A Gift from the Gods

2

The near month her brothers were away had been uneventful, therefore boring. Without Hector's progressive ideals and Paris's lovesick persona, Zephyra was resigned to her responsibilities as a female royal. Essentially, nothing. Her daily walk though the royal gardens had become dull after the third day, and the constant guardianship her father had insisted upon restricted her nightly adventures through the palace grounds with her bow. Having three maids sleeping at her feet every night wasn't nearly as uncomfortable as her nightly dinners with Diocles.

But her brothers were coming home today, and a sense of normalcy was certain to return.

However, her brothers' return was a call for excessive celebration. Watered down wine and ale would slip past the lips of the city, flowers would be thrown at the returning victors, and fine clothes would adorn all with status. Meaning Zephyra's servants had entered her quarters before the sun even woke to dress her in a white gown and line her arms and wrists with delicate gold jewelry. The servants finished by pinning her raven curls in an intricate updo, lacing them with soft flowers and gold ornamentation.

She felt like a fraud in such a costume, but her father was old, and the pretense would not last much longer. Zephyra cursed herself quietly and gave a silent prayer of repentance to the gods. Though she often regretted her upbringing and status, she never actively wished to disrespect her father, and she would never wish death upon him.

Zephyra meandered through the palace, seeking to wade unnoticed through the crowd, already starting their celebrations. She met her father at his throne and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

"Welcome, my dear girl." He waved her toward the stone seat to his left, and she gave a small smile to Andromache, Hector's wife, her son on her lap.

They watched as the city doors opened, Hector and Paris leading the way, followed by hundreds of soldiers who accompanied them on their hunt for peace. As Paris's chariot crept closer, Zephyra noticed something that jarred a sense of panic within. Rather, someone. Even from this distance Zephyra could see the beauty of the woman standing beside her brother. Her hair mimicked spun gold and glinted blindingly in the sun. Her elegant dress suggested high royalty, higher than Zephyra, and the general assumptions of Helen of Sparta's beauty led to no alternative.

Paris had doomed Troy.

Acting on pure instinct, Zephyra stood from her seat and leaned against over wall.

"Father," she said. "What has he done?"

"Sit, my dear," King Priam said. "Let us not jump to assumptions quite yet. Whoever she is, we will welcome her with open arms."

After a slow transcendence, the posse made their way to the palace entrance where the king and Zephyra were awaiting them.

"My sons," Priam said with a wide smile and open arm. He hugged Hector then Paris in a formal yet familiar manner.

Then Paris stepped aside to show his new beloved, a shallow word when accompanying Paris. He was known to fall in and out of love faster than grapes rotting in the August sun.

"Father, this is Helen," Paris said. He took the woman's hand and led her to Priam.

"Helen, of Spart?" Priam said. His voice still held a fatherly tone, one that Zephyra had once found solace and safety in. Now she found intolerance and ignorance in his inability to discipline Paris.

"Helen of Troy," Paris said.

"Welcome."

The hugging commenced once again, and Hector made his way to Zephyra after his wife and son.

"Sister," Hector said. She kissed his cheek.

As Paris came toward her with his new prize, Zephyra faced her father with a pleasant, if fake, smile.

"I quite suddenly feel unwell," Zephyra said. "I believe I shall retire to my rooms for the afternoon, with your permission."

Zephyra left with a curtsy before her father acknowledged her request.