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She entered the room with a bang, holding back angry fists that could break down walls. Her head was spinning with an insane amount of thoughts running around without any filter. Through the grunts and the exasperated fidgeting, Helen was fighting against her own wrath, trying to contain what seemed to be mountains of grief and loneliness. She eventually managed to calm her breath down, stopping it from welling and swelling like the furious waves that crashed against the Spartan shores. Her gaze burning circles on the floor, she went back and forth, wringing her wrists in an attempt to distract herself from the soreness in her heart.

A softness she didn’t like was screeching through her raw throat as she uttered unintelligible threats to the Gods, to the Greeks, to whoever would listen to her incessant grumbling. Helen eventually sat on a small stool, in one of the dark corners of her room. “This place is too big”, she thought to herself, “too big to be a cell, so why does it still feel like one?” In the polished surface of the mirror in front of her, she caught a glimpse of her auburn hair, as ablaze as her spirit, barely holding together with a silver hairpin stamped with Athena’s owl.

She had been kidnapped, again, by Pâris this time. She had learned of him a few weeks back, a dashing young lad from Ilion, nothing like that boor Theseus. He was charming enough, and eager to prove himself to the world, to find a wife and start a family to go with his military triumphs. He was handsome, this Pâris, everybody agreed on that, even Helen. But she was at his mercy, and her smile had turned sour as he’d shown his teeth. Helen was trapped, it seemed, and she did not like it one bit.

Her reflection, through the bitter anger that stained her gritted teeth, was naught but a desperate frown, peering stares and trembling lips. Helen didn’t recognise the face looking at her. She used to think she was cheerful, and maybe even happy with her life, despite everything. But she couldn’t bear the empty eyes fixated on her, the hollow cheeks and the pitiful scowl. With an irritated grunt, she got up again, unable to keep herself still.

Helen eventually sat on the edge of the small window, overlooking the whole city. The sill was cold as ice, nearly cutting into her upper thighs. It was a bleak vision that awaited her, sprawled out for all to see. Troy, in flames, torn by bloodcurdling cries and metallic screams. Bodies piled up on each other, Red, Blue and Gold. Armours and blades, lances, feathers, in a cacophony of colours and clangs. Women, men, children, dishevelled, missing, in flames, unable to find their way home.

“Look at them, Helen whispered to herself, an otherworldly voice escaping from her lips. Look at them, all of them, charging around with bloodshot eyes. They’re burning their whole lives to ashes, to dust, and for what? Military pride? Triumphs? Oh no…”

Her gaze met a child’s path, wobbling around on their short legs, holding on for dear life to someone’s arm. Helen watched as the tiny body walked around, eyes as wide as moons, tottering between life and death, crying for their mother. She bit her lips out of frustration, powerless even against her own self.

A wave of feelings she’d been trying to suppress came crashing down, swallowing her whole and trying to drown her into numbness. What was all of this for? For her? For Ilion? For Greece? Why her in the first place? Helen didn’t choose to be here, to be abducted by the Trojans, to set so many armies on foot. And yet, it was so easy to blame herself, to say it was all for her, for her own good. She couldn’t understand why anyone would do this in the first place. Did they all think they were entitled to her face, to her prettiness? Had she been ugly, would it have been the same? Were they all really so stubborn as to think she would ever want to be theirs if they killed enough children? She wanted to scream at the crowds of men stomping about, but no one was there to listen. No one would’ve given any thought anyway, as she was but a woman; pretty to look at, not to listen to.

Helen had just wanted to be left alone in the first place. All she ever needed in life was something simple, but no one ever asked for her opinion. Maybe… Helen hesitated, unsure as to her next steps. Maybe she just needed something her size, not too shabby, but not pretentious either. A few things, maybe children, grandchildren, or a big trip, something to be proud of. She could’ve been content with so little, nothing like the pompous queen-hood they’d given her, the responsibilities and the political games.

She stared into the distance, beyond the fiery reach of the flames licking the city’s thick walls. There used to be a quaint little marketplace there, she thought, with variegated tents and oh so many different things. She recalled the merchant that always tried to sell her the shiniest gowns with a smile, and the gruff lady with her delicious olives, who always had a handful to share. The smells, the colours, everything was coming back to her.

What did she really need?… Maybe a bit of that sweet wine from Lesbos she’d tasted one day, with goat’s cheese, once in a while, as a treat, to have under the shade of the pines in spring… Or the sun barely kissing her skin during those hot summer days where time stood still… Or the shadow of the moon on her face on those nights where nobody slept, too excited for the next day… Helen could’ve been happy with this.

The sight of the crumbling city was getting too much for her, however, and she decided to leave her seat. She came back to the mirror, and settled down again, this time to bring order to her hair and face. With methodical, almost mechanical movements, she took out her hairpin and straightened the disorderly strands, pinched her cheeks to get them back to their original colour, and massaged her swollen eyes.

All of this because of men, Helen thought to herself, strangely calm and collected. Men. The same ones that were killing themselves, little by little, just outside. It was Paris that had kidnapped her. Why he ever felt entitled to her body, to her whole being, went beyond her. He just took her, as if she was his!

Absentmindedly, Helen was scratching her arms and chest, as if to exorcise that man’s presence from her body. If she could, she would have scraped away his touch, his hands on her, his existence from her mind. A disgusted grimace deforming her mouth, unpleasant memories of their first nights together forced themselves unto her mind, things she would have preferred stay hidden. She never wanted to be in his presence again, and certainly not alone.

Helen didn’t want him, and never would. Had he ever thought to ask before grabbing her? Never, and he never would either. He’d left her cold and alone on the bare floor, struggling to find herself again. And Helen had wanted to kill him, strangle him, so many times, but she was tired. She just wanted to go home, now, she thought out loud.

She paused, unsure why she said these words, why she ever thought them. She didn’t even know where home was, for her. Menelaus was who she had been first promised to, but… he was dark. Sullen. Threatening. She shivered. Coming back to him at the end of the day was violence. Home wasn’t any better than here, for her home was a place that was haunted by Menelaus’ entitlement to her own existence. She didn’t even have a room that was really to herself, and only herself, Helen mumbled, defeated. In the grand order of things, she was merely a tool.

She caught herself in the mirror. The gaze that met hers was strained, exhausted even, shaking ever so slightly, on the cusp of tears. It was always about men, for her. For the first time, she saw weakness in her traits, a fatigue she’d never noticed before. And she hated it. She hadn’t been born frail, so why was it starting now?

With a start, Helen stood up, shaking with barely controlled mania. It was as if she’d been shocked by a stingray. She couldn’t tolerate it anymore, these pained eyes in the mirror, the worn out hands and the trembling lips whenever she was in presence of Paris or Menelaus. She had been such an energetic and reckless child, a daredevil that made her parents fret over cuts and bruises every other day, running around fields and rocky mountains without a care in the world. Why was it that she was so anxious now, weighing each and every one of her words, scared of the potential repercussions?

Helen knocked over the few bits and pieces strewn about on her console, unable to contain herself any longer. She cut herself on the hairpin she’d left there, and held her hand to her chest, the sharpness of the ache slicing through her anger. A few drops of blood trickled down her wrist, smeared on her lily white tunic. Pacing around the room, she cursed, mumbling reproaches and incoherent words of revenge and rage.

“I’m just a pawn, that’s it, Helen whispered, frantic accents straining her voice. Just another one of Aphrodite’s children, thrown under Helios’ charriot, huh? An object of jealousy, of envy, of abjection. I thought I was special, for once, that destiny wouldn’t be so cruel. As it turns out it’s the gods that had it out for me, again and again and again, sending these men after me. I have had enough.”

Helen’s tone and attitude had shifted. Her fury was now an articulate, cristal clear pike piercing through the air, reverberating on the cold slabs that paved her room. She got up, in total control of her movements, yet boiling inside with an unseen, freezing ire. Slowly, she picked up her hairpin, weighing it in her hand. The jagged point felt balanced in her bloody palm, as though it had found a new purpose in all of this insanity. This would hurt quite a lot, wouldn’t it, if stabbed into an eye or a hand with enough force.

The figure in the mirror had changed, all of a sudden. An icy, smug stare was looking at her with determination, an irate twinkle burning through the glass. She was finally standing as tall as she was, proud and brave, grinning eagerly to herself.

“You don’t really want to be a pawn anymore, do you? Helen asked her reflection. A pretty thing, a toy, destined to be left on the side of the road as soon as you’re past your prime, an amphora waiting to be filled with the victor’s wine, a prize, a trophy. You’re not going to wait for anyone to come save you anymore, aren’t you? No Greeks, no gods, no husbands. Just you. Just me.”

Helen readjusted her tunic around her waist, making sure it felt comfortable as she hid the pin in the folds of the heavy fabric. They were going to call her crazy, weren’t they. As soon as she strayed from their hard-beaten path, that’s what they said she was. They couldn’t handle it, but they would listen this time. Helen smiled through her teeth. They would have to, at least if she spoke their language.

Helen patted the side of her body, her hand resting comfortably on the back of the pin. She couldn’t feel the intense twinge of pain against her palm anymore. Her hair flowed around her, a red halo of unfiltered regal rage. She was a queen after all, and this disrespect wasn’t going to fly any longer. Besides, it was time for her to leave, to get out, to go home, wherever she’d find it. To find her little marketplace filled with wine and cheese and sunshine. With one last breath, Helen pushed the door open. She was going to show them what a queen was capable of, finally.

“Maybe I’ll indulge in a little bloodshed myself, this time.”