I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

Helen sat quietly in the garden of the Trojan castle, the gentle hum of the breeze weaving through the flowerbeds around her. The garden, once a place of solace, now seemed like a hollow echo of what it used to be. The vibrant blossoms no longer brought her peace; they felt like mockeries of her sorrow. She gazed at the marble fountain in the center, the water’s gentle trickle failing to soothe her restless thoughts.

She felt adrift, lost in a sea of emotions that had no outlet. She didn’t know what to think or what to feel anymore. Everything seemed to be falling apart. Just when Troy seemed to be stabilizing, when life had started to regain some semblance of normalcy, Heiron was gone. His death was like a black shroud cast over the city, darkening the hearts of everyone within its walls.

It would be dishonest to say she hadn’t cared for him. She had. He was more than a passing acquaintance; he had become her confidant in a way no one else could. Unlike the others who only saw her as a trophy, a figure to admire or resent, Heiron treated her like a person—just a woman who needed someone to talk to.

Their conversations had been a rarity in her life: genuine, short yet meaningful exchanges that she found herself looking forward to. When the pressures of her existence—the endless guilt, the weight of expectation, the suffocating isolation—grew too much to bear, she could vent to him. He would listen without judgment, without ulterior motives.

Heiron had cared. Not about her beauty, not about her infamy, but about her. He even shared news of the war with her, sparing her the humiliation of having to ask others who might scoff or sneer. For those brief moments, she had felt seen, understood, even human. But now, Heiron was dead.

A sharp pang of loneliness pierced her chest. She hadn’t anticipated how much his absence would hurt. The garden felt emptier now, devoid of the comfort his presence once brought. And once again, the familiar weight of guilt crept in.

This was all because of her. It didn’t matter what others said to absolve her; the truth was clear in her mind. If it weren’t for her, this war wouldn’t have happened. If she hadn’t been born, the world might have been a more peaceful place. The thought lingered, growing heavier with each passing day.

“You’re here alone again?”

The sudden voice startled her, pulling her from her spiraling thoughts. Helen turned to see her older sister, Clytemnestra, standing at the edge of the garden. Her sister’s presence was both a relief and a reminder of the burdens they shared.

“Sister…” Helen murmured, lowering her gaze, unable to meet Clytemnestra’s eyes.

Clytemnestra sighed, her steps measured as she approached. Her expression was stern but tinged with concern, a look Helen knew well.

“How long are you going to keep running away from me?” Clytemnestra asked, folding her arms.

“I’m not running away,” Helen replied weakly, her voice lacking conviction.

“You are,” Clytemnestra said firmly. “And I’ve already told you—what happened to my daughter, Iphigenia, is not your fault.”

Helen flinched at the mention of her niece, the memory of the young girl’s tragic fate cutting through her like a blade. Iphigenia had been sacrificed, a casualty of her father Agamemnon’s ambitions and the whims of the gods. Yet, despite knowing the true cause, Helen couldn’t stop blaming herself.

“But it is,” Helen whispered, her voice trembling. “If not for me, there would have been no war. If not for me, Iphigenia would still be alive. How can I not feel responsible?”

Clytemnestra knelt beside her, placing a hand on Helen’s shoulder. Her touch was firm but comforting.

“This war… It wasn’t born from you,” Clytemnestra said. “It was born from men’s greed, their lust for power, their refusal to take accountability for their own choices. Agamemnon sacrificed my daughter because of his hubris, not because of you. You carry a burden that isn’t yours to bear, Helen.”

Helen closed her eyes, tears welling but refusing to fall. Clytemnestra’s words were meant to comfort, but they couldn’t erase the gnawing guilt.

“If only I hadn’t been born,” Helen whispered bitterly. “Perhaps then the world would have been spared all this suffering.”

Clytemnestra frowned, gripping Helen’s shoulders tighter. “Don’t speak like that. The fault lies with those who wield violence and destruction, not with you. You’re not the cause of their hatred, their war. You’re just the excuse they use to justify it.”

“Maybe… but if I wasn’t born, none of this would have ever happened,” Helen murmured, her voice laced with guilt, her gaze fixed on the ground. The weight of her self-condemnation was palpable, each word sinking deeper into the still air around them.

“Why do you keep blaming yourself?” Clytemnestra countered, her tone firm yet tender. She knelt beside Helen, her hands gently gripping her sister’s shoulders as if to shake some sense into her. “Everything will end well, you’ll see. The Greeks are faltering. Just yesterday, they lost three of their commanders, and Menelaus is dead! You don’t have to worry about him coming after you anymore.”

Helen’s heart stirred faintly at the mention of Menelaus, her former husband and King of Sparta. He was dead. Yet, even with the knowledge that he could no longer harm her, a fresh wave of unease swept over her. Menelaus had been a vengeful man, but Agamemnon, his brother, was far worse. As long as Agamemnon lived, Helen knew the war would not end.

The mere thought of him made her stomach twist in fear. Agamemnon despised her, more than any other. He blamed her for the sacrifice of his daughter, Iphigenia—a choice he made but one he found easier to lay at her feet. Helen shivered at the thought of falling into his hands. What kind of punishment would he deem fitting for the woman he held responsible for his loss?

Clytemnestra seemed to sense her sister’s spiraling fear. Her eyes softened, but her frustration remained. She hated Agamemnon as much as Helen feared him, perhaps even more. But she couldn’t deny his power, nor the aura of terror he carried as a king.

“If it’s Agamemnon that you’re worried about, Helen, you shouldn’t be,” a confident voice suddenly interjected.

Both women turned, startled, to see Paris standing at the edge of the garden. His blond hair caught the sunlight, and he carried himself with the smug assurance of a man who had cheated death.

Despite his unexpected return, Helen’s expression remained neutral. There was no joy, no relief, no spark of happiness in her eyes. If anything, her gaze hardened ever so slightly, her lips pressing into a thin line. She had already heard the news that Paris was alive, but she hadn’t gone to see him. Why would she?

Paris had never truly mattered to her. Whatever fleeting affection she had once felt for him had been shallow, a passing mirage in a life filled with regret. And now, even that illusion was gone.

“What are you doing here?” Clytemnestra asked, her voice sharp, her gaze narrowing as she stood to face him.

“What kind of question is that?” Paris replied with a laugh, spreading his arms in mock offense. “Can’t a man come to see his wife?”

“Helen isn’t your wife,” Clytemnestra shot back coldly. “You used magic to deceive her into following you. Everyone knows that now.”

The truth was out, undeniable and damning. Helen hadn’t left Sparta willingly. She hadn’t chosen Paris out of love or desire. It had all been a cruel trick, a spell that had clouded her mind and led her to Troy.

Paris, however, seemed unfazed. “That doesn’t change anything,” he said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “From the moment she stepped onto that boat, she became my wife. And as her husband, it’s my duty to protect her.”

“Protect me?” Helen muttered under her breath, the words almost inaudible.

“Yes!” Paris exclaimed, taking a step closer, his voice swelling with self-assured pride. “I killed Menelaus for you, Helen. He won’t bother you anymore! And I’ll kill anyone else who dares to harm you. Kings, soldiers—Troy itself! I’ll destroy them all if it means keeping you safe. I swear it!”

Clytemnestra’s jaw tightened as she stepped protectively in front of her sister. Helen’s hands clenched in her lap, her nails digging into her palms.

“Kill them all?” Helen repeated softly, her tone hollow, her gaze distant.

Paris nodded, oblivious to the growing tension. “Yes, my love. No one will ever hurt you again, not while I’m here.”

Helen looked up at him, her eyes shimmering with a mixture of anger and despair. “You think this is what I want? More bloodshed, more death? You think killing my husband—killing thousands of men—will erase the pain of all that’s been lost?”

Paris faltered, his confident smile wavering.

“You talk of protecting me,” Helen continued, her voice rising, trembling with emotion. “But all you’ve done is bring more destruction, more suffering. You didn’t save me, Paris. You condemned me. Just like everyone else.”

Paris opened his mouth to respond, but no words came. Clytemnestra stepped closer to him, her glare icy.

“You’ve done enough harm,” she said, her voice low and threatening. “Leave her be, Paris. She doesn’t need you.”

Paris’s glare darkened, his jaw tightening as he stepped forward and seized Helen’s arm with a bruising grip. His fingers dug into her skin, his voice a venomous hiss. “You belong to me, Helen.”

Helen froze for a moment, her breath catching at the sharpness of his tone. But then, lifting her gaze to meet his, her expression turned icy, her voice steady and cold. “No, Paris. I don’t.”

His teeth ground audibly as anger flared in his eyes. “Is that it?” he spat, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. “Is it because of him? That mercenary, Heiron? Don’t tell me you fell in love with that weakling!”

The accusation struck Helen like an unexpected blow, but she quickly recovered, her composure unshaken. She didn’t understand why he was dragging Heiron into this—what purpose it served—but her lips curved into a soft, defiant smile.

“Yes,” she said simply, her tone laced with quiet strength. “I loved him.”

Paris’s grip tightened further, his fingers like iron bands around her arm. His face twisted with fury as he shouted, “He’s dead! He died a dog’s death on the battlefield! And now I’m here for you, Helen. I’m the one who’s alive! I’m the one who’s here!”

Before Helen could respond, a sharp, mocking laugh broke the tense silence. Paris turned sharply toward Clytemnestra, who stood to the side with her arms crossed, her laughter cutting through his outburst like a blade.

“What’s so funny?” he snarled, his eyes narrowing at her.

“Nothing,” Clytemnestra replied, smirking as she shook her head. “It’s just… if Heiron were still alive and standing here before you, you wouldn’t dare act so bold. You wouldn’t even try.”

Her words sliced through Paris’s bravado, leaving him momentarily speechless. His face flushed with anger and embarrassment.

“What?!” he barked, his voice rising in disbelief and indignation.

“She’s right,” Helen said, her voice soft but firm, her gaze unwavering. “You could never compare to the man Heiron was.”

With that, she tore her arm free from his grasp, her movements resolute and final. Without sparing him another glance, she turned and walked away, her head held high.

Paris stood frozen, his hands clenched into trembling fists at his sides. His nails dug into his palms as he watched her retreating figure, every fiber of his being brimming with frustration and fury.