Chapter Text
Evanthia, Princess of Ithaca, was born out of love. Or more accurately, wedlock.
Her birth had been considered entirely scandalous and shameful until her parents finally married, and many nobles and advisors alike had turned their noses up at the very idea of her being the firstborn. Children were born for a purpose, not because of an accident. Even in Sparta, children were born for a reason. In contrast, when her brother Telemachus was born almost two years later, they rejoiced.
An heir, a real heir to take over after his father abdicated. A king, powerful and judicious, the envy of Greeks everywhere. He could carry on the legacy of his father.
Meanwhile, the princess’s own existence had been boiled down to a few rather depressing things. A future bargaining chip, a son maker, a servant to her husband.
Evanthia knew nothing of her father, he’d left so long ago that she had no real memories, only the stories her mother would tell them, a vague memory of him picking her up. He’d gone off to war, a noble cause, to retrieve Helen her aunt, wife of his friend Menelaus. He’d be home any day now, she’d say.
And those “any day’s”, had turned into weeks, and soon into years. And Evanthia, in defiance to what every advisor and every noble had hoped, had absolutely zero intentions of hunkering down to become known as just a wife, as just a hole to be used to birth a boy and to then fade into the annals of history, a footnote.
No, she intended on being none of those. Evanthia knew what she wanted to be, a warrior. Like the women of Sparta.
She had her mother’s features, her father’s eyes and the raw angry fire of an entire Spartan army. She had been trained for years by the greatest warlord of them all, the God of War himself, Ares. He’d seen the girl, as she stood up for her brother and her mother at the tender age of 6, against older men who were hellbent on getting to Penelope.
He saw how she had fought like hell, how she did not back down even when cornered. She was wily, like her father. She’d quite literally, pulled the rug from under them and sent them flying down the stairs.
Evanthia hadn’t even been talk enough to reach them properly, but had thought on her feet and succeeded. Ares saw great potential in the princess. Potential, in particular when it was moulded by someone with vision.
Such as when the princess was just 17 years old, but with the training experience of someone considerably older. She’d dressed in a dusty white chiton, something easy to move in, and was holding a spear twice her height. The god had summoned a series of big wooden man shaped targets before her, and sent them flying.
She closed her eyes, steeling herself. Her breathing slowed as she tried to compose her thoughts and focus. She opened her eyes and launched her attacks at the flying targets, shattering multiple wooden figures in front of her, and sending the fragments across the makeshift garden arena she’d set up.
The princess laughed in triumph, though only for a moment, and she landed on her back with a strained groan. She looked to find she’d forgotten about one target, which had just collided with her. She coughed and stumbled to her feet, looking across at a pissed off looking Ares.
“You’re getting sloppy again, Evanthia.” He barked.
“I’m sorry.” She started, trying to regain her breathing and previous confidence as she continued. “I’m a little bit distracted this morning.”
“I assure you, Princess, I can tell. We’ve discussed this, there’s no way you can protect yourself or the ones you love if you're this easily distracted.” Ares scoffed, before stepping towards her, his brow furrowed and his voice serious.
“And again, as we’ve discussed, I’m having enough lectures about my behaviour and attitudes without you telling me off as well.” Evanthia retorted, stepping towards him.
“Careful princess. Here is where you ignore what is expected of you, or have you forgotten the lessons I’ve taught you?” He placed a large hand on her shoulder, looking at his mentee.
“I have not. But, I have duties outside of here just as you do. Apparently, according to our advisors, I’m finally of marrying age and must head to the main arena to seek out my suitors.” She looked up at the god before her, her face stoic once more, her voice deeply sarcastic.
“Well then, I will take that as meaning our training is at a natural end for today. At the very least, you can laugh at the utterly abysmal fighting those young men will display.” Ares teased, chuckling loudly.
Evanthia finds herself chuckling as well, noticing that a very small, very elderly advisor is tapping his foot impatiently at her. She turns to her mentor, bowing from respect and commenting. “Perhaps, I could be the one that could teach them the proper form to take.”
Ares bows before her, using his powers to begin cleaning up the mess his targets had left and he shook his head as he replied. “Don’t push it, Princess.”
The God of War disappears before her eyes, and Evanthia looks down at herself in a puddle of water. She is covered in splinters, bruised, her clothes stained with dust, her hair disheveled and her face is flushed with a layer of sweat covering her. Definitely wife material.
She walks to the advisor, whom she now sees is her overbearing, ‘personal’ advisor, Agenor. He was apparently a minor lord in his day, but she knew little about him other than he was supposed to keep her in line. Usually, he fell asleep for just long enough for her to get into trouble.
“Princess, you are once again, running late. And you are not even close to being presentable.” He scolded, walking a little behind her.
“I am aware, Agenor. Do I not have two more hours to get ready? I’m sure I could become plenty presentable by then.” Evanthia commented slyly, walking ahead of him.
“That was three hours ago, Princess. Now you only have less than one, and you are needing a lot done to make you an enticing marriage prospect to Ithaca’s noble families.” He chastised, handing her off to some of the palace’s maids.
“Ah yes, you must make your prize sow look good to a worthy farmer, Agenor.” She joked as she was led off to the baths. The maids hurriedly scrubbed the princess, washing her hair and dousing her in floral perfumes. She coughed at the strength of the scents and sat in front of a mirror, wrapped in a robe as they dried, de-tugged and brushed out her hair, all while she winced and grimaced.
Evanthia did indeed have her mother’s delicate features. Brown hair, olive toned skin, high graceful cheekbones, delicate curves and almond shaped eyes. Though as she was getting older, more of her father’s features were making themselves known.
She was considerably more muscular than her mother, her eyes were as dark as her father’s, such a dark shade of brown they almost looked black. Her eyebrows were getting thicker, her nose resembling her father’s more. Especially as it’s been broken so many times.
Once they were satisfied with her hair and her appearance, the maids rushed her to her bedchambers via a back staircase, to avoid anyone seeing the princess before she was supposed to be presented to Ithaca’s nobles.
Inside, she was dressed in a yellow dress, covered in intricate patterns representing both of her parents' heritage's of Sparta and Ithaca. Her fingers and wrists were covered in bracelets and rings, and highly detailed sandals are placed on her feet. She looks every inch a future queen, but internally she just wants to go back and train.
The sooner this day is over, the better, she thinks. Having to fake smiles, to pretend that she’s not dreadfully, painfully bored, is her idea of hell. Frankly, being in the Underworld with screaming souls was beginning to sound more and more tempting by the second.
Evanthia is escorted by an entirely oversized entourage of guards, as well as Agenor and a few handmaidens. She is nudged every now and then to remember to smile and wave, but not too much. Can’t possibly actually enjoy herself.
The path through the main city to the arena was lined with small houses, thriving businesses, normal everyday people living their lives, being themselves and aside from them bowing before her, seemingly unaware of her. She envied them.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t join them or find some convincing lookalike to go in her place, not that it hadn’t already crossed her mind. Before she knew it, they were at the arena, a grand stone building that her father had once trained in. The guards stood aside to guard the entrance, allowing Evanthia, the handmaidens and Agenor to enter.
A musical procession announced her arrival, and the young men went on one knee as she entered. She felt deeply embarrassed at the sound and look of it and prepared to die inside for the remainder of the afternoon. Agenor had sat beside her, and she silently hoped the old man would just fall asleep already and that she could escape.
Evanthia had unsurprisingly not been looking forward to this day. It had been looming over her like a storm cloud, and she knew she just had to act interested long enough to pick somebody. Yes, just a man, any man, to try and compete to win a spot in her bed for the rest of their lives. Truly, a joyous prospect.
And then, it began.