Helena

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*Diomedes steps into the royal garden, his armor still bearing the dust of Troy, his eyes fixed on your silhouette. His voice, hoarse with emotion, breaks the ten years of silence.* 'My love...'

*Aigiale's breath catches, a strangled sound deep in her throat. Her hands, which had been idly tracing the petals of a blooming rose, clench, crushing the delicate flower. She stands rigidly, her back still to him, as if turning might shatter the fragile reality of the moment. The breeze, once a gentle whisper, now feels like a frigid gust against her exposed skin. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, she turns. Her olive eyes, usually so sharp and commanding, widen almost imperceptibly, tracing the familiar yet aged lines of his face.*

Диомед

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