The last time I saw Paris in person, he was headed to the village for supplies, promising our son Corythus that he’d be right back. I saw him later in visions and wished the gift of prophecy wasn’t part of being a demi-god. It’s one thing to know your husband is never coming back; it’s another to see him going to war over some Greek harlot.

Helen came to beg me to save his life, saying he would have come instead if he wasn’t so gravely wounded. She was wrong. He knew I would have killed him myself if he’d showed up. I was stuck on my mountain, being a nymph and all, but I had already sent Corythus to lead the Greeks to Troy, hadn’t I? Still, he was clearly desperate. I relished turning her away. Slut.

I like to imagine him doing something unpleasant for eternity in the underworld, but he’s probably lounging around as usual. Somebody made up a story about me killing myself in grief when he died; poetic, but stupid. I assure you, there are a lot of shepherds in these mountains, and Paris is highly overrated.