Work Text:
Despite the initial horror of the royal family, Troy had welcomed her.
Helen the beautiful. Helen the beloved of Paris. Helen of Sparta. Helen of Troy.
Helen, the face that launched a thousand ships.
Once war came to their doorstep, their favor slowly curdled, turning bitter the longer the conflict went on.
She could stand on the ramparts of Troy to witness the battles, she could say a thousand apologies, and it would never be enough. She can mourn at Hector’s funeral, recognizing one of the few people here that had shown her kindness, and still they hated her.
Helen knew it was deserved. She bore the guilt and the blame as much as Paris, if not more so. To dwell in self-pity was shameful for a woman who had once been Queen of Sparta, so she did not linger.
It was not such a surprise when her handmaidens were dismissed from her chambers nor was it when King Priam entered.
He had been kind to her before but he had lost a son, one of his favorites no less, and another son that was not so loved but was Helen’s first shield against Troy’s anger. Priam could cut her down or throw her to any soldier who desired her and no one here would protest. When his hand under her chin tilted her head up, Helen assumed it was so she could witness her death coming.
But Priam did not look vengeful. His eyes were those of a tired old man grieving the slow slaughter of his family in an endless war. She saw undeserved pity.
A sob built in her throat. I never meant any of this.
He withdrew, gruff voice quiet. “You will be given a week to mourn. What happens after will be decided then.”
Helen breathed a little easier, treacherous relief bubbled up. He had given her time to prepare for whatever was to be her fate.