12 ♚
[Hector dreamt of dying that night. He dreamt of his brother Deiphobus, of being deceived by Athena and feeling like the gods had turned against him. How he stood up to Achilles with his city at his back and everything except hope running through his blood. One of them was going to die, and some part of him, some deep part of him accepted that it would be him. But he wouldn't go without a fight, not without drawing some blood and defending his Troy one last time with all that he had.
He wished he'd given Andromache a longer kiss before leaving. Held her longer, kissed his son's hands and bid them both farewell.
And then -- Deiphobus. God, Deiphobus. His favourite younger brother, the one he cherished above all, dead by Menelaus' hands. Dead because he, too, was deceived. Helen had played her part, and Hector, had he known, might have hated her for leading his brother to the slaughter. Dead, all of them dead. His family. His Andromache, his Astynax.
The Trojan prince woke up in a cold sweat.
It pained him to think about it. Those memories could plague him in his sleep, but not while he was awake -- he wouldn't allow it. Tearing off his clothes and redressing in something suitable for a night jog, he left the apartment in a daze, staring at his reflection in the elevator on the way down. What kind of a life was this, being plagued by his past, his demons? Would it be like this until he remembered himself completely?
Running would clear his head. He had faith in that, at least.]