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Chapter Text

The sun had barely cleared the horizon when Hector’s voice cut across the courtyard. “Again.”

Eleos gritted her teeth and reset her stance, sweat already slick beneath her oversized tunic despite the early chill. She had no tunics of her own and Hector had honest-to-gods laughed at the sight of her trying to train in a long chiton that first time so many months ago. The next time they had met, some days later, he had handed her an old tunic of his silently and she had worn it during these sessions ever since. It wasn’t too dissimilar to her chiton, but the decreased length definitely helped her not trip over herself as much. It was a kind gesture at the time, but now it stuck to her skin in an uncomfortable manner only increasing her frustration.

The training sword felt heavier than it should—her palms ached, her fingers refused to tighten properly around the worn grip. Across from her, Hector raised his blade and waited.

She drew in a quick breath before she lunged. He deflected. She tried again. He stepped aside. By the third pass, her movements had become frantic, more frustration than form. 

Hector didn’t strike back—he rarely did—but the way his brows dipped beneath his sweat-damp hair told her more than any correction. She was flailing. He knew it. She knew it.

“Again,” he said, voice low and hoarse.

“I am trying,” she snapped.

“I didn’t say you weren’t,” he replied, patient but weary. His armor was half-fastened, a smear of dried blood clinging to the cuff of his sleeve. A healer had wrapped a fresh bandage around his ribs just before dawn. He shouldn’t have been here, not this morning, but he showed up anyway. 

It was often like this. Hector would find her in the lost hours, those precious moments between planning for battle and actual fighting. He would pull her from her sleep in the early mornings, from her dinner in the late evenings, at midnight on one particularly memorable occasion. He would hand her a wooden training sword and make her run drills again and again and again. And despite the months that passed, the hours of effort, Eleos felt she was not improving. It frustrated her beyond belief.

Eleos swung again, clumsy and wild. Hector parried it with one hand. “Your stance—”

“I know,” she bit out, stepping back, breath ragged. “My stance is wrong, my grip is wrong, my everything is wrong.”

“You’re improving,” Hector said gently. “But it takes—”

“I’ve been doing this for months, and I still fight like a clumsy child!”

Her voice echoed through the courtyard, bouncing off the stone and silence. Nearby, Andromache sat on the low garden wall, watching with folded hands and unreadable eyes. Hector’s wife was often an observer during these sessions. She had a surprising depth of knowledge and would often make suggestions to Hector that he would then implement. Eleos liked the other woman, despite herself, but having a witness to her humiliation was almost too much. At Eleos’ outburst, Andromache stood.

“Eleos—” Andromache started.

“Don’t,” Eleos snapped, throwing down the practice sword with a full thud as it skittered across the flagstones. “Don’t tell me I’m doing fine. Don’t tell me it takes time. It doesn’t take this long. Not for people who are meant for this.” The words echoed, too loud in the open air—but the silence that followed felt even louder.

Helplessness surged in her chest, bitter and familiar. No matter how hard she tried, she failed. Always. She had thought that taking control of her fate—choosing to stay, to train, to fight all those months ago—would change that. That learning to defend herself would make her feel stronger. Steadier. 

It hadn’t.

If anything, she felt more lost than ever. Unmoored. She was no longer fleeing, but that didn’t mean she was moving forward. And if she couldn’t even master the basics of a sword—couldn’t hold her own in a courtyard under Hector’s watchful eye—how would she ever hope to survive the war beyond it? How would she ever hope to fend off Alexander the next time he came after her? The next time one of his soldiers attempted to––

Eleos turned sharply on her heel, shaking her head equally in frustration and in an attempt to shake the haunting thoughts from her mind.  She stormed toward the side entrance that opened into the courtyard before either Hector or Andromache could answer. “Eleos–” she heard Hector call after her, but she paid him no mind as she exited, almost fled, the scene.

She barely made it around the corner, just out of eyesight before she slumped against the wall. She felt tears burn her eyes as she blinked furiously to keep them at bay. She huffed, it was just so aggravating. Eleos tilted her head to look up, her eyes catching on the mural painted on the far wall. It was an image of the goddess Athena, one arm wrapped around a spear, the other resting on a large round shield. A plumed helm rested on Athena’s head and an owl perched on her shoulder. 

Athena. Eleos scoffed. The timing couldn’t have been worse. The image of her supposed mother stood tall and regal. The goddess of wisdom and war. “Well, clearly there are some things I did not inherit from you, mother,” Eleos sneered at the image. It was almost startling referring to the woman as her mother, so often did Eleos try to ignore any connection with the deity. 

“She is trying, Hector,” came Andromache’s voice, cutting through the haze of Eleos’ frustration. Obviously, she hadn’t stormed off far enough to avoid hearing the older couple behind her.

“I know,” Hector replied, his voice low and gruff. “I never said she wasn’t.”

“But you do little to encourage,” Andromache shot back. “You only ever point out what she gets wrong. You never acknowledge what she does right.”

“If she gets it right, I’ve no reason to speak,” Hector grunted, as though it were obvious.

Eleos’ eyebrows shot up. Her scoff of disbelief echoed Andromache’s nearly in unison. “I am going to give you a moment,” Andromache began, her tone hard, “to reflect on what you just said.” Eleos could almost picture the woman’s dark eyes flashing. “Because if this is how you are with her, then I dread to think what you will be like with our future children.”

A long pause and then there was a deep exhausted sigh. “I am sorry, Andromache,” Hector apologized, “You are correct. It is just… it is so hard to even find time to train the girl and I just fear––” Again there was a beat of silence before he continued, “I just fear that I am teaching her on borrowed time, that I am living on borrowed time. You speak of future children and all I can think of is the young boys I see go out onto those bloody fields and never return. We are at war, Andromache. And as much as I wish I could never set foot on that battlefield again….”

“I know, Hector,” Andromache’s voice was strained, heavy with the fear they both faced. “I know that every battle runs a risk, we all do. I wish the gods would grant you reprieve, but I also know that as long as Troy is threatened, no matter what I say, you will fight.” 

Andromache took in a shuddering breath, “I love you, Hector. And I hate that you have to fight. I hate that you leave day after day and come back covered in blood. I hate that we both feel like we are running out of time. And that is why I ask you to encourage Eleos. If the worst, gods forbid, should happen–– ” Andromache’s voice caught, a trapped sob stalling her words.

“Andromache,” Hector mumbled, softly, comforting, but it seemed to do little to soothe his wife. 

“I keep dreaming of him,” she continued, her tone distant, unmoored. Eleos felt lost at the sudden change in the other woman “Our little boy… I dream of holding him, imagine the sweet smell of his skin, and then I watch helplessly as he is torn from my arms. And you are not there Hector, you are gone and I can do nothing. Nothing as our boy is taken and murdered.”

“Andromache,” Hector’s voice was soft and devastated, one gentle tap away from shattering into a million sharp edges. 

But Andromache pressed on, “I dream of our little boy dying, Hector. I will not allow the same to happen to the girl I see as my own in my waking hours, Hector. I won’t.” Eleos felt her heart clench and then skip a beat, her breath catching at the older woman’s declaration. These were words she wasn’t meant to hear, but they eased something in her soul, something ragged and angry. Even with her resolution to stay in Troy–more of a forced concession than true capitulation on her end, but nonetheless–being so viscerally claimed meant something. These lonely months without anyone on her side… without her only friend. No, don’t think about her, Eleos chastised herself harshly. Like with most things, Eleos buried her loneliness, her longing, her yearning deep, deep within. It would do no good to consider that which had been left behind.

“Eleos needs to be prepared and only criticizing will not help.” These are the words that brought Eleos’ attention back to the conversation. She wasn’t sure how much she had missed, but hearing Andromache continue to stand up for her warmed Eleos from the inside out.

“Andromache,” Hector whispered, his voice softer—more tender—than Eleos had ever heard it. “I love you. I love you so much. And I promise, I’ll try to be more encouraging.” There was a pause. The kind of quiet that felt full rather than empty.

Curious despite herself, Eleos leaned slightly around the corner. She caught a glimpse of Hector’s broad hands gently cupping Andromache’s face, his forehead pressed to hers. It was an intimacy so raw and quiet it felt sacred.

Eleos whipped back before she saw more, guilt rising hot in her chest. She shouldn’t have listened. She knew that. Eavesdropping was a terrible habit—and an old one at that—but still, she was grateful for what she’d overheard.

Hearing Andromache stand up for her, claim her—hearing Hector actually promise to be better—calmed the anger within. It didn’t erase her frustration, but it softened its edge. At least she wasn’t the only one who noticed how hard this was. At least someone was in her corner.

Her gaze drifted back to the mural on the wall beside her—the image of Athena, eyes painted in sharp, unblinking gray. The mother she had never met. The woman who hadn’t claimed her.

What would she think of all this?

What would a goddess of wisdom and war say about Eleos’ faltering grip, her endless self-doubt? Would she care? Would she urge Eleos to keep going, to push harder like Hector and Andromache did? Or would she dismiss her as a failed experiment—a mistake best left forgotten?

Did Athena even know she was in Troy?

Eleos frowned. She must. According to her father, it was Athena who had left her in Odysseus’ arms. And the gods could not be so distant to have abandoned the fighting Trojans and Achaeans––could they? Although she could not be entirely sure. It did feel like the gods had abandoned them. Their recent silence in the wake of Eleos’ prayers was no exception.

“It’s a pretty mural, isn’t it?”

Eleos jumped, heart slamming in her chest. She lost her footing slightly and nearly slid off the wall she’d leaned on. She turned quickly—too quickly—and found Andromache standing there, arms loosely folded, amusement playing in her eyes. The raw emotion that had played out just around the corner was noticeably absent from the woman’s face. It gave Eleos whiplash in the fast turn around.

“Andromache,” Eleos managed, trying to calm her racing pulse. “Uh… yes. It is.”

The older woman hummed, head tilting as she joined her in gazing at the wall. “Hmm. Hector should be more encouraging going forward.” The corner of her mouth lifted in a knowing smile.

Eleos sputtered, taking the words for what they were. Andromache knew Eleos had heard their conversation. “I am sorry,” Eleos began, “I did not mean to––”

“I’m sure,” Andromache smirked, “It matters not.” The older woman raised a dismissive hand before turning and beginning to walk down the hallway Eleos had hidden in, “Follow me.”

“What?” Eleos asked, dumbfounded. Andromache tended to be more of a mothering figure and so for her to be so brusque was odd. “I have something to show you.”

***

The room Andromache had led Eleos to was not one she had seen before. It was open, airy, and welcoming. Tall windows allowed streams of golden morning light to pass into the room. They opened out onto some scenic back courtyard, a small garden that, while well-tended, did not look like it got a lot of foot traffic. It was a forgotten haven in the palace.

Andromache had shown Eleos to this room and then told her to stay put while the older woman retrieved something from her and Hector’s quarters. Eleos had been sitting there, soaking in the quiet peace for a good quarter of an hour. One might imagine she would feel lonely, tucked away as she was, but that was not the case. This room was weaving some magic on her, something divine was at work in the calm this room exuded. The earlier frustration and anger had seemingly disappeared once Eleos had crossed the threshold. The guilt at overhearing Andromache, the bitterness at her lack of progress, even her ever present concern over the war–it all faded dimly into the background.

So calm was Eleos that she flinched in surprise at the reappearance of Andromache. The tall, strong woman cut a fine figure in the open doorway; even her presence, however dominating, could not break the spell of the room. “I see you have discovered the beauty of this place,” Andromache noted, her tone mutedly amused.

“Is it some sort of spell?” Eleos questioned, although she almost felt detached from her body, as if the one speaking was not her.

“Not that I have ever been able to discern,” the woman replied. “When I first came to Troy, before I fell in love with Hector and this place was still new and terrifying, this was the first place I felt I could truly relax.” Eleos watched as Andromache traced a hand gently over the doorframe, “It was the first place I felt safe, like something was watching over me and would protect me from all harm.” Andromache gave a light chuckle, “It was almost like I was back home, wrapped in my father’s embrace.” 

Eleos almost flinched at the comparison. She had not felt completely safe in her father’s embrace for many years now, truly not since before she was sent away to Sparta. Even now as the man was fighting against the very people who held her captive, Eleos still could not bring herself to consider her father as a source of safety and comfort.

However, in a way, Eleos could almost see what Andromache meant. There was something about this room, some almost otherworldly presence. But unlike the fire within Eleos, this did not burn, it did not hurt. No, it wrapped the occupants in a blanket of comfort, like basking on the beach on a warm summer’s day. This dichotomy––Eleos’ own unstable, unending, uncontrolled burning in comparison to the gentle heat within––caused Eleos to jolt from the comfortable lull she had fallen into.

“Why did you bring me here?” Eleos snapped, her tone hard as she broke from the quiet that had overtaken her mind. “To bask in the silence of a empty room,” she snidely remarked. Eleos felt almost instant regret as Andromache’s face fell slightly, her lips pursing slightly in response to the younger girl’s pettiness. Like so many times before, Eleos had spoken before thinking. Gods, what she wouldn’t give for the ability to simply hold her tongue!

“No,” the older woman stated, her facing once more smoothing out into a picture of collected calm. Gods, Hector and her were made for each other. Both of them had the ability to hide behind faces of stone at a moment’s notice. What Eleos wouldn’t give to be able to keep her thoughts to herself. 

“I brought you here to show you this,” Andromache remarked. At that moment, Eleos noticed that Andromache had been holding something in her hands this whole time. It was large and Eleos was shocked she hadn’t noticed it until this point. Maybe the room really was magic.

A rounded base made of a tortoise shell with animal skin stretched tight across the opening merged into two long horns that reached upwards. A long yoke crossed the space between them, forming a bridge on which four taut strings, spawning from the base of the shell,  held. 

It was a lyre. Eleos had seen one of these before, in Sparta. Before she could stop herself, her mind was cast back to nearly four years prior, a moment early in her time in Sparta.

“Come on, Eleos! Why won’t you dance with me?” Hermione had asked, her voice purposefully pitched to be as whiny as possible. 

“I have two left feet and you know it,” Eleos laughed, shaking her head at the other girl. “I would bruise your toes within minutes.”

“Oh come on! You cannot be that bad,” Hermione protested.

“I assure you, I am.”

“You give up too easily,” the girl complained.

“I like to think I have a realistic understanding of my abilities,” Eleos countered.

“Well, I can hardly judge the truth of that statement,” Hermione cried,“I have never even seen you dance! Am I supposed to just take you at your word?”

“That is often what one does in these kinds of situations, Hermione.” Hermione humphed, her expression stormy and put out. “Additionally, the music is not even right for dancing,” Eleos smirked at her friend’s irritation, “How can I possibly even attempt to dance under such conditions?”

“Now you are just making excuses!” Hermioned argued.

“Excuses? Or valid observations?” Eleos questioned, “Not everything can go your way, Princess.” 

Hermione slouched further into her seat, her face a picture of desolation. If Eleos wasn’t so averse to the idea of dancing, she almost might have felt bad. Hermione sat there, pouting and forlorn, for all of a moment longer before her face suddenly lit up and her lips curved deviously. 

Eleos felt a sudden spike of dread shoot up her spine. That expression never boded well.

“I am a princess, therefore, I can order you to dance!” The triumphant gleam in the girl’s eye, “And because I am, as I said, a princess, you have to do as I say!”

Eleos felt herself relax slightly, if that was the best Hermione could come up with…. She rolled her eyes at her friend, “Not going to happen.” Eleos smirked back, “Need I remind you I am also a princess? One princess cannot order another.”

“My kingdom, my rules,” Hermione snarked back.

Eleos chuckled, shaking her head, “Your father’s kingdom and your father’s rules, you mean.”

The other girl’s eyes flashed and she glared at Eleos again for all of a second before that expression was back. They were in the banquet hall and dinner had finished not too long ago. Now people were just meandering, socializing, and yes, some were dancing. The girl leaned back, her arm reaching further along the high table to tap at her father’s shoulder. 

King Menelaus was engaged in some discussion with an advisor, but his attention very quickly shifted to Hermione when the girl tapped him on the shoulder. “Father,” the girl intoned, her voice taking on that sing-song quality that daughters sometimes use when they want to bend their fathers to their will. “I wish to dance, but this music does not seem suited. Will you please play your lyre father?”

The king smiled indulgently at his daughter, but began to shake his head. “Hermione, your mother––”

“Is not here, at this moment,” Hermione cut Menelaus off. “And, thus, has no reason to complain.”

The king’s eyes flicked back and forth across the run, taking in the rather sedate nature of the people around them, before sighing. “Of course daughter,” he capitulated. “Servant! Bring me my lyre, my daughter wishes to dance!”

The court perked up at the news that the king would be playing and whispers of intrigue spread across the hall. Hermione turned to look at Eleos with a smug grin, “You can hardly refuse to dance now, princess of Ithaca.”

Eleos groaned, throwing her head back dramatically, “Fine, Hermione. You have won, I will dance. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Yes, very much so,” the other girl’s smile grew even more, if that was even possible.

“I will warn you,” Eleos tried once more, “You really will regret asking me to dance.”

“You are a princess, you must have had lessons,” Hermione declared, “You will be fine.” Eleos did not have the heart to tell the other girl that despite having lessons, dancing had been a lost cause as Eleos had been born with two left feet. An immortal will trying to fashion itself on mortal feet, her father used to claim. 

It was within a short period of time that a servant came out bearing a lyre for the king. “Pipes and drums, as well!” the king exclaimed in enthusiasm once he had his hands on the lyre. “My daughter wants music to dance to, music she shall have!” He smiled brightly as Hermione leapt up from the table, her eager hands pulling at Eleo's until she too stood.

“Once more, I will warn you,” Eleos tried a final time, “This will only end in disaster.”

“Oh pish!” Hermione once more dismissed, “If you are truly so worried, simply follow my lead and mirror my movements.”

Eleos took a final shaky breath, “Very well, on your head be it.”

A space had cleared in the center of the room as members of the court gathered at the edges. Hermione marched with confidence, her red curls bouncing and flashing like a living flame, catching flickers from the lit torches along the wall. Eleos followed timidly, her shoulders slumped in. Hermione struck a pose in the middle of the room, her hands held high above her head, her wrists crossed and her back arched gracefully. Eleos, now posed next to her, cringed internally, but slowly raised her arms to mirror the other girl.

It began with a slow beating of the drum, a gently rhythmic cadence that Hermione began to slowly move to, her arms rotating elegantly, the fabric of her dress swishing audibly as she rotated leisurely. Eleos tried her best to mirror her friend, but knew that there was no illusion of ease on her part with her furrowed brows, bit lip, and eyes intently focused on Hermione’s movements.

The drum began to pick up, its speed a little more pronounced. The two barreled pipes, the aulos, joined in, a reedy sound that danced around the drums. Eleos started to feel herself relax, the gentle movements, while slightly faster than before, were becoming more intuitive. She felt herself falling into the music, the trills of the pipe, the beat of the drum. And then, the lyre came in. 

Even his enemies, Eleos had to imagine, had to credit that King Menelaus was an excellent lyre player. His fingers pulled dexterously at the strings. He began with singular plucks, the sound resonating and resting on top of the base of the drum and the meat of the pipe. Then he began to strum, adding body to the music. It built and built, a melody began to form, a motif that the trifecta of instruments returned to again and again. The drum sped up once more and soon Eleos was fully lost to the music.

It was by her, around her, within her. She felt a warmth within, a golden essence that filled her from the tips of her toes to the crown of her head. Her feet began to lift higher, her brows no longer furrowed, but now raised in the joy of losing herself to the music. She circled Hermione, still allowing the other girl to take center stage as the music crested and fell, undulating in musical delight. But she grew bolder, uncloaking her hair and using the swatch of fabric as an extension of herself.

Hermione, seeing this, laughed gleefully and she too removed her head scarf. The two girls circled one another now, arms twisting, wrists flicking elegantly, brightly colored bolts of fabric fluttering behind them. Their eyes locked, green on silver, and held. The two girls circled closer and closer still, approaching one another as the drum hit faster, the lyre rushed notes into one another, the aulos trilled. The two girls were within reach of one another now, their arms reaching, catching, their smiles shared in the beauty of this moment, their forms approaching so close that they nearly became one and then––

Then it happened. One beat off and Eleos accidentally stepped on Hermione’s trailing bolt of fabric, her foot catching and stopping the fabric in its wake. The next few milliseconds felt like an eternity as Eleos felt a wave of pure dread shoot down her spine. This was going to end badly and she was but a helpless witness to the resulting carnage. The abrupt halting of the fabric jolted Hermione, stalling the twirl she had begun and pulling her into Eleos. Eleos, the leg not currently on the fabric lifted into the air, caught the brunt of Hermione and it all came crashing down. What felt like an eternity was over in a second as the two girls fell into an ungraceful tangle of limbs on the cold stone floor.

The music stopped abruptly, the drum line dropping off, the pipes letting out a rather unsavory honk as the player gasped in surprise, and the lyre hit a painful chord of strings as Menelaus nearly dropped the instrument in his surprise.

What ensued was a rush of various aids to the two girls, them being checked over, asked if they were okay, if they were injured at all. “I’m fine! I’m fine!” Hermione insisted breathlessly, as two attendants fluttered around her like anxious birds. “Honestly, it was just a fall.”

“I’m alright too,” Eleos groaned, rubbing at her hip and elbow, which had taken the brunt of the stone floor’s welcome. She grimaced at the ache, but forced a smile as some advisor reached down to help her to her feet.

“I told you,” she muttered with no small amount of satisfaction as Hermione was hoisted to her feet as well. “Disaster.”

Hermione laughed even as she brushed dust from her skirt, “Oh hush. That was the most fun I’ve had in ages.”

“You nearly dislocated my shoulder,” Eleos deadpanned, though the corners of her lips twitched.

“You stepped on my scarf!”

“You twirled too close!”

“Don’t blame my technique!”

The two girls locked eyes for a moment, and then both burst into uncontrollable laughter, leaning against each other for support. The concerned murmuring of the crowd turned quickly to chuckles and then full-on applause. Even King Menelaus, who had initially stood half-shocked with his lyre hanging limply in his arms, let out a booming laugh.

“Gods above,” he said, chuckling. “You’d think the daughters of kings would have more grace.”

“I am a picture of grace,” Hermione said indignantly, tossing her curls over her shoulder. “It’s my partner here who is cursed with two left feet.”

“I warned you,” Eleos replied, trying to suppress her grin. “I warned everyone.”

“I suppose we must all bear witness to the price of hubris,” came a dry, amused voice from behind the girls. 

They turned to see Queen Helen gliding toward them, her beauty still impossibly radiant even in the flickering torchlight, though her eyes held something more enigmatic—something distant. She must have joined the revelry some time after the girls began dancing. “This is what often happens when you pick up your lyre, Menelaus,” the woman commented, her eyes flicking briefly to her husband before returning to the two girls. “Though,” she added, her voice softening, “I haven’t seen Hermione laugh like that in years.”

Hermione flushed a bright pink. “Mother…” It was not often the queen graced these evening meals with her presence and even more infrequently that she directly regarded Hermione. She seemed in a particularly affable mood that evening. “Come now,” Helen said gently, brushing a lock of hair from her daughter’s forehead. “Let the court have its fun. You’ve both given them a tale they’ll tell for weeks.”

And indeed, as the musicians tentatively began tuning again, the din of laughter and talking swelled around them. Servants began clearing more space and, slowly, the court returned to its revelry. Eleos dusted herself off again and shot Hermione a side glance. “You owe me,” she said plainly.

Hermione gave her a blinding smile. “Oh, dearly. And I intend to repay it with many, many more dances.” Eleos groaned, but she couldn’t help but laugh again. She briefly locked eyes with the queen who regarded her with removed interest and Eleos flicked her eyes away quickly, intimidated by the distant but beautiful queen. Hermione, catching this, pulled Eleos away quickly with a nod to her mother.

As the girls retreated back to their seats, Hermione linked her arm with Eleos’. “For what it’s worth,” she said, voice softer now, “you were beautiful when you danced. You glowed.”

Eleos blinked, touched by the sincerity. “Well… maybe I didn’t hate it.”

“Good,” Hermione said. “Because next time, I want to try the scarf toss.”

Eleos stared at her. “Hermione.”

“Yes?”

“Absolutely not.” They dissolved into giggles again, their laughter echoing above the music as the night stretched on. And for a moment—just a moment—Eleos felt happy, truly unburdened. There was only music, and laughter, and the warmth of a friend at her side.

Eleos came out of her reverie, her mind playing out the memory in an instant. She could almost hear the music now, feel the beat of the drum, the trill of the aulos, the plucking of the lyre. She could almost feel that warmth. She could almost see Hermione in her mind's eye, her flashing red hair, her glinting green eyes, her effervescent smile. 

A tear dropped onto her hand. Eleos had not realized she had begun crying, but she did notice when a warm hand came out to grasp her own. Eleos lifted her eyes, connecting to Andromache’s. “Why are you crying, my dear girl?” she asked, “I only came to show you this instrument.”  

“It simply reminded me of an old friend,” Eleos explained vaguely. Gods, she missed Hermione. She wished she could speak to the girl, if even just for a moment. Tell her that she didn’t have anything to do with her mother’s leaving, tell the girl she was alive and safe. Ask if she was surviving well on her own in Sparta? Her only friend and she had not seen her in months. 

“A friend?” Andromache asked, her tone raised in interest.

“Hermione,” Eleos said before she could stop herself. She regretted it instantly. It was but another thing these people could use against her. Gods, her guard really had dropped recently. She felt too safe. And yet, Andromache had claimed her as her own not an hour before, was helping her even now, even as her husband went onto the battle field day after day to quell the invading Achaean forces. 

Eleos hesitated after speaking Hermione’s name aloud, the syllables tasting of sea salt and sorrow. She braced herself for the judgment, for the careful distance that usually followed such slips. But none came.

Andromache's expression softened instead. “Hermione,” she repeated gently, testing the name on her tongue. “Menelaus' daughter?”

Eleos nodded stiffly, wiping at her cheeks with the sleeve of her chiton. “Yes. We were… close. She was the only one in Sparta who made me feel like I wasn't just… a guest. Or a burden.”

Andromache sat beside her on the low cushioned bench, the lyre resting in her lap like a babe. “That must have been a comfort. Especially so far from your home.”

A breath shuddered out of Eleos, barely a laugh. “We danced once,” she murmured. “Well—she danced. I tripped over my own feet and nearly flattened us both like figs under a cartwheel.”

That earned a small, fond chuckle from Andromache. “I can’t imagine that. You always move with such grace.”

“I don’t,” Eleos replied, though her lips twitched. “But I suppose Hermione made it easy to forget.” There was a quiet moment, heavy with unspoken longing and past joys, broken only by the wind stirring the gauzy curtains at the windows.

“I miss her,” Eleos whispered finally.

“I know,” Andromache said, laying a hand gently on her knee. “We carry those we love with us. Even when we can’t see them.”

The silence that followed was not uncomfortable. It simply was—soft, wide, like the hush before a storm or a lullaby hummed in twilight. Andromache smoothed her hand along the edge of the lyre.

“I brought this for you,” she said, her voice thoughtful, “not just to show you a relic from my dowry, though it was my mother’s once. I brought it because I thought you might like to try.”

Eleos blinked, startled. “To play?”

Andromache nodded. “You spend your days giving so much, Eleos. Trying so hard in Hector’s lessons. And I know they frustrate you, I know he is not an easy teacher. I also know how this war weighs on you, how being trapped here is like a crushing weight on your soul,” Andromache’s eyes took on a clouded look as she stared off into the distance for a moment. Abruptly, she shook her head clear of whatever thoughts haunted her, “I thought… perhaps you’d like to learn something for yourself. Something untouched by war and violence."

Eleos hesitated, her eyes catching on the shell and horn, the taut strings. Something stirred within her at the sight. A yearning she had not known before. “I don’t know how.”

“All the better,” Andromache smiled. “No bad habits.”

“But—I’ve never been musical.”

Andromache pressed the lyre gently into her hands. “The lyre doesn’t ask for perfection. Only feeling. Besides,” she added with a teasing glint in her eye, “you’ll find it has fewer steps to trip over than dancing.”

That drew a small laugh from Eleos. She looked down at the instrument, at the gleaming strings stretched across the polished wood. It felt lighter than she expected, but alive with potential. “Place your fingers here,” Andromache said softly, guiding Eleos’ hands with her own. “Now—draw them across, like so.”

Eleos did as instructed, hesitant at first, but the note that bloomed from the strings was clear and soft, like dew falling into a pond. Her eyes widened. 

“Good,” Andromache encouraged. “Now again, slower. Feel the tension, the way the strings sing when you let them.” She tried again. This time the sound was fuller, more resonant. Something in her chest unknotted, like a taut thread finally allowed to rest.

She didn’t notice how quickly her fingers adapted, how instinctive it began to feel. The gentle brushing, the soft resistance of string to fingertip—it was like breathing. Like she’d always known how, and just forgotten. Andromache leaned back and watched her in quiet amazement. “You play like a natural born musician,” she murmured.

Eleos looked up sharply at that, but Andromache only smiled. “I meant it as praise,” she added. “You’ve a gift, Eleos.”

She didn’t respond, not at first. She only plucked again, her hands now coaxing a delicate melody from the lyre’s hollow frame. That thread of memory tugged at her. A warmth bloomed in her chest again. It was different from the fire that usually roared inside her—this was golden, quiet, safe, cresting from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes. “I… like this,” she whispered.

“I hoped you would,” Andromache said. “And when you feel ready, perhaps you’ll teach me a song in return.”

Eleos smiled faintly, eyes still on the strings. “I will.” And in the quiet chamber, tucked in a forgotten corner of the palace, two women sat side by side, one passing knowledge, the other finding comfort, the simple, sacred rhythm of music binding them together as the sun rose in the sky.

***

A year had passed, though it felt both longer and shorter, like time had folded in on itself and stitched a year into her bones while barely brushing the surface of her skin. Eleos once again sat in the golden, forgotten room in the corner of the palace. It still held the same warmth from before, yet now it enveloped her as soon as she entered the room, embracing her like an old friend each time she came. The room smelled of dried herbs and beeswax candles, the stone walls dappled with the soft gold of the afternoon light filtering through high slotted windows.

Her fingers danced over the lyre’s strings with practiced grace. Andromache had gifted the lyre to Eleos that day a year ago and what had begun as an awkward novelty had become her sanctuary. While Eleos continued to make slow progress on her training with Hector, she had advanced in leaps and bounds with the instrument gifted to her by Andromache. Some days she would simply spend hours plucking at the strings, composing melodies for her ears alone in this abandoned corner of the palace. Each time, she would be swept away by the music. The storm in her soul would calm to a mere summer breeze and her mind would empty of all concerns.

Outside of the palace, the city of Troy mirrored this calm. Although it was an uneasy peace. The war had quieted, not ended, just—paused. At least, the all-out battle had stalled. It was a breath drawn in before the scream. 

In the wake of the pause of direct confrontation, movement in and out of the city had slowed to a trickle; the gates were more heavily guarded, curfews strictly enforced. There were whispers of spies, saboteurs, and worse. The market stalls no longer brimmed with color or sound. Troy was surviving, but it was holding its breath. Despite the chaos Alexander had haunted her with in those first weeks of her time in Troy, he had been noticeably absent in recent months. Perhaps his pride was wounded, or perhaps Hector’s last warning had stalled any further plans. It did not matter. Eleos preferred the silence. It gave her time to play.

She plucked a low, mournful note on the lyre. It shivered in the air. She let it ring, alone and wanting. Despite the peace the space and instrument afforded her, it did not keep the encroaching loneliness at bay. She tried not to think of anyone from the before––the time when she was still in Sparta or even further still in Ithaca. She buried the memories of them deep down, so hidden away that they could only hope to come haunt her in dreams. And yet, she didn’t dream. Ever since she had picked up the lyre, her nights had been suspiciously quiet, her dreams nothing but a black void. No blood, no screams, no fire, just the cold, bleak darkness of nothingness. Eleos shook her head, burying the concern along with everything else.

She tried to spend more time with Hector and, especially, Andromache—seeking their company to ease the loneliness, to shake off the cold emptiness that clung to her after nights filled with nothing but the void. But lately, both had been distant, their minds clearly elsewhere. They didn’t mean to pull away, Eleos knew. She was aware of the rumors. The Myrmidons. 

A true shiver shot down Eleos’ spine at the thought of the ruthless war band. The Myrmidons haunted the edges of her thoughts like wolves. Stories filtered through wounded soldiers and shell-shocked refugees. The countryside bled under their bootsteps. Villages razed, temples looted, anyone too slow to run swallowed by dust and steel. No mercy. No hesitation. They were the nightmare parents told their children to keep them from straying too far from home.

Eleos knew that the Trojans kept trying to predict their movements, hoping to reach the villages before the Myrmidons to evacuate as many civilians as they could. She knew Hector was becoming increasingly frustrated as it always felt like the Trojans were one step behind. It was a chess board where the Achaeans had three queens and the Trojans had too many pawns. 

Still, Hector tried. Between sessions of training Eleos, he threw himself into strategy meetings, supply logistics, and endless scouting reports—anything that might give the Trojans even a sliver of advantage against the encroaching tide of Myrmidon steel. 

Andromache tried too, although in a different fashion. The woman had taken up helping the priests of Apollo’s temple in healing the wounded soldiers and injured refugees. She would leave early in the morning, rings around her eyes and face weary, and return late in the evening, rings darker and clothes smudged with blood, having spent most of the day tending to the wounded.  

Eleos, after several restless days of simply playing the lyre and trying to ignore the distant cries echoing through the palace windows, eventually followed her. Despite her hesitation in leaving the palace, she figured that if anyone raised a fuss, Andromache could vouch for her.

It began with small steps. She accompanied Andromache one morning, simply to carry extra cloths and salves. She watched as the other woman moved from cot to cot, her touch tender even as her voice remained firm. There was no space for hesitation or fear. Eleos had seen Andromache as a princess, a wife, a scholar. Now she saw her as something else entirely—an anchor amid chaos.

The scenes were horrific though––men, women, and children battered and terrified, refugees seeking solace from the terrors outside the city walls. Soldiers cried out to the gods for mercy as they lay bleeding on the cots. Priests and healers rushed every which way as they tried to help those they could. 

Nobody noticed Eleos. When they arrived, Andromache would throw herself into the fray, seeming to somehow always know where she was needed most. Eleos would be left by herself, standing stock-still as the chaos ensued in front of her. Although it was not an unfamiliar sight, haunted by images such as these in her dreams for years, there was something distinctly different about seeing it in person as opposed to in her mind’s eye. It was so much worse in person.

And yet, day after day, Eleos would make the trek with Andromache and bear witness to the carnage. Once more she felt the guilt come over her as she watched the ragged dying breaths of a wounded soldier, listened to the wails of a new widow, saw the light leave the eyes of too many people. 

War was ugly and Eleos almost pitied the god Aries. Who could ever want to be the god of something as horrific as this? Though, she supposed this was not just her uncle’s domain, but her mother’s too. The resentment within Eleos grew with every ragged breath, every wail, every death. She prayed to the gods nightly for it all to end, but as with every time before, she received no answer. It was this that finally spurred Eleos into action. If the actual gods would not help the victims of this war, then they would have to make do with a half-god. 

The next morning, Eleos had arrived with Andromache and instead of standing on the outskirts watching as she had done for the days before, she marched right up to one of the priests and asked, “How can I help?” She remembered that first moment, it was burned into her memory.

The priest, a weary man whose hair had long since gone gray from worry, had barely spared her a glance before replying. “Help him over there,” he said, pointing toward a cot in the corner of the room. His tone was brisk, automatic—one more order amid a sea of endless suffering.

Eleos followed his gesture, weaving her way between the chaos of makeshift cots until she was in the corner. There, tucked away in the corner, the surrounding chaos almost seemed to dull. Or maybe Eleos was just imagining that as a roaring filled her ears at the sight before her.

There was a man lying in the cot. Except, that was a lie. To call him a man was wrong. He couldn’t be older than fifteen, barely older than Eleos herself. This was a boy. A boy whose chest rose and fell in shallow, wheezing gasps; one arm was wrapped tightly in blood-soaked linen, and the other lay limp against the cot’s edge. His skin was ashen, his lips pale, and his eyes fluttered open only to stare at nothing at all. 

There was another healer working beside him, muttering a prayer to Apollo as she pressed a damp cloth to his forehead. “He won’t last the hour,” she said softly, glancing up at Eleos. “I am needed elsewhere. Please… just… don’t let him die alone.”

Eleos felt her hands begin to tremble, but somehow she managed to give a weak nod to the healer. Eleos could barely take her eyes off the dying boy, but she did when she felt the cold cloth pressed into her hands. “Just hold his hand until he crosses to the other side,” the woman stated, squeezing Eleos’ shoulder briefly in reassurance before departing to help others in the temple.

Eleos was now alone with the boy. She was frozen for all of a moment before she somehow managed to pull herself out of her reverie. She all but collapsed on the floor next to the boy’s cot and tentatively grasped his hand with one of her own. The other dipped the rag into the bowl of water next to the cot and then pressed it to the boy’s forehead. 

It was at this angle that Eleos could get a slightly better look at the boy’s wounds and for a moment, she almost wished she hadn’t volunteered to help. His torso was slashed and bloodied, the copious bandages soaked through. 

Eleos dabbed at his brow in slow, careful strokes, afraid too much pressure would tear what little skin clung to bone. His breath came in slow rattles, each inhale catching like wind through splintered wood. She could feel the chill of his fingers against her own, and it unnerved her—how a living hand could already feel so cold.

Then, without warning, he groaned. It was the barest sound, weak and broken, but it was a sound. His eyelids fluttered, and for the first time, his gaze tried to focus. Tried to find her. Eleos’ grey eyes flew wide as they locked with his warm brown ones. His eyes, she noted, were the color of fired clay, dark and earthy.

“You’re not… a priest,” he rasped, voice thin as smoke.

Eleos startled, not expecting him to have the strength to speak. “No. I’m not.” Her voice cracked around the admission.

He blinked slowly, like each movement took effort. “Then what… are you? You’ve got kind hands.”

“I’m—” She hesitated, unsure what to say. “I’m Eleos.”

The corners of his mouth twitched, just enough to count as a smile. “Pretty name.” He paused, breathing shallow. “You’ve got a kind voice too. Sounds like it remembers how to sing.” 

Eleos felt the words sink into her chest. Her smile came slowly, aching at the edges. “I haven’t sung in a long time.”

“If I weren’t dying,” he whispered, “I’d ask you to.” The boy coughed, a wet, sickly sound, but there was a hint of mischief in his eyes as he looked at her. A beat, then a grin. “And I’d flirt better.”

Eleos let out a surprised laugh, soft and sad all at once. “Is that what that was?”

“Best I could manage,” he whispered, grinning faintly before the expression twisted into a grimace. The movement had pulled at something inside, and pain etched itself back across his face. He turned away, groaning softly.

Eleos dropped the rag back into the bowl and reached for his hand again. “What happened to you?” she asked, not even sure if he’d be able to answer.

He swallowed, breath shuddering. “Myrmidons. Came through our village two days ago. Took everything. Burned everything.” His voice faltered. “We weren’t even soldiers. We just… lived there.”

Her fingers tightened around his. “I’m so sorry.”

He gave a tired shrug. “Not your fault. Not really anyone’s fault. Or maybe everyone’s.” He coughed again, eyes closing as his chest hitched. “War’s just hungry, isn’t it? Eats everything. Doesn’t care what side you’re on.”

Eleos didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Her throat ached with all the things she wanted to say but couldn’t find the words for. In a way, it was her fault. If she hadn’t been stolen away, if she had managed to stop this stupid war before it got this far. If she had managed to escape… But those were not the words for this boy. He didn’t need to hear about how this was her fault on his death bed. He could go to Hades and learn there, but for now, she would comfort him. So she just held his hand and let the silence stretch.

It wasn’t long before his breaths grew fainter. She could feel the life pulling away from his fingers, like water slipping through cupped palms. She could sense it, the veil thinning. And in a moment of panic, she realized she didn’t know the name of this dying boy. She didn’t know if any of his village survived. It would be terrible if this was the last anyone knew of him, a nameless individual lost to the pages of time, forgotten. She couldn’t let that happen.

“Can I… ask your name?” she whispered, her voice edged with urgency.

His eyes fluttered open, just once more. Maybe he simply responded to the insistence in her voice, or maybe he too realized that this could be the last chance for anyone to know his name. For a second, he looked impossibly young—just a boy, fragile and fierce all at once

“Name’s… Astyanax,” he wheezed, the faintest smile playing on cracked lips. “Mother said… it means ‘prince of the city.’” His eyes closed again. “Stupid name for a farmer’s son.”

“It’s a pretty name,” Eleos found herself voicing, her heart breaking as she mirrored the boy’s words from only moments before.

The boy didn’t respond, but he did make a sound, almost like a laugh or maybe a final death rattle. Eleos may have imagined it, but she was almost sure he also gave her hand one final weak squeeze. 

Then his grip loosened. And the stillness came. 

Eleos sat beside him for a long while after as the temple’s bustle moved around her. Holding his hand, even when he could no longer feel it. Etching his name into her mind like it would keep some part of him alive. Letting him go, even when she didn’t want to.

After that moment, she began to come to help every day. Some days she carried water from the temple well, helping to wash away blood and grime from wounds that refused to close. Other days, she guided refugees—women with hollow faces, children clutching threadbare toys—to the sleeping quarters prepared within the temple halls. She learned the names of herbs that soothed fever and the prayers whispered for the dying when healers’ hands failed. There were farmers’ sons with mangled limbs, shepherds’ wives crushed beneath falling stones, foreign mercenaries whose own comrades refused to look at them. All found their way beneath her care. And though her hands became steadier, her heart did not. Every night, she left the temple with more ghosts than she’d entered with. Every dawn, she returned anyway.

Eleos was broken from her thoughts of death and destruction by a cough behind her. “I didn’t know you played,” a weathered voice spoke behind her. Eleos’ fingers abruptly stopped. Without even realizing, in the wake of her intense recollection, Eleos had begun to pluck a haunting tune on her lyre. A means of soothing herself as best as she could. 

She turned in her seat as her eyes caught on the no-longer-so-imposing figure of King Priam. The war had taken a very obvious toll on the man, his once broad shoulders now hunched. His hair, once merely shot through with gray, was now a halo of silver. His eyes, once piercing, were now weary. This was a man who took the burden of war on his own shoulders.

“King Priam,” Eleos stood from her chair and bowed before the man. Despite her hatred for one of his sons and the fact that he was not her king, she still showed him the respect his station afforded him.

“Enough of that,” the man muttered as he entered further into the room, waving a hand at Eleos’ bow. “You are no courtier, girl. And I am no god. I have no need for empty pleasantries.”

Eleos straightened, startled not by his words, but by the weight in them. The silence that followed was not awkward—it was thick, softened by the glow of the fading sunlight streaking across the room and the lingering echo of her unfinished melody.

Priam glanced at the lyre still cradled in her arms. “I didn’t know you played,” he repeated, his voice gentler now. “And beautifully, too.”

Eleos gave a hesitant smile. She felt off-kilter, unsure of how to act alone in the presence of the king of Troy. “It’s a skill I only recently discovered. Lady Andromache thought I needed something… productive to keep me busy.”

“She’s not wrong,” the king said, walking with slow purpose toward a low couch and easing himself onto it with the groan of old bones. “It’s helped, hasn’t it?”

She gave a small nod. “In a way. It…” She struggled for a moment before settling, “drowns out the noise.”

Priam watched her for a moment, then looked away, toward the empty hearth. “I’ve heard about your time at the temple,” he said. “What you’ve done for the wounded. For the refugees.”

Eleos blinked. “I only try to help.” She truly didn’t think she had been noticed, but once more she was reminded that people in this palace paid much closer attention to her than she would have liked. 

“It matters,” he said simply. “A thousand swords may not win this war, but a single kind hand can hold back despair.”

The words hung between them. Eleos looked down at the lyre in her lap, fingers idly brushing over its strings. “I don’t do it to be noticed.”

“I know,” Priam replied, and for once there was no calculation behind the words. Only tired honesty. “You haven’t tried to flee since that first season. Haven’t stirred trouble. You could have run again. Many expected you would.”

“I thought about it,” she admitted softly. “But where would I go? Back to Sparta? To Ithaca? No one there knows who I am anymore. And it would not end this war, it has gone on too long for that.”

“Yes,” the king said, leaning forward on his knees, voice suddenly firm. “You are right. It has been too long. But I like to think you have found some semblance of peace here? At the very least you seem to be providing comfort to others. In fact…” He gestured vaguely around the room. “I’ve taken to walking these halls more than I used to. Always seem to find myself drawn here. Not just for the silence, but… the music.”

Eleos raised an eyebrow. “You come to listen?”

Priam gave her the ghost of a smile. “When I can spare the time, yes. Your playing soothes something in me. It reminds me of a better time.”

He fell quiet for a beat, eyes sweeping over the carved walls of the chamber. Those old eyes that had seen far too much in his short mortal life. Eleos knew he was wiser and more experienced than her, but this was the first time she thought about the cost, what this man had to have seen to get that look in his eyes. “Did you know this room once housed a god?” The man said abruptly. 

Eleos blinked. “A god?”

“Apollo,” Priam said, voice now tinged with reverence. “When he was made to walk the earth—sentenced to a year in mortal form by Zeus himself—he served my father, Laomedon, as a mason. This very room was his. He rested here each night after helping build Troy’s walls. Or so the story goes.”

Her fingers hovered over the strings of her lyre, suddenly reverent. A twinge of fear hit her as well. Was that what the calming presence in this room was? The remains of a god who once stayed in these rooms?

“I used to sneak in here as a boy,” Priam continued. “Pretend I could still feel his presence in the stones. It was foolish—childish even—but comforting. And now, all these years later, I find comfort here again. Listening to you. Perhaps you remind me of him, in a way.”

Eleos swallowed, throat dry. “I’m not a god.” A half-god, maybe, she mentally corrected, but even that was up for debate. She really had no idea just how divine she truly was, outside of the horrific powers she was cursed to endure.

“No,” Priam agreed, looking at her again. “But perhaps… you are something close. Or at least—whatever you are, Eleos—you’re part of this city’s story now. Whether you wished to be or not.” He stood, joints creaking in protest. Clearly their conversation was coming to an end. “I would like to hear you play again tonight. At dinner. Would you?”

The weight of the moment surprised her. She hesitated—then nodded. The concept terrified her, but it wasn’t like she could say no. “Yes, King Priam. I would be honored.”

And for the first time in weeks, she saw Priam smile in full. Not the mask of the weary king, but the smile of a man who still remembered peace. “Good,” he said. “Then perhaps we will both rest easier tonight.”

He turned and left, the rustle of his cloak fading down the corridor. Eleos sat alone again, her hands finding the strings, but her hands stalled. Could she play in a room that had once housed a god? Suddenly this room, which had been her refuge these many months, felt wrong. It felt more of a cage than a cradle, something to torment rather than comfort. She sat in silence for several minutes longer before she finally gathered the courage to play again.

Her fingers plucked at the strings one by one, slowly, melancholically. It was a song for the dying. For the living. For a god who once walked these halls, and the girl who now, unknowingly, played in his stead.

***

The hall was full tonight.

Firelight danced in golden ribbons across stone pillars and polished bronze, flickering off the rich fabrics of robes and banners alike. The court buzzed with subdued conversation, wine was poured liberally, and the scent of roasted lamb and spiced figs wafted from the long tables. At the head of it all sat King Priam, somber and regal, flanked by his family—his wife Hecuba, serene and still as marble, and his sons and daughters arrayed in rank and splendor.

And at the edge of the dais, sitting upright on a small stool with her lyre across her lap, was Eleos. Her fingers moved deftly across the strings, coaxing a melody that hovered in the air like incense. It was gentle, restrained—a song that swelled with quiet longing and resolve. The music gave no room for showmanship. It was not meant to impress, only to be felt.

She could feel their eyes on her.

Andromache’s gaze was proud, soft, full of the warmth of a mother who had coaxed a seed to grow. Hector’s expression was harder to read, but his arms were crossed and his chin was lifted—he was proud, too, and perhaps surprised by how much. He had not asked her to play, but he hadn’t tried to stop her either.

King Priam sat silently, one hand wrapped around a goblet he had not yet touched. His shoulders seemed less heavy than usual, as if the music had carved a moment of peace from the war’s burden. Next to him, Hecuba remained impassive, her gaze on Eleos unreadable. But her eyes did not drift once—not even to her wine.

Helen lounged two chairs down, her cup already emptied once and being refilled. Her gaze was glassy, unfocused. She stared past Eleos rather than at her, lips faintly parted. Whether she heard the music at all was unclear. It was the first time Eleos had seen the woman since their confrontation those many months ago.

Alexander sat rigid near the end of the high table, his wine untouched, his expression thunderous. He glared openly, arms stiff, lips drawn tight into a sneer. The music hadn’t softened him. Eleos was left wondering if anything could ease the tenseness present in the man’s shoulders. If there was, Eleos knew she would have nothing to do with it.

Eleos ignored them all. She played. 

The notes shifted subtly––slightly darker, deeper, tinged with the pain and memory she carried like a second skin. This was not music to dance to. It was a melody made to bear witness to, to be listened to and contemplated. Eleos felt herself falling deeper into the music and in turn, almost like she was sinking into the very foundations of the city itself. She was aware of the breath of every person in the room, every beating heart, every hushed whisper shared. She fell through the layers of stone and wood into the dirt, the very earth that the city was built on. She felt the feet walking above her, the rumble of carts as wheels clattered over stones, the pitter-patter of rain as it soaked through the soil. As suddenly as she was below, she was above. Flying over the city, high as a falcon, going farther, faster. The wind tugged at her, whipped around her, but still she did not stop. She traveled southwards over the hills, over valleys, past forests. And in what felt like both an instant and an eternity, she was there. 

A village. Small, sun‑bleached, built of clay and cedar. Adramytium. The name floated through her mind and Eleos knew it as surely as she knew her own name, although she did not know how. It was not a large village, and from a distance, the surrounding hills were quiet and peaceful. But as her gaze fell lower, the stillness shattered.

Smoke curled upward in choking ribbons. The neat thatched roofs were no more—fire had gutted them, turning homes to husks. Screams tore through the air like gulls above the tide. Men in black armor poured through the narrow streets, faceless, merciless—the Myrmidons. They moved like a single living thing, blades glinting gold and red.

She saw flashes of motion too fast for mortal senses to follow: the swing of a bronze sword, a child’s doll trampled into the mud, an old man dragged by the hair toward a burning house. The river that wound through the village was already dark with blood. Eleos felt her stomach twist. The heat of the flames licked at her face though she was miles away, her fingers still resting on the lyre strings.

A woman stumbled from one of the huts, clutching a crying infant to her chest. For one brief heartbeat Eleos thought she might reach safety—until a spear, thrown from somewhere beyond sight, caught her squarely in the back. The child tumbled from her arms into the dust. The world went silent.

Eleos gasped, the note she had been holding splintering beneath her trembling fingers. The hall around her seemed to tilt; she was still in Troy, and yet her senses remained tangled in the horror of that burning village. She felt the fire, the smoke, the grief of a hundred dying souls pressing against her chest.

Her mouth opened before she could think. “Adramytium,” she whispered, the word scraping out of her like a prayer and a curse all at once. “They’re here. The Myrmidons are attacking Adramytium.”

The lyre slid from her lap and struck the floor with a sharp, discordant twang. All sound in the hall died. Dozens of eyes fixed on her, but Eleos barely saw them—she could still see the flames, still hear the screams echoing in her skull. 

“Adramytium,” she rasped out one more time before the world went dark and she passed away into blissful unconsciousness. 

***

Eleos was floating. She was drifting in a sea of gold, a somehow familiar warmth cradling her, protecting her. She wasn’t awake, at least she was pretty sure she wasn’t. She tried to recall the last thing she remembered, but it was all a fuzzy blur. All she knew was comfort and peace. What came before was meaningless.

Except… except it wasn’t. There was something important, something she had been trying to warn people about. Something… something dangerous! With that realization, Eleos abruptly came to her senses and her stomach gave an almighty swoop as she was overcome with the sensation of suddenly dropping.

The gold around her fractured into shards of light and shadow. Flashes tore through the haze—war, burning fields, the crash of spears and the screams of men. She saw Hector raising his shield against an unseen foe, saw tall walls trembling beneath the pounding of battering rams, saw blood spreading through sand like spilled wine. 

The Myrmidons.

 The name echoed in her mind like the tolling of a bell. They were the danger—unstoppable, unrelenting, spreading terror across the land.

Eleos gasped as her descent slowed. The golden light around her pooled and solidified, forming opalescent marble beneath her feet. The visions of death and destruction fading as quickly as they had come. 

The air was warm here, humming with power, and the scent of sunlight—sweet and sharp, like citrus and fire—hung in the air. It was bright, almost unbearably so, as if an entire room had been filled with direct sunlight with no shade. The beams bounced off the reflective floor, adding to the luminous atmosphere. Eleos spun in a slow circle, her mouth open with awe as she took her surroundings.

It was on nearly the full completion of her turn that she realized she was not alone. There, stood before her, was a man. Although to call him a man was a misnomer. He was definitely humanoid in form, but his face was utter perfection. It was like staring at a carved statue, but even those could have imperfections, inflections from the chiseling. This man’s face was perfectly symmetrical, perfectly smooth, perfectly unblemished.

He was tall, too. Ageless. His presence was radiant enough to make her blink. His hair was long, curling, and uncut and gleamed like beaten gold. His skin seemed to glow from within, every line and contour painted by divine light. His chin was sharp and pointed, his nose strong and aquiline. His eyes were the color of dawn—warm, unblinking, endless. He stood as though the very world bent slightly toward him, eager for his approval.

One would have to be an idiot not to recognize that they stood in the presence of none other than the god Apollo. Eleos instantly dropped down onto her knees, her head bowed deeply before the god of the sun. She held her breath as her heart jumped into a gallop, thumping in tandem with her rising trepidation and awe. She must be dreaming. There was no other explanation.

“Rise,” came a voice like music made tangible—each syllable smooth, deliberate, and golden. It was not loud, but it carried the kind of weight that made obedience instinctual.

Eleos hesitated, then slowly lifted her gaze. She felt that same radiance settle on her shoulders like heat from an open flame. Apollo was watching her, head tilted slightly, as though studying something curious rather than kneeling reverence. “You kneel easily,” he said, tone amused. “Not all mortals do.”

His words carried a teasing edge, but beneath it there was an undertone of scrutiny, as if he were testing her reaction.

Eleos’ spine stiffened as her eyes narrowed to glare at the god before her. She felt the flicker of something hot and sharp—defiance—rise in her chest before she could smother it. “Maybe they have the right of it,” she snapped, her voice cutting through the golden air. “Maybe they refuse to bow to gods who declare themselves their protectors and then leave them to die in the fields of an unnecessary war.”

The words echoed far too loudly in the radiant stillness. The air itself seemed to hold its breath.

Apollo blinked once, his expression unreadable. Then, very slowly, the corners of his mouth curved—not in anger, but in a small, knowing smile. “Ah,” he said, stepping closer, the glow around him softening to a molten hue. “A tongue that speaks truth, even to gods. How very… unusual.”

Eleos swallowed hard, but she didn’t look away from his gaze, intense as it was. Apollo studied her for a long moment, his eyes narrowing not in anger, but in quiet intrigue. The light surrounding him dimmed to a more bearable glow, like the sun behind clouds, though the air still hummed with heat.

“Unusual,” he repeated, his tone somewhere between admiration and warning. “You speak to me as though I am one of your mortal kings, girl. Do you not fear the wrath of the divine?”

Eleos lifted her chin, though her heart still pounded like a war drum. “I’ve lived through the wrath of men,” she said softly. “If the gods are worse, then at least I’ll face them head on.”

Something flickered in his gaze—surprise, perhaps, or amusement. “You are bold,” he said finally, circling her like sunlight tracking the hours of the day. “Bold and reckless. The gods find such things charming… until they are not.”

“I’ve had enough of charm,” Eleos murmured.

That earned a quiet laugh from him, deep and smooth as honey. “You’re braver than most mortals I’ve met,” Apollo said, the mirth fading from his tone. “But bravery does not grant understanding. Tell me, do you think I take joy in this war? In the blood that stains the fields and the cries that rise from my city’s walls?”

She hesitated. “Don’t you?” A not so small part of her had begun to believe that the war that she prayed so many times to avert was merely for the entertainment of bored immortals. That the pain and death were all but mild amusements for those long-lived beings above.

Apollo stopped in front of her again, his expression unreadable. “No,” he said at last. “I am the god of light and prophecy, of healing and song. I am not Ares, who delights in carnage, nor Athena, who cloaks war in reason. I do not hunger for the deaths of mortals.”

Eleos shot to her feet, her outrage a living thing. “Then why let it happen?” she demanded, her voice cracking despite herself. “Why stand by while children die, while villages burn? You could stop it—you could stop it!”

The response was instantaneous. The chamber darkened. The warmth in the air turned searing, sharp. When Apollo spoke again, the power in his voice made her bones tremble. “Do you think me omnipotent, little one? Even I cannot silence the will of gods and men alike. The Olympians meddle for glory, the mortals for pride. This war is not mine to end—it is theirs to suffer.”

Eleos met his gaze, her own eyes fierce. “Then what good are the gods for?” She sneered at the sun god, “I have prayed day and night with the countless widows and orphans for an end to this carnage. I begged this war to never even begin in the first place!”

“Words mean nothing without sacrifice,” the god responded tensely.

“You want sacrifice?” Eleos cried, her voice taking on a desperate edge, “Take me! Take my blood, my body, my very soul. I would gladly die for this war to end!”

Apollo’s eyes widened, and for the briefest moment, the light within them flickered—gold giving way to something deeper, older, almost sorrowful. The air between them shifted, the oppressive heat cooling into something heavy, reverent. “Do not offer so carelessly what you do not yet understand,” he said quietly. “You speak of death as though it is a coin you can spend, but every life—mortal or divine—has its price.”

Eleos stood shaking, her chest heaving. “Then tell me the price! Tell me what must be paid to stop this madness!”

Apollo stepped closer, close enough that she could feel the radiance rolling off him like the breath of the sun itself. “There are prices even gods hesitate to name,” he murmured. “Fate is not a beast that can be sated by one sacrifice. It demands blood and ruin from all.”

“Then why me?” she whispered, tears she had not noticed cutting silver tracks down her cheeks. “Why show me the blood, the fire, the screams if I can’t do anything to stop them?”

“Because you already have.”

His words struck her harder than any blade. She blinked up at him, startled.

“The village you saw—Adramytium,” Apollo continued. “It was meant to burn. The Myrmidons were to slaughter every man, woman, and child. That was the thread woven by the Fates. But your warning changed that pattern. Those who should have died live still. You altered destiny itself.”

Eleos shook her head, the tears falling freely now. “No, I only… I just saw it. I told them what I saw.”

“That was enough,” the god said gently. “Even the smallest kindness can echo through eternity.”

Eleos just shook her head once more, “I have tried to change the path of destiny before. I tried to prevent this war, but then I failed. What made this time different?”

Apollo studied her for a long, quiet moment. The ever-shifting light of the chamber softened around them, the glare of the sun dimming to something like dusk. His expression—no longer distant or amused—carried the faint ache of understanding. “Because this time,” he said slowly, “you acted without hope.”

Eleos blinked, startled. “Without hope?”

He inclined his head. “When you prayed for the war to end, you prayed for yourself—for peace, for rest, for deliverance from pain. You had selfish intentions behind your desire for change, even if it was for an unselfish reason. You tried to change fate in accordance with your desires with no sacrifice. When you warned of Adramytium, you did not ask for anything in return, you were not even thinking of the impact of your words. You gave what you could, expecting nothing. That is the truest form of mercy, Eleos—the kind that does not bargain, only gives.”

She swallowed hard. She wasn’t sure how she knew, but she felt it in her bones. Her voice trembling, she said, “But I still couldn’t save them all.”

“No,” Apollo agreed softly, and there was no reproach in the word. “You never will. Neither will I. Neither will any god or mortal who walks this world. But that is not what matters.” He moved closer, the warmth of him steady and bright, and she felt the sting of tears again—this time from something gentler than grief. “You are a thread that binds two worlds together,” Apollo continued. “You carry mortal compassion in a heart shaped by divinity. You are meant to suffer when others do. It is both your burden and your gift.”

She looked up at him then, her silver-grey eyes shimmering through the tears. “A gift?” she whispered bitterly. “To feel powerless while others die?”

“Powerlessness is not weakness,” he said. “You feel because you care. The others—Ares, Athena, even Zeus—have forgotten what that means.” At the sound of her mother’s name, Eleos flinched. But Apollo didn’t seem to notice—or perhaps he did, and chose not to comment. His gaze softened, almost wistful.

“Still,” he said, “it is strange to see such eyes as yours among mortals.” His voice lowered to a murmur, almost to himself. “Grey as storm-clouds. Unflinching. I’ve seen them before, long ago, on a face that never bowed.”

Eleos hesitated, her throat dry. “They should look familiar,” she said quietly, as though confessing a secret. “I got them from my mother—”

But before she could speak the name, the marble floor beneath her shimmered like sunlight on water. The light around them began to tremble, the air pulling apart in golden strands.

Apollo’s hand lifted, his expression regretful now. “Our time is ending, Eleos. The mortal world is calling you back.”

“Wait—” she tried to reach for him, her voice cracking with desperation. “What did you mean when you said I’m meant to suffer? What am I supposed to do?”

His smile returned, faint and sad. “Live,” he said. “And when the moment comes, choose mercy again. The world is cruel enough without the gods teaching you to harden.”

The light flared once more, blinding, and his voice echoed one last time as she was pulled away: “Remember, child—mercy endures where power fails.”

Then the warmth vanished and Eleos was once more in darkness.

***

Eleos gasped, her eyes fluttering open. The first thing she felt was the cool press of linen against her skin, the dampness soothing on her heated skin. The second was the faint ache that settled into her bones like she’d been asleep for centuries. 

The room, thankfully, was dim, the flickering light of an oil lamp painting long shadows across the walls. The air smelled faintly of herbs—lavender, myrrh, and the bitter tang of feverroot. “Easy now,” came a familiar voice. “You’ve been asleep far too long to go rushing about.”

Eleos turned her head, wincing as the motion sent a dull throb through her skull. Andromache sat at her bedside, hair tied back in a simple braid, her sleeves rolled up. She looked exhausted, but when Eleos met her eyes, relief flooded her expression.

“Andromache?” Eleos croaked, her voice raw and papery. “How long…?”

The other woman reached forward, gently brushing damp strands of hair from Eleos’ forehead. “Four days,” she said softly. “You collapsed in the hall and have been feverish since—drifting in and out. You kept whispering strange things. Names. Fire. Gold.”

Eleos’ stomach twisted. Gold. Apollo. It hadn’t been a dream, then—or if it had, it had left something real behind. She swallowed hard, her throat tight. “The village,” she rasped. “Adramytium—what happened?”

Andromache hesitated for only a breath before answering, her tone gentle but edged with fatigue. “Hector took a contingent of soldiers south after you collapsed. Alexander raged against it, of course, said it was madness to chase the vision of a fevered girl.” Her lips quirked in wry disapproval. “But King Priam sided with Hector. They went, despite the protests.”

Eleos pushed herself up on shaking arms, ignoring the way her muscles protested. “And?”

“They didn’t arrive in time to stop the Myrmidons,” Andromache said, lowering her gaze. “But they drove them off before the village was gone. Many died—but more lived than should have. Hector brought those who escaped back himself.”

A shaky breath left Eleos’s lips. “So… some survived?”

Andromache nodded, her hand closing gently over Eleos’s trembling fingers. “More than anyone expected. And now, the city praises you for it. They call you the savior of Adramytium. They say the gods spoke through you.”

Eleos shook her head immediately, the motion frantic and pained. She hadn’t done anything. She had collapsed, saying words that people just happened to decide to listen to this time. Something bitter twisted inside of her. Did people only trust in her visions when she had no agency over them? “No, I—”

“They’re even saying Apollo guided you,” Andromache went on, oblivious or unwilling to hear her. “That you were chosen to deliver his warning.”

“No,” Eleos tried again, her voice barely rising above a whisper. “I just saw it. I didn’t—”

The door creaked open before she could finish.

Hector stepped in first, armor gone but the weight of battle still clinging to him. King Priam followed, his intentional steps softly hitting the floor, the sound commanding attention.

Hector’s gaze locked on her immediately. In an instant, the stern, commanding prince was gone, replaced by the man who had taught her how to steady a spear and braid her hair out of her face before practice. He crossed the room in three strides and gathered her into his arms. His relief was palpable, almost crushing.

Eleos froze, stunned. It had been so long since anyone had held her like this—tight, desperate, as if afraid she might vanish if they let go. A distant memory flickered at the edge of her mind: herself as a child, small and trembling, wrapped in an embrace just like this after some long-forgotten fright. Slowly, she let herself lean into him.

“Thank the gods you’re awake,” Hector murmured into her hair before she could speak, his deep voice rough with emotion. “You frightened us half to death.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, unsure what else to say.

He drew back slightly, his hands still on her shoulders. “Don’t apologize. You did what none of us could. You warned us before the blow fell.” His expression softened, the edges of his usual composure fading. “You saved my men. You saved my people. You saved them, Eleos.”

She opened her mouth, but he pressed on, his words a tide she couldn’t push against. “Your warning reached us in time. My men spoke of it even on the road—said they rode with courage because of you. You gave them hope.”

“I didn’t—”

“Don’t argue,” he said gently. He silenced her with a gentle squeeze of her hand. “You did. Whether you meant to or not.”

Priam’s deep voice joined in, calm but absolute, drawing the attention of the room to himself. “Indeed she did. The Fates themselves must have guided your hand, child. Compassion such as yours is rare. It is the mark of one touched by divinity.”

Eleos shook her head, panic rising in her chest. “Please, I—”

“Do not protest, girl,” Priam said firmly, the king reasserting himself. “You have done what others could not. You have saved my people when the gods themselves looked away. Such mercy deserves a name worthy of it.”

Hector still knelt beside her, his hand heavy on her shoulder. “And whether by fate or by choice, you’ve become family to me. You are my daughter now,” he said with quiet conviction. “Blood or no blood, it makes no difference. You are mine, Eleos.”

The room felt too small, too bright. Their words piled upon her, smothering. She wanted to breathe, to explain, to say no, you don’t understand—but no one was listening. At the same time, however, the words broke something open in her. She had not realized how deeply she’d craved that kind of belonging until now. She blinked back tears, overwhelmed.

Priam lifted his head slightly to regard Eleos better. “You are a helper of men,” he declared. “One who stands between death and those who cannot defend themselves. Henceforth, you shall be called Kassandra—a gift of the gods to Troy.”

The name settled over her like a cloak—unfamiliar, heavy. Kassandra. The title of someone she didn’t know how to be. Eleos’s breath caught. She wanted to protest, to tell him she had done nothing but speak and faint—but when she met the proud, loving eyes of Andromache and Hector, she couldn’t bring herself to refuse this small gift of belonging.

“Kassandra,” she repeated softly, tasting the sound of it. It didn’t feel like hers, not yet—but perhaps, in time, it could. Although, a part of her doubted that. Kassandra felt like the name of someone who would only be believed when it was convenient.

Priam nodded, satisfied, and turned toward the door. “Rest now, child. The war will not wait, but you have earned your peace.”

When Priam had gone, silence seemed to linger in his wake—heavy and weighted. The torchlight trembled against the walls. Hector, who had released her from his hold, lingered near the bed, shifting awkwardly as though searching for words that refused to come.

“You’ve given Troy something it hasn’t had in a long time,” he said at last. His voice was low, steady, the tone of a man who had seen too much death and too little hope. “A reason to believe we might endure.”

Eleos tried to smile, but it trembled at the corners. “I only said what I saw. I’m not sure that’s enough to make a difference.”

Hector’s brows furrowed, and he knelt beside her bed. “You underestimate the power of being heard, little one. When I rode into Adramytium, there were people still alive—people who should have been gone. Because of you, they weren’t. That is no small thing.” 

She felt something inside herself sour. Yes, the power of being heard. Where were the people when she was trying to stop the war entirely? When she was trying to warn them of the bloody future? Words lodged in her throat. She didn’t know how to answer him—how to explain that the weight of lives spared felt heavier than any of the deaths she’d seen before. 

Andromache crossed the room then, resting a hand on her husband’s shoulder before turning her gaze on Eleos. “You have his stubbornness, you know,” she said with a teasing smile. “He’s impossible to argue with once his mind is made up. You’ll fit in perfectly as his daughter.”

Eleos let out a weak laugh. “Is that an honor or a warning?”

“Both,” Hector replied, and this time the smile reached his eyes.

Andromache brushed a loose strand of hair behind Eleos’s ear, her touch gentle, motherly. “Rest now,” she murmured. “You’ve done more than enough for one lifetime this week.”

“I don’t know if I can,” Eleos admitted quietly. “It feels as if the whole world shifted while I slept.”

Andromache’s expression softened. “Then let it shift. The world doesn’t stop for war, or grief, or even miracles. You’ll find your footing again.”

They shared a moment of quiet. Finally, Hector rose and turned toward the door. “We’ll leave you to rest,” he said gently. He pressed a kiss to Eleos’s hair. “Rest now, Kassandra,” he said, already using the name like it had always belonged to her. Eleos’ stomach roiled.

Andromache lingered behind him, silhouetted in the torchlight. “A daughter of Troy,” she murmured. “At last, the city claims you.”

Eleos tried to answer, but her throat was too tight. She managed only a small nod as they left, the door whispering shut behind them.

Silence returned.

She sank back against the pillows, her gaze tracing the dancing flame of the torches. The word echoed through her mind—Kassandra. It felt strange, foreign, yet it hummed faintly with power, with purpose. It didn’t feel like hers. It didn’t feel like anything she had earned. And beneath it lingered the memory of Apollo’s golden eyes and the echo of his voice—

You are mercy given form…

Eleos exhaled slowly, the air trembling from her lips. Mercy. Was this what it meant—to bear the weight of the living and the dying alike? To stand between the two and never truly belong to either? 

Eleos turned her face toward the wall, blinking back tears. Mercy, it seemed, came at the cost of her voice.