Helen

 Something quite different: a short drabble about queen Helen of Sparta, (because real life still sucks):

The pearly glow never faded. Not at dawn, not in the echoing halls, not even in the deepest, darkest corners of Olympus. Helen, the woman who launched a thousand ships, was perpetually bathed in it. It was the light of her perfection, a gift… or perhaps a curse, depending on the day.

She was, as the gods intended, a masterpiece frozen in time. Her skin, alabaster smooth; her eyes, a startling violet; her lips, eternally curved in a serene, almost ethereal smile. The ultimate objet d'art. And utterly, desperately, bored.

She drifted through the eternal gardens, the nectarine scent of the ambrosia blossoms doing little to alleviate the ennui that gnawed at her divine existence. The gods admired her, of course. They paid her lip service, told her tales of her legendary beauty. But they didn't see her. They saw the idea of her. The tragedy, the catalyst. Not Helen herself.

Her thoughts, as they often did, drifted to Penelope. Penelope of Ithaca. Her cousin. Penelope, who wasn’t blessed (or burdened) with such blinding beauty. Penelope, whose face, Helen remembered, bore the marks of worry lines and the soft creases around her eyes that came from years of laughter and, yes, tears.

Penelope, who aged.

Helen closed her eyes. She remembered a childhood visit to Ithaca. Penelope, already a woman, tending her olive groves. The earthy scent of the oil, the calloused hands that held Helen’s own smooth, pampered ones. Helen had been captivated by Penelope’s quiet strength, her unwavering loyalty.

Now, in her eternal state, Helen understood.

Penelope’s story, though not as loudly sung, was ultimately more resonant. A husband lost, presumed dead. Years spent fending off aggressive suitors with cunning and weaving. A love story sustained by hope and fidelity.

Helen had been a prize, a pawn in a game played by kings and gods. Penelope had been a fortress, a steadfast beacon in a tempestuous sea.

Sometimes, staring at her own flawless reflection in the still waters of the nymph's pool, Helen would whisper a silent wish: to trade the eternal prison of her perfect beauty for one single day in Penelope's weathered, yet infinitely more fulfilling, shoes. To feel the sun on her face, the earth beneath her feet, and the embrace of a love earned, not decreed. A day filled with the imperfections that made life, and Penelope's life especially, so beautifully real.

So, what do you think?