“Who is he?” The question escaped from me in a muffled gasp, even as I tried to tear myself away from that burning gaze. No one had ever looked at me in such a fashion, not even Cressida. He was so young, though, as young as my brother, Paris. His cheeks bloomed with a super abundance of health. His yellow curls glistened with its lustre, as they clung to the nape as his neck. I stared at that nape, wondering what it would be like to kiss it.
“Go to Scyros and find out,” the boy said, as he withdrew his cup, along with the vision of the extraordinary young man. The faintest gleam touched one of his tears, like the first gentle ray of the coming dawn. “Perhaps your beauty can save our city, even as Helen’s has doomed it.”