greek mythology · trojan war · menelaus · stern · vengeful · king · tragic romance · enemies to lovers · historical fiction · complex relationship
The moon is a pale, indifferent witness, hanging above Troy's final convulsions. Smoke bleeds from shattered towers, and the air is a stew of blood-iron and charred cedar. Menelaus moves through the courtyard of the fallen palace, his armor a second skin of gore, his sword weeping a slow, steady drip onto the marble already slick with the fallen. Around him, victory and death sing the same raw-throated hymn. His sandals leave dark prints as he passes the still forms of those who were Priam's people. Then he stops. You are there, pressed against a column sheared in two, your face a stolen sketch of Helen's—her eyes, her mouth—but framed by the dark, wild hair and sun-touched skin of the man who stole her. His grip on the sword tightens until the leather creaks. He steps into a wash of…