked briefly at Achilles, a mixture of pure love and concern. <It's over for you, because you're home. I'm not home.>

Again, Hector couldn't help but nod, because yes, he understood. <It was a divine decree.>

Patroclus smiled slightly. <I know. And I'll talk to him about it. We're just going through a brief bad patch. But I'm not in danger.>

Hector, despite himself, was accustomed from his years as an older brother to searching for marks on people's bodies. But beyond the faint redness fading from his wrist where Neoptolemus had held him, he saw nothing else.
<Okay. Good luck, I suppose?>

Patroclus's smile grew. <You see, sometimes you really do look like Polites' brother.>

Chapter Text

Menelaus was astonished to find that Paris, though a mediocre fighter, was actually quite good at packing.

It took him ten minutes, and a moment later, each of them had a bag. <There you go.>

Helen nodded, as if she were used to it. A petty part of Menelaus wondered if Paris had packed her bag the day he'd taken her away. He sighed: this wasn't the time for that.

<Help me up,> Helen asked.

While Paris stood still, ready to catch her if she fell, Menelaus held her hand as she tried to get to her feet. <Can you do it?>

<I'm fine,> she assured him. <The pain is subsiding.>
Almost instinctively, Menelaus lightly touched her belly. A part of him had yet to realize she was truly there, that she was real, when he already had to figure out what to do with her pregnancy.
<I have to tell you something.>

Helen nodded, and Paris took a step back. He seemed... silent, something Menelaus would soon learn was unlike him.
He had to tell Helen. But, in Paris's place, he wanted to know, too. So he looked up and found himself staring into those big green eyes again.

Paris confused him. He was younger than him, too ironic, and his movements around Helen were strange. He couldn't read that look, devoid of both guilt and hatred.

<Zeus gave me a prophecy,> he said, forcing himself to turn to Helen.

She flinched slightly. <Have you spoken to Zeus?>
Her tone was concerned. Menelaus could feel her hand tightening.
<Are you okay?>

He nodded. <He gave me a prophecy,> he repeated, gesturing toward the forgotten knife on the floor.

<Of course,> she said bitterly. <Of course he did.>

Paris walked over to her—close, too close—and placed a hand on her shoulder.
<What did he say?>

Menelaus shook his head, not wanting to share the worst parts. <It wasn't nice. The knife is magical; it was only meant to kill the baby.>

Helen's hand withdrew and closed protectively over her belly. Instinctively, Paris had moved closer. He studied her expression with such intensity that Menelaus almost felt himself blush. <I... I won't do that. I can't.>

Paris smiled slightly but remained close, turning only slightly to look back at Helen.

Their shoulders were touching now. Menelaus kept looking back and forth between them, deep in silent conversation.

<Okay!> Paris announced. <I know what to do.>

Helen snorted, as if he'd said something stupid. <Let's wait for Apollo.>

<He's busy!>

Menelaus hesitated. <The god Apollo?>

Paris raised an eyebrow. <Yes, of course. We kiss sometimes.>

Helen sighed. <You have to stop telling people like that. If you don't give some context, you look like an asshole.>

<Oh no. Now will he think badly of me?> Paris replied dramatically. <I have a whole prophecy about how I am a disgrace. Shall we go?>

Menelaus had never been so confused. Apollo? Prophecy? Why did Helen seem to agree?

He looked at his wife with a plea for help in his eyes, and she held out her hand again. <It’s okay. First let’s go ask for help with your prophecy, then we’ll talk.>

<Do you want to try to explain?> Paris looked surprised. <No one ever understands how it went between me and you, my dear.>

<I chose Menelaus over all the suitors in Greece, can I have some faith in my decisions?>

Paris raised his hands, surrendering. <Your battle, love.>
He turned to him, smiling faintly. <If you think it’s messed up, it’s even worse. Let’s go find my brother, come on.>

***

As Patroclus started to return to Achilles, Polites materialized beside him. Looking behind him, he could see that Telemachus was now holding Scamander.

<Do you need anything?>

Polites raised his hands. <Just talk. Neoptolemus looked worried.>

Immediately, Patroclus's shoulders relaxed. <I'm sorry. I'll talk to him.>

As they walked, Hector had retraced his steps and was talking to his wife as they advanced. They took this as a signal and all continued on.

Polites studied Patroclus's expression. <Not that he isn't usually protective, but something happened.>

Patroclus hesitated. <How does it work now, Polites?>
Confronted with the confusion on his friend's face, he had to continue. <How does it work when we get out of here?>

<I don't even know what Ody and the others were doing here,> Polites clarified calmly. <And I told you before: there's no point in worrying so far into the future. Let's get out first. Then we'll figure it out.>

For a moment, Patroclus considered protesting. He didn't. <I told Neo he's my son.>

Polites smiled. <Let me guess: he managed to be sarcastic even about that.>

***

<Here we are,> Aeneas announced loudly, and half of them stopped to stare.

<But... where are we?> Polites asked.

Aeneas shrugged. <Isn't this Helenus's cave?>

Hector studied the walls, nodding. <We're on the side. No one ever uses this entrance, but yes, if we continue for a minute, we'll reach the cave.>
Odysseus and Diomedes exchanged a victorious look, and Hector wasted no time in stepping in front of them both.
<Come to think of it, can you remind me for a moment how you left your cells and where you were headed?>

Polites started to move forward, but Aeneas grabbed his wrist. <Wait. It's not that complicated.>

Odysseus looked from Hector to Diomedes. Diomedes spoke in a relaxed tone. <Some of the debris made a hole, and we slipped out. Then we tried to reach the beach—>

<The goddess Persephone freed us and told us to speak with the prophet.> Odysseus looked firm, almost ready for a challenge.

Diomedes looked at him with the same look Athena would have, as if wondering if the king of Ithaca had gone mad. At the same time, he seemed so disappointed.

Polites flinched. <The goddess Persephone?>

Hector shot him a warning look, but Polites had already stepped past Aeneas to stand in front of Odysseus. <What happened?>

He waved a hand. <She tried to seduce me. She asked me strange questions. Then she said to seek out the prophet.>

Polites, for some reason, seemed genuinely confused. <She did what?>

Odysseus shrugged. <She said—>

<Did Perse try to seduce you?>

<Just a little,> Odysseus said, suddenly confused. The gods had always been strange. Why was Polites taking this personally?
<I rejected her.>

Polites rolled his eyes. <I know you did, I just don't understand why— Wait. Did she ask you something about me?>

Odysseus nodded, trying to read his expression. <Yes, indeed.>

Polites looked almost angry. <She had no right to butt in like that. I told her—>

<When have you spoken to a goddess?>

Polites stopped. <Oh, right! Didn't I tell you about the poisons? Eurylochus said you'd consider this a wasted opportunity.>

<The poisons?>

Polites looked at Hector. <Let's go to Helenus. The rest can be resolved later. I prefer to get out of the tunnels, and even the kids are getting tired.>

Hector looked at Scamandrius, hand in hand with Troilus, and Ascanius, sitting on a rock next to his father.

<Fine. But, to be clear, prophecies aren't always what you expect. Don't blame Helenus if he has nothing for you.>

Cassandra giggled, and even Achilles groaned in surprise.

She stepped forward and pulled her brother aside, walking ahead of them.

Aeneas sighed and looked at his son. <Shall we go?>

<Up!> protested the boy. Aeneas didn't need to be told twice and lifted Ascanius onto his shoulders.

Polites looked back at Odysseus. <We go?>

Telemachus had moved closer, and his eyes betrayed a certain curiosity. Instinctively, Odysseus reached out to run a hand through his hair. <Yes... let's go,> he said.

***

Helenus sighed. <Are you sure you're supposed to be here?>

<Dude,> Apollo was starting to look annoyed. <I'm the god of fate. I'll know where I'm supposed to be.>

<And Paris...?>

<He'll be here soon,> he assured. <Can I ask for a little faith?>

<Can I ask that my sister not be cursed?>

<Can I ask that you not be such a pain in the ass?>

The two looked at each other for a moment before relenting and both returning to their silence.

When Helenus was a child, he adored Apollo. Apollo was fun, and training with him to learn to see the future seemed so exclusive, so special.

That had been a long time ago.

<Are you Persephone's champion?> someone asked in a dramatically loud voice.

Apollo smiled faintly. <Okay, it's time. I'm one prayer away from you, okay? Good luck.>

Helenus raised an eyebrow. <Why don't you stay?>

Apollo's expression darkened. <She's with them. If you need help, pray.>

He felt the god's fingers brush his shoulder an instant before vanishing.

She. Helenus already had all the answers for that.

He spread his arms half a second before Hector and Cassandra's faces appeared in the entrance.

He was already turning toward them, and she was already running. He hugged his twin sister, and for just a moment, it was okay.

She.

<Hello,> she whispered against his shoulder.

He hadn't spoken much for years. Helenus didn't care.

Hector had also approached and placed a hand on both of their shoulders.
<Are you okay?> he asked softly.

Helenus nodded, leaning on his brother. <It's been a while since you've been around my place.>

<It's been a while since you've been to dinner,> Hector replied.

Before he could respond, he heard light footsteps. Cassandra moved away and Helenus bent down, both of them guided by that feeling of knowing what was about to happen.

<Uncle!>

<Hi, Astyanax,> Helenus sang, lifting his nephew.

Hector rolled his eyes, but didn't move his hand away.

Most of the family called Astyanax by his real name, Scamandrius, but Helenus had seen enough of the future of the little hero in his arms to know the right name.

Hector let him. Hector had always been lenient with them.

<Helenus, they're—>

<Odysseus of Ithaca and Diomedes of Argos, yes.> He leaned toward the cave, his nephew still in his arms. There, next to Polites—Helenus would have so much to say about Polites— were the two Achaeans. <Hey there. I'm Helenus, fourth prince of Troy. Younger than Polites, older than Paris. Welcome!>

Cassandra rolled her eyes and pinched his arm.

<It's my cave, I'll welcome them as I please.>

<Do you live in a cave?> was the next question, asked by a boy identical to Odysseus.

<Yes, Telemachus,> the kid gasped at his name. <I live here. It's a great cave.>

Andromeda came to stand beside the prince of Ithaca. <I still think your room in the palace would be perfect.>

<Please!> Helenus rolled his eyes. <I can't prophesy from my bed. A little effort is the minimum.>

Cassandra, who always prophesied from the comfort of her room, pinched him again.

Helenus laughed. His sister was far better than he was, her gift for prophecy a hundredfold stronger. But none of Cassandra's prophecies, of that perfect art of hers, could reach them anymore.

"Her," Helenus remembered. She, the reason why Apollo vanished instead of remaining, and why, for years now, Helenus had been the one prophesying the future.

<We need—> Diomedes began, but Helenus quickly cut him off. He passed Astyanax to Cassandra and advanced until he was in front of the warrior. Diomedes towered over him by at least an inch.
<First of all, you will kneel at the altar and ask as befits a suppliant. Moreover, you will not treat me condescendingly. Finally, we'll have to wait a little longer for the prophecy. I know exactly who needs to be there, and we're not all there yet.>

Diomedes raised his eyebrows slightly. <You're as meticulous as last time.>

<Did you miss me?> Helenus teased. <How's your patron goddess?>

Diomedes winced, putting his hand to his temple. <You...>

<It's one of my good days,> Helenus said candidly. <So, did you miss me?>

Diomedes blushed, and Helenus walked past him with his usual confidence. Behind him was Achilles, with Patroclus close behind.
<Interesting,> he commented aloud, wiggling his fingers between the two.
He turned, studying Neoptolemus for a moment before nodding.
Aeneas gave him a smile, and Helenus smiled back, ruffling Ascanius's hair for a moment. He couldn't even express how many flashes the sight of Ascanio gave him.
Troilus was beside Andromache, and Helenus hugged him. His cute, little brother.

In the back of his mind, Apollo had become agitated.

"Calm down," Helenus snorted. "I won't tell him anything. I hardly ever see him."

Last was Hermione. Helenus studied her for a moment, then handed her a ring. It was gold, with a stone the exact color of her eyes. <For later,> Helenus assured seeing her confused expression.

He walked back and kissed Andromache on the cheek. He did the same to Polites.

<Okay,> he announced. <Let's all start by standing in a circle in front of me. I'll give you some incense to burn, and let's all try to look grateful to Apollo. It'll take some effort for some of us, but deep down, we'll find something...>

Helenus, sighed Apollo, who never got angry with him, not after the last time.

<Helenus!> Hector, who was perfectly capable of sending him to bed without dinner again, shot him a blast. <There are kids!>

The others looked confused. The only exceptions were Cassandra, impassive as ever, and Andromeda, who was simply tired.

Helenus spread his arms and took a step back.

Then an arrow struck within an inch of Achilles' face.

Chapter Text

Helenus raised a hand, and the entire room fell into darkness. Then, one by one, dozens of torches lit.

<No one fights in my cave,> he said, his voice completely transformed.

Hector stepped back slightly, knowing that when Helenus became his prophetic self, one must never oppose him. A short distance away, Achilles removed his hand from the pommel of his sword.

Paris, barely visible overhead, lowered his bow. <You should warn when there's no fighting going on, damn it!>

<You should think before you shoot!> Helen replied.

Hector noticed a third, silent figure in the shadows. Menelaus.

The three descended until they reached Helenus. His brother was unfazed.
<Now,> he said, looking at Diomedes and regaining a shred of his joyful energy, <we're all here.>

Helen parted her rosy lips. <Helenus, Menelaus has received—>

<I know,> he assured. <I see the past, present and future. Now, kneel and ask. As you do, you'll find some incense to burn on your left.>

Hector tried to move forward. He noticed there was a place for each of them. Helenus let them position themselves as they pleased without interfering. He sat in the center of the semicircle, on a three-legged stool, waiting.

Smoke rose from the incense. It moved unnaturally, circling them instead of rising. Above, Hector saw reflections, like green lightning bolts striking their heads.

He closed his eyes for a moment and prayed. "Apollo, god of the prophetic arts, illuminate our path with your voice."

Something made his skin tingle. Even with the many torches burning, Hector felt cold.

He opened his eyes again. The light had dimmed, and the smoke cast greenish reflections on Helenus. He opened his eyes, his hair the same color as shining emeralds, and a gust of wind stirred his cloak.

Odysseus was the first to gather his courage. <How can I go home?>

Helenus' face showed no emotion. After all these years, Hector still hadn't gotten used to the lack of humanity in his face. <I am the prophet with the answers you seek.
Time, I've unlocked it:
I see past and future running free.
There is a world where I help you get home
but that's not a world I know...>

<What?>

Helenus walked without a sound and stopped right in front of Odysseus.
<I see a song of past romance,>
he moved, and was before Diomedes,
<I see the sacrifice of man,>
further on, and there he was at Polites,
<I see portrayals of betrayal,>
one more step, and before him was Telemachus,
<and a brother's final stand.>

Hector felt the flames rising, but the light did not increase and the cold continued to torment his skin.

Helenus was before Troilus,
<I see you on the brink of death,>
he shifted his gaze to Patroclus,
<I see you draw your final breath,>
and finally Achilles, whose gaze was already dead,
<I see a man who gets to make it home alive
but it's no longer you.>

Diomedes trembled. <This can't be...
We've suffered and sailed through the toughest of hells.
Now you tell us our effort's for nothing?!>

Helenus ignored him. He had continued to move and was in front of him. Hector swallowed as his brother's empty eyes met his.
<I see your palace covered in red.
Faces of men who had long believed you're dead.>

He moved and was in front of Aeneas, but his face was turned towards Hermione.
<I see your wife with a man who is haunting...
A man with a trail of bodies.>

Aeneas snapped. <Who!?>

Helenus stepped back, spreading his arms, and the room began to spin. He was everywhere, and nowhere, as flashes followed and intertwined before them. The room was pink, blue, green like a forest, azure like the summer sky, red like blood. Purple, like the robe of the goddess of magic.

A young Helen was dancing with Menelaus when her partner changed, becoming Paris. They disappeared, and a wolf on the threshold of manhood howled at a bloody moon.
A blossoming olive branch, a rising sun.
<I see a song of past romance,>

There was a man with his back turned, sitting on the edge of a bed. Beside him, Achilles slept. Hector saw him rise, picking up a helmet from the floor.
<I see the sacrifice of man,>

There was Odysseus, standing in a cell, with an armored goddess. Odysseus reached out, and she dissolved between his fingers like water.
There was the same goddess, standing before a man. A bolt of lightning struck, and they both turned to ash.
<I see portrayals of betrayal,>

There was Andromache, standing atop the walls, as the years passed and she aged. Her face changed, and it was Helen, Creusa, a woman similar to Telemachus. It was Cassandra, ten years younger, her eyes fading.
<and a brother's final stand.>

There was Polites, a newborn. Achilles as something stabbed him in the center of his chest. Patroclus, with short hair and a scar on his cheek, pressing a hand to someone's wound, even though it was obvious there was too much blood.
A severed arm, drops falling and blooming. Visions chasing other visions.
<I see you on the brink of death,>

There was Helen, her head in Paris' lap, her forehead sweating and her eyes screaming with pain. There was Menelaus, with blood on his clothes and eyes red from crying.
<I see you draw your final breath,>

There was an island, but it was getting further and further away.
There was a mountain, high above the clouds, and a golden temple.
There was Neoptolemus, still young, alone on the throne of Phthia.
<I see a man who gets to make it home alive,>

The vision faded, and Hector found himself on one knee, breathing heavily, his vision blurry.
<but it's no longer you.>

***

When he recovered, Diomedes had someone kneeling before him.

<Are you okay?> Helenus asked, holding out his hand.

His first instinct was to slap it away, but as soon as he tried to move his body, nausea set in.

Helenus held his shoulders. <Breathe in through your nose, exhale through your mouth. Do you smell the incense? Let it in. It's all right.>

Diomedes obeyed, and his body began to respond. He glanced around him. <Why are you here?> he asked, seeing everyone else in the same condition, except Cassandra, standing outside the circle with Scamander in her arms and Ascanius sitting at her feet.

<I have a thousand answers for this. Pick one,> Helenus sang, smiling as if nothing had happened. Again, he held out his hand.

"Pick one," Diomedes mused. <Did you see this in a vision?>

<And what do you hope I saw?> Helenus winked. He took his hand, turned it, and traced one of the lines on his palm with a finger. <Me helping you? Why you were the one who fought me that time? Or why should I choose to be here with you, of all people in the world?>

Even though his tone was suggestive, his eyes conveyed seriousness. Diomedes shivered at the thought of what the prophet was seeing just by touching him.

He accepted Helenus' hand and let him lift him to his feet. When Helenus let go, his skin tingled.

***

As soon as Helenus reappeared in the center of the semicircle, he found himself surrounded by a thousand protests.

He didn't even have to try to defend himself: he just waited the fifteen seconds it took for Hector to draw his sword. <Shut up, now! Shouting won't get you anywhere.>

Neoptolemus growled. <We have to—>

<No,> Hector ordered. <Now I'll speak. And anyone who wants to say something can raise their hand. The first person who raises a voice at my brother, Achaean or Trojan, I'll send underground. And, Paris, I mean it.>

Paris snorted. <What have I done?>
Hector raised an eyebrow. After half a second, the other shrugged and sat down. <Fine. Go on.>

Hector looked around at them all. Then, slowly, he put his sword back. <Does anyone have something to say?>

Helenus watched the Achaeans exchange confused glances.

Patroclus was the first to raise his hand. Hector merely nodded. <Did we all have the visions? Were they the same for each of us? Could they be metaphors?>

Helenus motioned for his brother to move. He met Patroclus' eyes and saw an ocean rising. <Yes, to all three questions.>

Achilles rolled his eyes but fell in line behind his lover, raising his hand.

Hector nodded. <Yes?>

<At least one was false or a metaphor. I cannot be pierced, I'm invulnerable.>

Paris laughed. <I clearly remember almost killing you, darling.>

<Enough!> Hector raised a hand. He was already glaring at his brother. <What did I say a minute ago?>

Paris held up his palms. <I was just saying.>

Achilles had fallen silent. Patroclus turned to him, taking his hand.

Helenus could see the confusion on Achilles' face. He didn't have time to ask himself why before a flash of their last argument washed over him.

Then, it was Odysseus who raised a hand. <First of all, I don't believe gods can die from a lightning bolt to the face. Secondly,> he turned fully toward Polites, <what were you doing with Athena where lightning was about to strike?>

Polites didn't seem concerned about the vision of him being reduced to ashes. <I have no idea. It's the future.>

Telemachus took his hand, and Polites wrapped his other arm around his shoulders. <It's okay. I won't do anything dangerous.>

Menelaus slowly raised his hand. "Finally," thought Helenus.

Hector nodded. <Yes?>

<The second vision I was in... Helen was...?>

<Dying,> the woman replied, preceding Helenus. <It seemed pretty clear to me.>

Paris rolled his eyes. <Sure, as if we'd let that happen. I was with you, the situation was probably resolved. And Menelaus had obviously killed whoever did that to you.>

Helenus tried to speak, but the three were already in a world of their own.

<It seems unlikely that I would kill anyone without armor,> Menelaus said.

<Maybe they caught us by surprise, that doesn't mean Helen's done for!>

<Guys...> Helen tried, trying to step between the two.

It didn't work. They were already facing each other.

<It would never have happened to her in Sparta!>

<Maybe it wouldn't have happened to her if—>

<Enough!> Andromache snapped. <You think you're saving her life by playing the game of who can shout loudest?>

Helenus looked at Hector, giving the queen that lovestruck look he always had for his wife before interjecting. <Andy's right. Can we calm down? No one wants anything to happen to Helen or the child.>

<The point is the child,> Helenus intervened, seizing the moment when Paris and Menelaus were fidgeting with embarrassment. <Isn't?> he asked the former Spartan king.

Menelaus swallowed. <Earlier, Zeus gave me a vision.>
He looked at Helen for a second, then at Paris. <It wasn't... kind.>

Helenus nodded, watching Hermione fidget. She had ducked behind Telemachus, and the boy was whispering something to her.

<I think you missed the most important vision,> he said.

Hector hesitated. <Can you...?>

<You know it's forbidden,> Helenus said reluctantly. <I can't do more than I've done. But if you need help, you can always ask.>

He glanced at Paris, trying to convey with his gaze that he already had the solution.

Odysseus snorted. <So, to recap: we're doomed and you can't help us?>

Helenus rolled his eyes. <Sorry if my prophecies aren't perfect. At least, Your Highness, I've never tried to win a war by building a wooden horse.>

<It was brilliant!> Odysseus defended himself.

Helenus didn't even know where to begin. <Your best friend drugged you so he wouldn't take part in that absolutely idiotic plan where you'd massacre an entire city just to get back to your rock-filled island. An island you wouldn't reach, anyway, until after—>

<After?>

Helenus bit his lip. <Forget it.>

Odysseus had no intention of giving up, of course, but Paris, fortunately, came up with the solution just then.
<You think I should ask Apollo?>

Helenus almost cheered. They had taken too long, and he wished he could talk it over with his sister. <Surely he would be willing to grant a favor to his favorite?>

Paris' eyes glittered. <Oh, don't worry: I can persuade him.>

Hector grimaced, and his expression made Paris' smile worse. <Is there by any chance a secluded hole somewhere in this cave? I have a prayer to say.>