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CHARACTERS: Hector (idyllsend)
DATE/TIME: Last year of the Trojan war
LOCATION: Outside of Troy
RATING: R
WARNINGS: Oh, just imagine.
SUMMARY: Hector's last moments.
It was hot.
Sweat dripped down the back of Hector's neck, curving along the line of his throat and over the ridges of his exposed collarbones. He stood still for a moment, feeling the world slowly cave in on him from above, the hilt of his blade light in his grip. This was the end. This was a fate he and Achilles and the gods all knew, from the moment they ceased their foolish chase and faced one another like true warriors would.
The gods had deceived him, and in the worst way, the most heart-wrenching. To take up the form of Deiphobus, to lead him to thinking he was not alone when in fact he was. Alone as he faced his death. Yes, Achilles stood across from him, but not with him.
Hector was to die that day, without a last word, a last kiss, or a last goodbye, so very utterly and completely on his own.
Everything moved quickly then -- a blur. One moment they were moving, the next steel had entered his neck, slicing each through his skin like a knife through butter. Warm, sticky blood, searing hot against his skin in the sun, poured from the wound and stained his collarbones crimson. Achilles spoke. His words were only half taken in. What a fool, the man was saying, to think he could get away taking Patroclus' armor without consequence. What a fool, Hector.
What a fool.
Troy's crown prince felt the sand bite into his knees and palms, sensed the blood mingling with sweat. This was how it felt like to slowly die. He'd been injured before, surely; this sensation of blood rushing from his body was not unfamiliar. But in his heart and in his mind, he knew: this was the end. There would be no one to save him.
Alone at the end. How he wished he would've been able to kiss his wife, his son one last time. Every time he left the safety of Troy's walls, where much of his family remained, death always followed closely behind, for many of his soldiers had not survived the ten year stretch of the war. As their commander, he gave thanks to every life taken.
But though he knew death lingered at every step, he hadn't seen it like this. Hadn't imagined this was where he would bleed to death. Alone, and a fool. To be disgraced in front of his family. What did it mean for Troy? There was no way to know.
All that Hector knew was that this was his time, that the sun was beating hard on his body and that he would never glimpse upon the faces of his family. This was the end.
Forgive me, Andromache.
DATE/TIME: Last year of the Trojan war
LOCATION: Outside of Troy
RATING: R
WARNINGS: Oh, just imagine.
SUMMARY: Hector's last moments.
It was hot.
Sweat dripped down the back of Hector's neck, curving along the line of his throat and over the ridges of his exposed collarbones. He stood still for a moment, feeling the world slowly cave in on him from above, the hilt of his blade light in his grip. This was the end. This was a fate he and Achilles and the gods all knew, from the moment they ceased their foolish chase and faced one another like true warriors would.
The gods had deceived him, and in the worst way, the most heart-wrenching. To take up the form of Deiphobus, to lead him to thinking he was not alone when in fact he was. Alone as he faced his death. Yes, Achilles stood across from him, but not with him.
Hector was to die that day, without a last word, a last kiss, or a last goodbye, so very utterly and completely on his own.
Everything moved quickly then -- a blur. One moment they were moving, the next steel had entered his neck, slicing each through his skin like a knife through butter. Warm, sticky blood, searing hot against his skin in the sun, poured from the wound and stained his collarbones crimson. Achilles spoke. His words were only half taken in. What a fool, the man was saying, to think he could get away taking Patroclus' armor without consequence. What a fool, Hector.
What a fool.
Troy's crown prince felt the sand bite into his knees and palms, sensed the blood mingling with sweat. This was how it felt like to slowly die. He'd been injured before, surely; this sensation of blood rushing from his body was not unfamiliar. But in his heart and in his mind, he knew: this was the end. There would be no one to save him.
Alone at the end. How he wished he would've been able to kiss his wife, his son one last time. Every time he left the safety of Troy's walls, where much of his family remained, death always followed closely behind, for many of his soldiers had not survived the ten year stretch of the war. As their commander, he gave thanks to every life taken.
But though he knew death lingered at every step, he hadn't seen it like this. Hadn't imagined this was where he would bleed to death. Alone, and a fool. To be disgraced in front of his family. What did it mean for Troy? There was no way to know.
All that Hector knew was that this was his time, that the sun was beating hard on his body and that he would never glimpse upon the faces of his family. This was the end.
Forgive me, Andromache.