How come the more I study the less prepared I feel???????????

15 days until my test, then hopefully I'll write here again :)

15 days until my test, then hopefully I'll write here again :)

note to self to at some point make a post about how helen's issues revolve around an unforgiving pursuit of self control and how her complete loss of it in the intensity of her connection with paris + being away from her roots/power/family mess with her head but unfortunately I must be up early tomorrow so today is not that day

being married to helen be like

yesterday i went to a party and i kissed this girl and she kept trying to give me her linkedin and i was like ...LINKEDIN? and she said yes linkedin. so i said i dont use linkedin. do you have instagram though. and she was like yes i do have instagram. you should add me on linkedin. and i said i dont use linkedin. and she said i will add you on linkedin. and i said girl give me your instagram you are NOT flirting with me through linkedin. and she was like. ok. fine. here's my instagram then. and gave me her instagram, which she clearly uses a lot, so it wasnt even that she only uses linkedin but rather that she just wanted to talk to me through linkedin specifically. fascinating woman if i wasnt already attracted to her her unwavering loyalty to linkedin wouldve drawn me in for sure

Fate had its own way of always finding its target, whether or not they tried to hide. Helen had somewhat predicted her sister’s ages ago: whereas her omens indicated that she would be the next queen of Sparta, sheer logic dictated that this would mean Clytemnestra ought to wed a great king in some other land - and among the Argives there was none greater than Agamemnon of Mycenae. One would have to sweeten the distaste of not having a more agreeable husband with a dash of honor for that alone. Still, in moments like this Helen would often feel a wave of coldness cross her veins: everything was changing so fast, and even though the godly signs predicted that she was reaching closer and closer to the destiny she’d always wanted, they were still quite often eerily ambiguous.

For now, Helen pushed those thoughts aside and put on a brave face for the sake of her sister.

“And you will always have a home here”, she vowed, then embraced her. Her voice lowered to a whisper as she surreptitiously passed a small vial into her hands: “Bring him to his knees.”

@ofprevioustimes sent a confession.

this place will never be the same when you leave.

-------------------------------

Clytemnestra didn't like that she was having to leave. She hated it in the depths of her soul. Her very bones were made of Sparta and yes, she was going to be a Queen but she didn't want to be a Queen of Myceanae and she certainly hadn't wanted to be married off to that gutter swine Agamemnon who wasn't worthy of her. She pressed her lips tightly together and took hold of Helen's hands, holding both of them and squeezing tightly.

"As soon as I am able to, I will send for you to come to visit me. We won't be parted for long Helen." Clytemnestra was resolute. It was a reassurance for them both and she wanted to believe it in her heart.

@glacierfront gets a starter from helen!

Helen sat on a bench outside the church like someone who expected nothing.

On her lap there was a crossword puzzle book on which she would sometimes write the answers with a black-and-gold Montblanc fountain pen, though her eyes would often rise to watch the baroque chapel discreetly underneath her sunglasses. She’d done this several times in the past, though so far it had been fruitless. Every now and then Helen would watch different rites from different religions - sometimes from a distance, sometimes by mingling with them, but to this day she had never seen any god within these temples where they allegedly resided, nor felt any godlike energy in the air.

It was dull work, but she insisted.

As the service ended and the people began to leave, she shoved her puzzle book quickly inside her briefcase in order to pay closer attention - just in case.

For the first time ever, a figure surprised her. A brown-haired girl stepped out with the crowd: one whom she’d never met, whose name she did not know, and yet who had been recently present in one of her dreams. Helen remembered it all vividly at once. The ancient city of Troy in flames: her legs aching from climbing up the stairs as though it would lead her towards Olympus, whereas the palace crumbled into ashes beneath her feet.

If that wasn’t a sign, nothing else was.

Quietly, Helen rose from her seat and waited a moment or two - just enough to seem like another stranger who just happened to be going the same way as her, catching up once they’d both stopped to wait for the pedestrian’s turn to cross the street.

“Girl”, she murmured, approaching her at last. “You”, continued Helen, placing a hand upon her shoulder: an almost faint gesture, yet still subtly dominant. “Do you serve the nailed god?”

guy who is asking me for a project: it worries me that you need to hire suppliers for everything

Also him: asks for stuff that would take at least 3 different professionals to perform

He knew what to say, this time. By now Paris had had enough time to learn that his blind optimism not only always failed to soothe her but also further aggravated her through moments like these, when her mind was seized with concerns for tomorrow. Whether he’d outgrown that kind of thinking was something else, but at least she could believe his reassurance now. Nobody else in this city had ever been given a chance to glimpse into her mind, least of all her heart: that was how she remained safe. Aphrodite could promise and provide every ounce of her to him–but not to his motherland. Never, ever to any other home that was not Lacedaemon.

The role that had fallen upon her to fulfill in Troy was not for the understanding of many, nor had she ever cared to explain, but gods, it was draining. To live for so long in chilling anticipation of that final hour, when all would be settled… Helen had begun by counting the years when she’d arrived, but lately it seemed more accurate to count the hours instead. The same despair had taken over the entire city since Hektor died. The scene that Paris' words painted in her mind was beautiful in a way that filled her veins with a dreadful sense of longing and she could only sigh in response, allowing herself to merely drink in the sound of his voice and the warmth of his body so near her. That was all that mattered in that moment–the fact that he was still a solid presence here with her. That he could be heard, seen, smelled and touched without any effort from her imagination, despite that nagging thought always in the back of her mind that questioned how much longer this could last.

Thus Helen turned around to face him, pressing her hands to his chest as though he might disintegrate at any moment. Her lips parted to brush against his, as hungry as ever. It was all the response that his remarks needed: the bond that held them together rendered words rather meaningless, when everything that they needed to say could be expressed through touch alone. “I don’t want to eat breakfast with your family”, she murmured, dragging her lips along his face and toward his ear. “I want you to fuck me in this balcony until the world ends.”

Because it might, at any moment now–at least the world that existed only within this dreamlike realm where they lived together, apart from the one outside the doors of their marital chambers.

Burrowing his nose into Helen's hair next to her temple, the water - though it had called to him when Helen had first poured it for them both - forgotten.

Cursed.

That was undoubtedly an inevitable way to describe all this, and certainly that must be what everyone else thought as well. So much anger--- Paris squeezed Helen tighter, closing his eyes. Anger aimed at him, yes, and he could, would, live with that. But anger at Helen too, though that was not the only thing she meant, saying it was tiring. Still, Paris was glad there was yet his father to be something of a buffer, since it was a long time since he'd been able to do anything like that.

"No one else can see it," he assured her, knowing she hated showing weakness. "No one else knows."

She might be exhausted, but the only ones privy to that were the two of them and Helen's servants.

"If we were..." Paris couldn't help but sigh, half nostalgic for something that had never been. Would never have been, either, and as much as he longed for Mount Ida right now, the simplicity of her mountain meadows and the cattle scattered over them, there were other things he'd missed if that was where he was. "We would enjoy each other's company in the middle of the meadows, and curl up inside the cottage when it was dark. You'd look stunning against the sky and the cliffs, Helen."

Pressing a kiss to her temple, Paris smiled against her hair and ignored the weight somewhere just beyond present thought.

Hektor dead - how much longer, then?

"There'd be only us, and the sheep and the cattle. The only wall the mountain itself... I'm almost sorry it couldn't be that, but I admit it's hard to think of you as anything but who you are, right now."

Helen, daughter of Zeus and Leda, yes. But more specifically, Helen, queen of Sparta even when she wasn't in Sparta, and princess of Troy because she was his wife.

For how much longer?

Hektor was dead and now finally buried, and the stunned despair that'd clung to Troy since he fell but Achilles kept him, kept abusing his corpse, hadn't so much dissipated as changed. Paris shrugged, as if that might unseat the weight of something like doom, a feeling come back to haunt him from when he'd watched the goddesses come towards him, led by Hermes.

"I love you," Paris whispered, almost shaking with the emotion of it, a whole ten years of awareness of it, even if it might not have been love in the same way as it was now in the beginning.

i feel like writing but also i feel like writing something new and fresh so? interact if u want something new and possibly not very long from one of my spartans?

helen would be such a good matchmaker if the gods didn't interfere with her business

Her eyes widened somewhat, just to register the sight of his face better. The mornings had often brought this strange feeling of almost numbness since they returned: waking up to find herself in her own rooms, with Menelaus in her bed and the Eurotas outside her window had a way of giving Helen an odd sensation that the past ten years had been a dream. As though she’d been mad or hallucinating. How strange to land one’s feet on steady ground after treading upon quicksand for so long!

“It sickens me”, she murmured, her lips trembling as her fingers pressed tight against his bare chest. “Dishonoring you. Even the thought of it…”

Menelaus brushes his fingers through Helen's hair, expression soft as she speaks. After so long apart, they still fit together so perfectly. She is the love of his life, and he will never feel the same way for anyone else.

"I know that," he murmurs. He pulls her closer, tangling his legs with hers to feel fully intertwined. "It did not feel right to sleep without you beside me. I will never lose this again. I will not have you taken from my side."

@mvndrvke from here

Her eyes widened at his assumption. Mortified to have given such an impression, Hermione looked away for a moment, staring at the fires that marked the celebration below from the full view of the balcony. It was a warm night, so she was grateful for the chill air that blew at this height. Something about its freshness had helped her to calm down somewhat–though it didn’t take away that lingering feeling that she’d given offense, even when he’d just told her otherwise. What kind of princess could possibly behave in such a way?

“No… that’s not it”, she was quick to reply. Her gaze had returned to him at this point, so she took a deep breath and gathered the courage to come out with the truth. “I am glad to wed the man my father chose for me, but it would be dishonest of me to do so without telling you that your claim might be disputed.” She sighed, then stared at him in apprehension. The shadow of her mother's deeds already hung upon her head without this additional trouble--and yet the Fates had added this treat only to make matters worse, it seemed. “My grandfather… has also arranged a betrothal for me, while father was away. I don’t know what will come of it, but there is no easy solution to a problem of this kind.”

Now as before, he always seemed more comfortable than he should be in her home. What was new to her was the realization that she didn’t even care. It was different in Sparta, with the weight of holding the sacredness of the land on the verge of falling upon her shoulders, but this was just a house among many that she owned. Her favorite, yes. This secluded luxury home in the mountains had so far been a place that she kept only for herself, her animals and her staff. It was here that all the precious artifacts that she’d collected from excavations over the years were kept safely hidden from the world–yet it did not feel so desecrating to bring someone from the past here. Even if that person happened to be Odysseus.

Helen sat on the floor, cross-legged, examining a pile of documents that she’d collected, printed and organized over the coffee table. “This isn’t even an embryo of a plan”, she replied, holding her exasperation within a sigh. "It's just useless information put together." So far, all the work put into curating and managing all that had been for nothing. Yet the ram’s entrails that she'd read had been full and healthy when the idea first came to her–why would the gods send such an omen, lest they approved of it? The lack of response from them was maddening.

“How can you destroy something that’s nowhere to be found?”, she shook her head. Helen did not take another drag from the bong: that too had been quite useless in her attempts to find spiritual insights. Instead, she took a sip of her black and sugarless coffee in hopes of enhancing her focus even more on that impossible task. “I may have to kill another ram".

@ofprevioustimes

Odysseus leans back on the sofa until the back of his head touches cushion and he's staring up at the ceiling. It's a nice sofa. Really nice sofa. Helen is rich. Again. He hopes he lowers its value just by being here.

He's not sure where he is, currently, between the poles of relaxation and exasperation. Every instinct screams against relaxing in Helen's presence. Obviously, that's why he accepts drugs from her.

"Explain to me one more time your plan for killing Christian God."

His smile was so endearing to glance upon that Helen had to look away to avoid displaying too much of her own joy. “Stop smiling like that”, she chided in a playful whisper. “You’ll give it away!” Truth was, there was much that could go wrong with her plans–this would have been easier if Tyndareus hadn’t insisted on making the matter as public as this, exposing the city to so many foreigners. Her determination was fierce–but they were surrounded by threats. “A secret shared between women is not for a man to know”, she told him nonchalantly, letting her hand brush secretively above his knee, beneath the linen that covered the table. “She is keeping ours, my love. Can you imagine what would happen if she betrayed it?”

"Our secret," Menelaus echoes, a smile flitting across his lips. He tries to hide it, but he can't-- he's happy. The charade will soon be over, and he and Helen won't have to hide their feelings for each other after that. The choice is hers, certainly, but it was one that was made long ago. "Oh, she has a secret?" he says. "Do I get to know?"

At the appointed time, the table was diligently set. The courses were available in a variety meant to satisfy the particular tastes of both the hostess and the guests. Hers were the most austere dishes, which her servants had taught the house cook to prepare much against his will: plain barley bread and the traditional black broth of her motherland, with a glass of dry red wine. Nothing more. Perhaps she might have had two glasses if it had been diluted in water, but the pure taste was much better even in small amounts that would not compromise her sobriety. 

Disinclined to indulgent eating, Helen was nonetheless quite learned in hosting a dinner. For the little man, the options were lavish and sufficient to feed at least five of him: buttered duck stuffed with chestnuts and seasoned with peppered paprika, shrimp ceviche with sliced cucumbers, red onions and avocados marinated in fresh lime juice, oysters spiced with finely minced garlic and honey cakes to sweeten the meal. To wash it down, three different choices of wine - though she had to rely on his common sense to not get drunk.

Thus Helen waited, not at the dinner table, but at a reception chamber before it. There was always burning incense in her rooms, leaving a citric scent in the air that was quite pleasant to the nostrils and soothing to the lungs. The night was oppressively warm, but a fresh breeze blew through the windows from time to time. Helen sat on her couch as if upon a throne, her back impeccably straight, one hand resting quietly over her lap whilst the other held a shining bronze goblet filled with fresh, lime-infused water.

A servant announced his presence, to which Helen nodded permission to welcome him in and rose from her seat before he was introduced into the room. “I bid you welcome”, she said, stepping forward, her manners all diplomacy and grace. “Your sobriety is appreciated. Will you have a glass of lime water before supper?”

ofprevioustimes​:

Noticing his hesitation, Helen laughed. Pentos was truly a beautiful thing to behold; stretching beyond the eye’s reach, with its light-blue ocean that glimmered with sunrays and softly kissed the shore’s white sand, dripping with mercantile wealth. But she was tired of merchant cities and tired of the sea. The mere fact that they could sit together in a casual gathering and even mention the idea of taking this city implied weakness: they wouldn’t dare to whisper it if the people in charge had a strong hold of their own power. The first thing that caught her attention was how vulnerable this place was. A disorganized army could raid this place within a week; an organized one could conquer it in a day.

It wasn’t her goal, but he didn’t need to know that.

“Would I tell you if I did?”, she inquired with a smirk. With that, Helen rose with regal confidence as the soft seabreeze blew through her hair and danced with the linen of her veil and gown. The idleness of drinks and sunlight began to bore her. This wasn’t the kind of place that she would come to socialize: it was the heart of the city’s elite, where one could establish all kinds of strategic connections to achieve one’s goals.

Something told her this little man was far more important than he seemed, sunk as he was in his overindulgent drinking.

“My house is the red manor overlooking the market”, she told him. The glimpse of her crown slipped through her demanding tone: still very much the Queen of Sparta, even in disguise. “Join me for supper”. It’ll be my turn to ask the questions, then. “I expect you will not be drunk.”

Of course she wouldn’t have told him. Royals who held their Houses in their own two hands never imparted their information on those that they considered lesser than them. Was that the view that she had of him? Of course he understood. He was drowned in alcohol, had just survived sitting with his own shit on a ship here with his friend. He wasn’t God favored, or at least it didn’t feel like it. What all of this felt like was the New Gods were smirking down at him, wondering how much more rubbish they could roll him in before lighting him on fire.

He doesn’t give a response to her question. Something tells him that she won’t make a play for Pentos. These Free Cities were bound up in their old ways and capturing them would take more than mere intellect or a grand army. Tyrion could imagine her being Queen here however. Queen of the wise. Queen of beauty. Another queen who the Gods favored more than him even after everything that he had done to try and keep his family afloat.

His gaze trailed off toward the area that she spoke of before he choked down a hiccup that he felt was rising up inside of him. “I suppose I could take a break Just for you. You should take that as a compliment, my lady.” He offered with a faint grin before it inevitably slipped away. “But please let supper be good. I haven’t had a good meal in weeks. They usually don’t save good food aboard ships.” Especially when you were part of the cargo.