The Helen and Paris of the stories died long ago. They had gotten the tale wrong, convinced that a woman could not choose her own freedom without the influence of a star-crossed love affair. But what he had been to Elene, above all, had been a friend. One of the few true, and greatest, that she had ever had. She carries his memory with her throughout this immortal lifetime of hers, holds him dear to her chest as a piece of Helen she found herself unable to discard. She’d know his face as sure as her own, yet even so the mere sight of it is unbelievable, causing Elene to stop in her tracks. It’s just a flash, a face moving through the crowd, and yet something compels her to give chase. She pushes through with an urgency, following after until she’s close enough to touch, a hand reaching out to grab his arm before she can stop herself. “It’s you,” her voice is small, quiet and disbelieving. She had never thought... “Is it really you?” ( @parisxashar )