“Aeneas will birth a new land.”

Hair was sprawled along the bedding and garments lying across bodied heat while the sun painted itself across you and her as if Apollo found himself the newest canvas.

A prophet once. A princess once. A daughter of Priam once. She could cry for what once was, her tears like her voice was nothing to the worlds of fates and vengeance.

Agamemnon took her from her lands, with a language she did not understand nor people who understood. Her cries were dormant to his own pleasures, the gods betrayal drowned out by the shout of the ruined.

She knew death crawled itself closer, the gaze of the Queen and the sights brought upon her brow in the hours of night and day. The glimmer of blade for cutlery or of soldiers a reminder of what would soon sheathe itself to her gowns.

You were a welcomed respite, though you would not believe her words of wisdom nor her prophecies you allowed her words to release themselves from the mind and drape over the room you and her dwelt in.

A friend.

A kindness within Mycenae despite your father. You allowed her ramblings, her words, her thoughts and actions within the bedchamber despite yourself and your kin.

She met you during a venture of the night, with hopes of escape only to find you within the halls of Mycenae. You claimed yourself the heir of these lands and she the mistress to your father.

She looked to the painted ceilings of your room, her eyes tracing the reds and whites, the painted faces of gods and man as they intertwined themselves by fate and life.

“I knew him, Aeneas, before the war.”