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When a path reveals itself, do not hesitate to follow your gut.
That was something Anaxibia had told him, the night before he and his brother left for Sparta, as he was now walking the stray path before him. He had slipped to a small corner as Agamemnon was talking to an old colleague, a noble who probably rubbed shoulders with King Tyndareus himself, in hopes that said noble would help them gain an audience with the Spartan king.
The King was exiled by his brother during his youth, Agamemnon had explained to him. If anyone can grant us sanctuary, it is him.
It had been almost a month since they were exiled. They were living in a modest house, nothing like the royal halls of his old home, purple curtains. The floors creaked, the coaches weren’t as soft, and you couldn’t see the moon from any window. Still, it was better than the first few nights, sleeping in a barn with holes in the roof.
Getting an audience with the king is easier said than done. There were many political hurdles his brother had to go through, processes he couldn't really understand other than it being another step toward the right direction, as his brother calls it. He was mostly expected to be there and nod at whatever his brother said. Polite diplomacy. For us.
His brother is finding allies. His brother is forging connections. As a good younger brother, he should stick by his side, no matter how countlessly dull and boring it is. Menelaus, for the most part, filled that role to a tee. His eyes, however, betrayed him, as he could not help but look around the bustling agora. There was a grand feast happening later that day, markets humming with activity as vendors yelled out their products and prices. Children were running around the streets, having the type of fun he and his brother rarely had back at Mycenae. If he concentrates long enough, he can even hear soldiers in the distance marching in perfect formation. As a young lad, he had always wanted to see the Spartan warriors in action.
“Excuse me,” He said softly, as he didn’t wait for an answer. His brother was deep in conversation, their voices brimming with conflicting strategies. Agamemnon wouldn’t notice his absence—not for a few minutes, at least.
Menelaus glanced back once, marking the narrow passageway behind him. He wasn’t going far; just a quick look around. Agamemnon had always told him to stick close, but the agora’s energy tugged at him like a restless tide. He won’t be far. He’d be back before anyone would notice.
Turns out, he couldn’t find the soldiers anywhere around the streets. They’ve probably returned to the battlefield, or stationed somewhere else, or left for another city. He could go back to his brother, but his gut tells him to stick around for a while. The familiar pull of obligation tugged at him, but for once, he ignored it. Sparta felt different—less suffocating, more alive. For the first time in weeks, he felt a flicker of control over himself. He chose to stay, drinking in the sights before him. The festival was at its peak, the streets alive with dancing, music, and laughing. The same children he saw earlier were now resting in the nearby fountain, talking about mundane things.
As Menelaus wandered through the agora, the festival’s hum seemed to lull him into a dream. He was unprepared for the flash of gold that struck his shoulder, sending him off balance like a ship hit by a sudden gust. A girl—no more than fourteen—swept past him, her golden hair trailing behind her. She darted into a narrow corridor, her hurried steps faltering as she bent over, catching her breath. Then she stood tall, taller than him, her sharp gaze meeting him for a fleeting moment. She pressed a finger to her lips, the command clear. Quiet . Distantly a voice grows louder and louder, he can hear— “Princess Helen!”
Menelaus froze. He knew the name, how could he not? Princess Helen of Sparta, the daughter of Tyndareus and Leda, famed for her godlike beauty. Even Mycenae knew her a living legend, yet here she was, raggedly dusting her palms as she tried to evade capture.
The girl ducked behind a vendor’s cart piled high with amphorae, near where the corridor’s outer wall met the bustling street. The guard halted to a stop at the entrance, his eyes scanning the alley with a scowl. Before Menelaus could move, a voice rang out— Lysander!
The guard jumped from where he was standing, looking at the wall in fear. “Arete?” he stammered, his face paling.
Menelaus blinked in confusion. The voice had come from behind the cart—he was sure of it—but it was nothing like he’d imagined coming from the lips of a princess. Gravelly, mature, and dripping with disdain, it could only belong to an angry wife. I better not catch you sneaking off with a lady toni…ght! the voice snapped, before slipping (by accident, it appears) into something softer, forcing a small cough before regaining its edge. Luckily the guard didn’t seem to notice.
Unbelievable. He hadn’t seen her lips move, but he knew the sound could only come from the princess hiding behind the cart.
The guard stiffened, his eyes darting nervously around. “Arete, I wouldn’t!” he yelled, recognizing his wife’s tone. “Go home!” He yelled, looking over his shoulder, thoroughly unnerved. The princess’ clever trick had rattled him just enough.
The guard’s gaze fell on Menelaus, who was still standing nearby, trying to appear casual. “You!” the guard barked, striding toward him. “Have you seen Princess Helen?”
Menelaus hesitated, but only for a second. “No,” he said firmly, meeting the guard’s eyes. “I haven’t seen anyone like that.” The guard grumbled under his breath but, convinced, moved off, his pride bruised and his search continuing elsewhere.
Once the guard was out of sight, Menelaus heard a different voice, one more attuned to its owner.
“Thanks for not ratting me out.” The noble girl said, dusting off the dirt of her chiton. She opted to move a little from the cart, sitting down.
“That was impressive, what you did with your voice,” Menelaus said, not entirely sure where he gained the confidence. Helen patted the ground next to him, and Menelaus sat down next to her.
“Thank you,” she said with a faint smile, her tone light but offering no further explanation. “It’s something I picked up along the way. You aren’t from around here, aren’t you?”
“Ah no,” Menelaus replied, sheepish in front of the princess. Should he introduce himself? Maybe he should. This could help his brother. But what came out of his mouth was- “Why was he chasing you?”
The princess stared at the wall for a while, before giving her answer. “I’m supposed to be near the palace,” Helen muttered, “My home. My parents don’t like me ‘going too far’, and I must always have a chaperone or one of my sisters with me. It’s not like I want them to worry, it’s just—”
Helen did not know why, but it felt easy talking to this stranger.
“—I’ve been kidnapped once.” The princess said. “Awful prince. He and his buddy both. He took me far away from home, talking big about making me his wife ,” Helen shuddered. “He didn’t touch me, he just took me to his mother’s place until my brothers rescued me. The worst thing he did to me was make my mother and father worry this badly. ” Helen laid her head against the wall. “It’s been four years since then, and it still hasn’t changed. I had to get away, from all of it. Just for a little while.” Helen chose to look at him then, surprised to see a deep understanding in his eyes.
“I get that,” he said quietly. “Not the being kidnapped part—thank the gods—but the feeling like someone’s always watching over you. Always ready to jump in, whether you want them to or not.”
Helen turned her head toward him, her curiosity piqued.
“My older brother,” Menelaus explained. “He’s... well, he means well. Always has. But ever since we left home, he’s acted like it’s his duty to keep me safe. I couldn’t go anywhere without him by my side. Sometimes it feels like I’m more his shadow than his brother.” He glanced down, his tone taking on a rueful edge. “I know it’s because he cares, and this is all still new, but it can feel like a lot. Like there’s no room to just…“
“—breathe.” Helen finished. “So you understand why I had to get away.”
“More than you know,” he replied, his lips quivering into a small smile. Exile isn’t just leaving one place behind; it’s not belonging anywhere at all. Mycenae is a fading dream, and Sparta a borrowed cloak. Amidst it all, he is just… drifting.
“But I guess the difference is, I also get why your parents are being protective. If my sister was ever kidnapped, I don’t know what I’d do.” The boy sighed, earning a soft punch to his shoulder. “What was that for?!”
“You are a Spartan now. Spartans don’t sigh; they march, fight, and yell orders.”
“Oh, is that so? I missed the part of the Spartan Code where it says I can’t breathe out loud.”
“It’s read between the lines. You’d know that if you were a real Spartan.”
“If punching people is what makes someone Spartan, you must be the fiercest warrior in the city.”
“Don’t sell yourself short. The next time a man kidnaps me, foreigner, I’ll be counting on you to fight for me.”
“I’ll gather up the troupes then. I’ll be on the front lines.”
It was the way he said it—smiling, his eyes crinkling with boyish charm—that caught her off guard. Helen stifled a laugh, pressing her hand to her lips. For a moment, the weight of her words seemed to lift.
They were interrupted by an indiscernible shout from afar, an angry male voice, startling the boy as he stood up. “I have to go!”
“Wait!” Before the exile could reply, the princess pinned something on his piece of clothing. It was a brooch she had once stolen from Castor, a symbol of a shield, its light gleaming. She wasn’t sure why she did it—only that it felt right, as though this moment deserved to be remembered.
“The next time we meet, wear this. So I know it is you.”
The boy nods, and looks back at her one last time, before leaving. Helen didn’t catch his name, but she wasn’t worried. He knew hers, and he had something of hers.
It is fitting then, that three years later, amid the suitors at her father’s palace, Helen’s eyes land on a red-headed man, the supposed brother of her sister’s betrothed. He grew taller in height, almost surpassing her but not quite yet. More refined, more proper clothes, but carried the same understanding eyes. A smile tugs at her lips as she sees the gleam of a brooch she gave a boy not long ago.
“Hello.”