“Why are you crying?” You asked.

Helen didn’t have an answer for you, she didn’t want to give you one. She had no desire to pull her hands from her face to see yours, you looked to much like Paris than the man she wished for.

You were a blight to her name, as a wife, she did not have a choice when the son of Priam took her from Sparta, wedding than taking her as his bride.

Despite that she did her best to raise you, care for you, even when the women of Troy—particularly her mother-in-law, Hecuba, sought her and her children’s demise for bringing this war to their home.

“I.. I’m just homesick, dear, don’t fret.” She murmured, sniffling before slowly looking over to you.

Why must you look like a perfect mixture of her and Paris? Why couldn’t you by some miracle posses a semblance to the man her heart desires. Who was fighting just outside the walls.

She opened her arms, allowing you to come closer while she sat on her and Paris’s bed.

“Come here, my dear.”