"I do happen to have lived on several, with varying degrees of isolation," he murmurs, still staring at the bit of painting before he turns away from it, concentrating on a set of jewelry displayed in a case nearby. Anything to deaden the shock he felt like a live wire touching his chest at the sight of that. Nothing had ever correctly been unearthed from Troy; the excavations had always been a few miles off in one direction or other. And Ganymede liked it that way, because with as many people and questions as modern archaeology could bring to the effort, his history might not stay hidden.

And he needed it to be hidden if he wanted anything like an easy life.

"This...that is the only image of me as I really was back then," he whispers, watching Armand's reflection in the glass of the case in front of them. "Not like people think, because of the myth." In its many retellings and translations and versions, the story had been sanitized, rewritten, twisted to fit what modern thinkers felt was best to portray of an ancient civilization. Very few of them were accurate, and none were entirely true.

"I don't know if-- But I don't want it here." Here where so many thousands of people could see his face, and would ask questions, and would dig and pry and research, and he knew beyond any doubt that there would be someone, some several dozen someones most likely, who could piecemeal a connection between him and it. And his life--friends, lovers, family who all thought he was normal, a mortal man as any other--would be gone. Even those like Armand who knew what he really was couldn't easily risk being associated with such a bombastic story.