When it was over Helen heard, faintly, the roar of the ocean around them, a siren’s call. She could feel a goddess’ eyes on her, and it was so immense, so staggering that she felt her whole body tremble under the weight of it all. This was no longer a wish, but a necessity. A life source. Her mind was separate and desperate.

Still in the arms of her man, still in the throes of youth, Helen laid bare the delicate line of her collarbone and smiled very sadly, very beautifully.

"You men," She murmured in the breeze, "You fight for honor —"

"I fight for you, Helen of Sparta."

He was so close, now, that he could smell the hyacinths in her curls, could see the glitter on her lashes for what they were: tears.

"And you all are fearless." She continued, "But we, too, are warriors of courage."

Paris' gaze slowly traced her face.

"I have always been daring. There are things some men are afraid of that I greet as an old friend. Danger. Dishonor. Death." Helen turned to the sea, a silhouette against the downfall of starlight, "But you have unveiled a great fear of mine."

The silence seemed to drag out long and endless between them, a string stretched taut.

"I'm not afraid of dying." She whispered, "I'm afraid of tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"When you sail away with your ships and your men, will you leave me in the care of my husband's freezing touch?"

Paris stilled, one hand curved beneath her jaw, one hand scrunched into her tumble of hair.

"Helen," He said, cheeks shadowed with flames, "You don't have to be afraid. You will sail away with me."

The sea, all fire, spread around Sparta, and Helen — half dust, half deity — could almost feel the shiver of freedom at her fingertips. Power — it was the first time she felt it. For a moment, just a moment, sailing away seemed to her the easiest thing in the world.

I loved you, Helen of Sparta, as I have loved every mortal. 

Something cold grasped the hem of her tunic, then the crown of her head. There was a deep expanse of sea — she was not sailing but sinking — directionless, unsteady, a rush of vertigo. It was all mist, all mist, yet from the distance she caught the shiver of a peacock’s tail. At once, Helen jolted to awareness — for this was undoubtedly the presence of a goddess.

You have chosen your side, I have chosen mine.

Princess of Troy, are you ready for the blood on your hands?

She met the waking world with a gasp, as if breaking through from the surface of a tide. It took a while for her to feel the soft wood of the ship underneath her and to realize that she’d been dreaming. The ghastly presence of divinity weighed on her heavily still, and she almost doubled over in a roaring chase of agony. A dream. Only a dream . Under the leering yellow mouth of the moon and the carnivorously watchful eyes of a dozen Trojan warriors, Helen forced herself to calm.

Beside her, Paris slept, but fitfully. She brushed a dark curl from his cheek and wondered which immortal was plaguing the landscape of his mind. Even in sleep, he was beautiful — but there was now a wailing despair in the hollows of her stomach, a tightening in her chest. Beneath all of this infatuation, this grandeur, this glory — which had been all that Helen had been searching for, really — there was a ringing voice in her ears that reminded her of the daughter she’d left back in Sparta. Was it remorse?

Helen shook herself from the thought. There was a bang at the entrance near the trireme, and a servant maid’s crimson face popped through.

“Lady Helen of Sparta, daughter of Zeus.” She said, “I have brought some bread and wine. Would you care for some?”

“Certainly. Thank you.” Helen murmured airily, rising from her place next to her beloved like a shade from the underworld. The maid lunged in with an iron-black tray. The loaf was fresh and the wine mellow: Helen accepted it and waited until the maid’s black wiry hair disappeared from view to pour the Gods a libation.

It was a warm evening, Helen noted. A presence startled her from behind, and when she turned, she was met with a greatly familiar face. She raked her mind for the brusque roughness of that jaw, the dark green eyes.

“Hector of Troy.” She spoke with a very appreciative lilt, “It is such a pleasure to remake your acquaintance.”

The man’s face retained its stony frigidity. “Quite.” He said roughly, “Though perhaps in different circumstances, our acquaintance may have been better made.”

Helen brought her hands up to her chest as her breath rose and fell in her breast like two fanning wings. That wailing despair was back, the tightness taking back its hold on her throat. “Why do you say so?” She asked him, at the same time that she dreaded his answer.

“Of course you are a beauty, Helen of Sparta, but you are also a Queen. Your country’s honor will not be tarnished so easily.” Hector’s hands came atop her own, a certain sympathy seeping into his harsh exterior.

“I know of my husband’s temperament,” Helen breathed, “He is mild. He will not come for me.”

Hector watched as her breaths came quicker, and he melted into a kind tenderness. “Not him, Helen.” He said, quietly as to not wake his brother, “Agamemnon of Mycenae.”

The reality sank into her like poison. Helen clutched at the pale expanse of her throat, stumbling to the deck and longing to throw herself off the trireme to empty her abdomen. Whether it was because of the awareness that her beloved and she would no longer be left alone or the realization that she would likely bring about destruction for Troy, Helen did not know. 

“You don’t believe he will really send in an army, do you?” She asked, desperate to believe otherwise.

“I can’t be certain, Helen, but it seems likely.”

When morning came, the ship was still moving. It would be a week or so before they landed, but the ship was comfortable despite the heavy dread sitting stale on Helen’s heart. 

Paris stirred from his place on the floor of the cabin. His curls were matted with sleep, and his handsome face was twisted with some fleeting dream or nightmare. Helen watched him silently for a moment, a strange cocktail of tenderness and unease swirling in her chest. Hadn’t he been the key to everything she had now? Hadn’t he been her salvation, her liberation, the answer to her yearning for something more?

“Darling,” She whispered, longing for his touch on her body to reassure herself that all had been her plan, “Come here.”

Paris watched her with a grin playing on his lips, languid and charming in his youth.

“You are awake early, Helen of Troy,” He said, “Did you sleep at all?”

“Not much,” She confessed, “There is too much on my mind.”

Paris pushed himself up, his hair tumbling into disarray, and took her hands in his. "You think too much of what is behind us," he said gently. "Think instead of what is ahead. Troy will welcome you with open arms. My father, my brothers — they will adore you as I do."

There was a faint ghost of a smile adorning her features, though it never quite reached her eyes. “And your people? What will they think?”

“Helen,” Paris insisted, faltering only for a moment, “They will see what I see. How could they not?”

He was so young, so sure of himself, and she feared what the weight of her choices would do to him — to both of them. In the back of her mind, fires raged, and a boy named Achilles would die at her lover’s hand. A boy named Achilles would give Greece a son to rival all of Troy’s men, to bring down the citadel she’d never even seen. And then — would it be her fault, then?

"I wonder," she said softly, almost to herself, "if there will come a day when we look back on this and wish we had chosen differently."

There was so much more she wanted to say. Her lips parted, but no words spilled out. Paris cupped her face in his hands, and his kiss pressed against her like a shock-wave — soft and hot and wet and breathy, growing firmer and more determined still and seeking to chase down that elusive liquid lightning that reached through both of them — until there was nothing left in her mind but this heat and this passion that she no longer knew where to put.