Updating time: Part Beloved
A really long chapter for this one and the one after this. And in my defense, I'd just like to say that I'm building up the suspense. *runs from people waving pitchforks*
Title: Beloved ~ Chapter Forty-six
Author: Sel selene_vidae
Pairing: Apollo/Paris, Hector/Paris
Summary: What if all that we believed to have been true - was not?
Rating: R for mentions of much, much violence.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to history, to myth, to legend. I make absolutely no money from this and live off on my reviewers' love.. *flutters eyelashes prettily* Some dialogue taken directly from film but twisted to suit my needs. Some descriptions taken from the first draft of the movie's screenplay.
Feedback: Help a fellow author out and pretty please comment on this fic...
Previous Chapters: Prologue, Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six, Chapter Seven, Chapter Eight, Chapter Nine, Chapter Ten, Chapter Eleven, Chapter Twelve, Chapter Thirteen, Chapter Fourteen, Chapter Fifteen, Chapter Sixteen, Chapter Seventeen, Chapter Eighteen, Chapter Nineteen, Chapter Twenty, Chapter Twenty-one, Chapter Twenty-two, Chapter Twenty-three, Chapter Twenty-four, Chapter Twenty-five, Chapter Twenty-six, Chapter Twenty-seven, Chapter Twenty-eight, Chapter Twenty-nine, Chapter Thirty, Chapter Thirty-one, Chapter Thirty-two, Chapter Thirty-three, Chapter Thirty-four, Chapter Thirty-five, Chapter Thirty-six, Chapter Thirty-seven, Chapter Thirty-eight, Chapter Thirty-nine, Chapter Forty, Chapter Forty-one, Chapter Forty-two, Chapter Forty-three, Chapter Forty-four, Chapter Forty-five
Manip courtesy of my lovey, punk_pony
Dedicated to all those who have been waiting.
Chapter Forty-six
Hector looked up at the clear sky, a silent prayer on his lips as the sun shined down unfalteringly at the Trojan army, an army of thousands upon thousands. Men with wives and daughters and babes sleeping blissfully unaware in their bassinets. Boys with mothers and sisters and sweethearts they never had the chance to kiss. Warriors all.
And the greatest mistake a warrior could do was to underestimate his enemy. The Greeks did that yesterday - and they were about to do the same today.
Hector did not believe in the reassurances the aged Archeptolemus gave him of their unmistakable victory. Glancing behind him at the gleaming armor of his Apollonian guard and the glint of steel from the raised spears of a force twenty-five thousand arms strong, Hector believed in something else. He believed in the might of Troy and the unwavering loyalty each of Her sons had for a city that was more than the walls or the streets, but the very heart and soul of the people.
Victory on the battlefield was not decided by crows flying against an endless backdrop of blue. Victory was guaranteed by the men that fought and the men that died.
Looking away, Hector’s gaze was soon on the force opposite them - the Greek army watching them from their defensive trenches, cowed from yesterday’s defeat and wary of another. He closed his eyes for a moment.
There was a signal for archers.
A hushed silence filled the air, the silence that spoke of a time before chaos.
This was their battlefield and blood would once again soak the grounds.
A cheer was heard from the far end of the Greek line, growing steadily louder as the once-listless soldiers raised their weapons to the sky and cried to the heavens.
The Trojans noticed it not, thinking of the lives they would save with the lives they took away.
Hector brought down his arm, sword flashing gold in the light of the sun, and the Trojan army charged, arrows whistling through the air once the archers were close enough. Dozens of men on both sides fell, first blood spilt.
Onwards the Trojans charged, expecting no press of bodies against their own, but a bronzed figure leapt over the trench, golden sword raised to the sky. The cry that came from the army of the Greeks deafened the skies and they too leapt from the trenches, filled with a spirit that was not there before.
Both armies met with a metallic clang of armor against armor and the sickly sound of flesh pierced by swords and spears. Sand beneath sandaled feet was soon damp with blood and soldiers struggled to keep their footing, many a life lost due to a misplaced step. On and on the fighting raged without ceasing and land gained and lost was clearly seen.
No one, least of all the Trojans themselves, expected to be the ones driven back, men falling like wheat to scythes. At the forefront of the Greek army fought Myrmidons, fabled to have been ants turned warriors by the King of gods. These warriors fought with a fury and ferocity never before seen by the defenders of the city.
But the figure that stood out, that put valor into the hearts of the Greeks was the glittering form of Greece’s greatest warrior.
Achilles.
The mighty warrior pressed forward, protected by his loyal Myrmidons and giving courage to the Greeks that still stood.
The Trojan line never faltered but it was pushed backwards steadily, the earlier sense of given victory wavering and all but faded.
Hector fought, unheeding of the intensity with which his opponents found themselves with, caring only for his own.
“My prince! The gods are with them this day! We must fall back!”
He ignored Glaucus’ shout and pressed on, sword slicing off a charging man’s arm and cutting off the head that was still attached. Looking in front of him, he noticed the fierce band of warriors that fought ahead. He noticed their leader, beautiful armor made only by a god’s hands, nimbleness and skill seemingly touched by the gods, as well.
“Achilles,” a murmur for his ears alone.
Hector dug his knees into his horse’s side, cutting a swathe through the forces of the Greeks to reach Achilles and his Myrmidons. His Apollonian guard, meant to protect the Heir of Troy, followed him without hesitation.
In the deep sand, Hector’s mount stumbled and he leapt of its back, running for the glorious form that was the Golden Lion. A Myrmidon stood in his way and with one sword thrust, his way was clear once again. A heartbeat later and both heroes were face to face, blood that was not their own bathing them.
The battle raged on incessantly around them, soldier against soldier for his own life, but every man knew of this meeting between champions.
There was a pause, eyes hidden by the helmets they still wore roving over his opponent’s armored form, and then their battle began.
The clang of sword against sword, the whoosh of air at strikes missed and the muffled sound of their feet on shifting sands.
Hector’s opponent was lighter on his feet, quicker, moving with the speed of one seemingly possessed. Hector danced out of the way of striking gold and parried blows he could not, an infinite well of patience filling him. There was a vague tug of unease as they fought but he brushed it aside, thinking instead of that one chance. That one moment where it would all fall into place.
As the golden sword flashed above him, whistling as it cut through air, Hector saw it.
His blade flew out, a crimson streak against a line of flesh unprotected by a helmet. Blood arched, spurting from the cut throat and the once-shining figure fell.
And while the air still rang with the strike of steel against steel, thousands of men grunting and gasping as they fought with every breath they still had, a despairing wail was almost heard from the Greeks.
Their hero had fallen.
Hector pried the helmet loose from its owner’s head, eyes widening when he took in the youthful features and dimming blue eyes.
This was not Achilles.
A gasping gurgle could be heard from the dying boy’s throat and Hector winced, a disgusted expression flitting over his face as his sword was thrust deep into the trembling, broken body. The sound ceased. As did all fighting, the Trojan army pushed back from the beach and onto the grassy inland plains.
Hector reached out, closing the eyes of the corpse beneath him but knowing the frightened gaze would haunt him always. He started when another Greek soldier, a king, Odysseus, approached.
Eyes narrowed, “Enough?”
Odysseus nodded, eyes on the body lying on the ground.
“Glaucus,” Hector called. “Have them lay down their arms! We return to the city!”
The Ithacan King turned away from the grisly scene long enough to do the same, shouting, “Arms down! Arms down! Return to the camp!”
Both men locked gazes, something unintelligible passed between them. Hector nodded once, Odysseus returning it, before mounting his horse and leading his men back into the city.
As the Trojans marched home, there was no air of jubilation, no sense of defeat, only a tainted presence that not even the sight of Troy’s walls still standing could banish. With every step that took them from the beach, Hector felt the weight on his shoulders grow heavier.
“Brother?”
He ignored Polites’ soft query.
“Brother.”
“Not now.”
The wooden gates swung open, Troy warmly receiving her defenders. A cheer almost rose from the occupants of the city that lined the streets but it petered out, bystanders sensing that something was amiss. The city’s people had seen only snatches of the battle, knew only Her army had returned to fight another day, felt the almost tangible grief and confusion of the Greeks.
Something was amiss.
Hector and his brothers dismounted, bidding the captains and generals to see to their men. He would do the same, in a moment. When he had caught his breath and the world stopped spinning.
“My prince!”
Wearily, he turned to see one of the Apollonian guards he had left with his father approach him. “What is it?”
He did not mean to be terse but there was only so much he could take.
“Hector.”
That voice. He knew that voice, in his dreams, with his eyes shut and the roar of the waves drowning out all else.
Hector looked past the guard staring apprehensively at him and saw ---
brown eyes looking dreamily on at the sky… a light blush tinting smooth cheeks… brown curls spread like a fan on the ground, exposing an elegant neck and the hollow at the base of a slender throat… one hand clutched tight around a posy of narcissus and cradled close to his chest… long slender legs crossed at the ankles… bare feet wiggling his toes now and then
He saw ---
Brown eyes filled with secrets and sadness and unmistakable love, dusty cheeks lined with tear tracks, hands clutched tightly to a tunic too large to be his own, bruises that mottled too pale skin.
All breath was stolen from him and the world stopped spinning to focus on one thing, one person alone.
“Paris.”
His brother’s figure - not a dream or a shade from past this world - flew forward and he opened his arms without second thought, catching the younger man as their bodies met and for the first time in days, it was all made right.
He had slaughtered men in defense of his city, in defense of a woman stolen from her husband, in defense of the future he could still see in his son’s eyes - in defense of the man he cradled in his embrace at this moment, wanting to never let go again.
“You are here,” Hector whispered, calloused, blood-stained hands drifting up and down over his brother’s form, needing more than to know and see but to feel that Paris was truly there, in his arms, holding him as if he would never let go. “You are here. You are here. You are here.”
He said those three words again and again, solidifying the truth of the breath that still came from Paris’ mouth and the wetness that trailed down Paris’ cheeks. “You are here.”
“Yes, Hector. Yes. I am here,” Paris whispered, pulling away to meet his brother’s still disbelieving gaze. “Here to stay.”
“Paris!”
The two finally pulled apart as Deiphobus grabbed Paris and held him tight, “Stupid, stupid, stupid shepherd boy. What were you thinking?”
Paris cracked a weary smile, “I was not.”
Polites shook his head. “That was evident, brother.” He too stepped forward to embrace Paris, as Pammon ruffled his younger brother’s curls with a relieved smile on his lips. Aenas stood close to them, hands resting on his hips as the air of hopelessness that once surrounded them dissipated.
There was a hand on his arm, as always it was Hipponous who steadied him. “Hector. He is safe now.”
Quietly, “It was my fault that he was unsafe in the first place. I should have protected him better.”
Hipponous stepped in front of him to clasp both his arms. “Brother, you did only what you could have. Even you are not all powerful or all knowing.”
“I wish I was. I would be able to protect my loved ones better then,” Hector admitted, taking in the sight of his brothers, a still injured Antiphus present with Troilus and Helenus as they joined the rest of their brothers in welcoming Paris home.
Home.
“He is home,” he repeated, needing to hear the words said just once more.
***
“My son.”
“Father!” Paris cried, running the last few steps into Priam’s embrace, tears of joy running down the aged man’s lined face.
“My boy. My beautiful boy is safe and within these walls.” Priam pulled away to grasp Paris’ face in his hands. “You are blessed by the gods.”
Paris swallowed hard, nodding as he was unable to speak.
“Come, come. Sit.” The King led Paris to seat himself at the table, a worried expression replacing his once-relieved one. “You must be tired and hungry and… Are you hurt? Are you?” Their father glanced at his heir. “Hector, did you bring Paris to the healers?”
Hector could only shake his head, eyes wide as he thought of how careless he had been. “No. I have not. I apologize, Father, I was just so overwhelmed that I did not stop to think. I ---”
He called over a guard. “Quick. Fetch the Healers! Tell them to come with utmost haste.”
“No!”
The room’s occupants, Priam and his sons, their generals and advisors, looked in surprise at the Prince.
“Father, please,” Paris said, softly now. “I am well and whole. I have no injuries so there will be no need to bother the Healers. I am sure they are needed where they are now.”
“How can that be?” Deiphobus asked. “The Greeks are brutes. You expect us to believe that they did not lay a hand on you?”
“What about the bruises you sport?” Polites asked.
“The soldiers but…”
“Who held you captive?”
“Captive? It was…”
“Was it Agamemnon?”
“No. Not really…”
Paris grew more and more uncomfortable with each question, beginning to fidget as his hands tangled themselves in his tunic to keep him from wringing them in unrest.
“Has he touched you inappropriately?”
Paris started, brown eyes on Hector’s unmoving form. “What?”
“Has he touched you in a way unfitting that of a Prince of Troy?” Hector asked, unflinching as he stared at his younger brother.
Almost stuttering, “No. No.” Paris shook his head. “He has not.”
Hector nearly said that he did not believe him - there was something that Paris was hiding - but Priam held up a hand to quiet them all. “Paris must be exhausted. We will ask these questions of him at another time. Let him rest. Give him his peace.”
Priam stepped forward to grasp Paris’ face in his hands once again, brushing a kiss on Paris’ brow. “Rest, my son. Sleep in your bed this eve and know that you are safe in Her bosom.”
Nodding, Paris stood and embraced his father again. “Thank you, Father. I love you.”
“And I love you, Paris. Never forget that. I prayed to all the gods that would listen to bring you home safe.”
“They have answered your prayers,” Paris whispered.
“They have answered all of Troy’s.”
Hector stepped forward, placing a hand on Paris’ arm. “Father, I will take him to his quarters.”
The King of Troy nodded. “Yes, yes. Do that.” He faced the room. “All of you, rest now. We will speak of all that has come to pass when the sun rises again tomorrow. Go home to your families, your beloveds, your children. Be with them.”
As everyone began to leave, Hector steered Paris out of the room and down the torch-lit hallways, shadows dancing on the walls as their footsteps echoed through the corridors. They walked in silence, Paris looking at the floor and his feet, Hector staring straight ahead with his grip on Paris growing tighter and tighter.
“Hector.”
Paris was ignored.
“Hector. You are hurting me.”
Paris frowned and stopped walking, standing his ground when he was pulled forward. “Hector, what is the matter with you?”
“What do you mean what is the matter with me?” Hector hissed. “You were gone for days! Most of Troy, including our family, thought you were killed by the Myrmidons or something far worse by Agamemnon’s vile wishes. Do not ask me what is wrong!”
Paris took a breath, the rhythm of it hitching and faltering. “Hector,” he reached out. “I am safe.”
Hector grabbed Paris’ hand before it could caress his face. “So you say.”
Frowning, “I am safe.”
“Tell me of your capture, your imprisonment. Tell me all.”
“There is nothing to tell.”
“I do not believe you. Tell me.”
“Why does it matter?” Paris cried, tears filling his eyes once again. “I am safe and home. I am here. With you! Why does it matter?”
“Because I thought you were dead!” Hector roared.
“Hector…”
“I thought you were dead and I hoped with everything in me that you were not. I am responsible for the death of thousands and I killed hundreds with my own hands and all I could think of was you.” Hector pulled Paris close, burying his face in the crook of his brother’s, his lover’s neck, and inhaled deeply, the scent that was uniquely Paris filling his nostrils. “All I could think of was you. When I first discovered your capture, I almost charged out of Troy to bring you home. I would have. I would have.”
He pulled away and Paris met his wild eyes. “I would have forsaken Troy for you.”
Paris’ bottom lip trembled as he reached out and this time, his hand caressed Hector’s face.
A whisper, “I did.”
Paris shook his head fiercely. “No! No! You did not. You were fierce and fought for the freedom and safety of our people! You did not forsake Troy. You defended Her! You honored Her!”
“Tell me who touched you.”
And this time, Hector no longer spoke of the Greeks.
“Why?”
“Because I deserve to know.”
Silence drifted between them and Hector recoiled as if burnt.
“Hector…”
He only turned on his heel and strode away, his figure cutting through the dimness bleeding into the light.
“Hector! Hector!” Paris called out, seeming to be rooted to where he stood.
Hector never turned around.
***
The doors slammed closed and Andromache jerked upright, climbing out of bed and wrapping a sheer robe around her. She entered the darkened living quarters, finding no one there. She swiftly made her way to the nursery, her assumption proving right when she found Hector standing beside the bassinet that held their sleeping son. Moonlight filled the small room, bathing father and son in a silvery light.
She said nothing, merely moving close to wrap her arms around his waist and rest her head on his still armored shoulder.
The silence that lay between them was one of understanding, not the awful one that filled the space between two brothers who were more than just family.
“I killed a boy today,” Hector finally said.
Andromache lifted her head.
“He was much too young.”
She pressed a kiss to the nape of his sweaty, bloodied nape - blood not his own.
“He was someone’s son, someone’s brother, someone’s beloved.”
“That is what war does, husband. It kills,” Andromache replied.
“War did not do that.” Hector reached out to stroke his infant son’s plump cheek. “I did. And I alone will pay the price it has wrought.”
Title: Beloved ~ Chapter Forty-six
Author: Sel selene_vidae
Pairing: Apollo/Paris, Hector/Paris
Summary: What if all that we believed to have been true - was not?
Rating: R for mentions of much, much violence.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to history, to myth, to legend. I make absolutely no money from this and live off on my reviewers' love.. *flutters eyelashes prettily* Some dialogue taken directly from film but twisted to suit my needs. Some descriptions taken from the first draft of the movie's screenplay.
Feedback: Help a fellow author out and pretty please comment on this fic...
Previous Chapters: Prologue, Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six, Chapter Seven, Chapter Eight, Chapter Nine, Chapter Ten, Chapter Eleven, Chapter Twelve, Chapter Thirteen, Chapter Fourteen, Chapter Fifteen, Chapter Sixteen, Chapter Seventeen, Chapter Eighteen, Chapter Nineteen, Chapter Twenty, Chapter Twenty-one, Chapter Twenty-two, Chapter Twenty-three, Chapter Twenty-four, Chapter Twenty-five, Chapter Twenty-six, Chapter Twenty-seven, Chapter Twenty-eight, Chapter Twenty-nine, Chapter Thirty, Chapter Thirty-one, Chapter Thirty-two, Chapter Thirty-three, Chapter Thirty-four, Chapter Thirty-five, Chapter Thirty-six, Chapter Thirty-seven, Chapter Thirty-eight, Chapter Thirty-nine, Chapter Forty, Chapter Forty-one, Chapter Forty-two, Chapter Forty-three, Chapter Forty-four, Chapter Forty-five
Manip courtesy of my lovey, punk_pony
Dedicated to all those who have been waiting.
Chapter Forty-six
Hector looked up at the clear sky, a silent prayer on his lips as the sun shined down unfalteringly at the Trojan army, an army of thousands upon thousands. Men with wives and daughters and babes sleeping blissfully unaware in their bassinets. Boys with mothers and sisters and sweethearts they never had the chance to kiss. Warriors all.
And the greatest mistake a warrior could do was to underestimate his enemy. The Greeks did that yesterday - and they were about to do the same today.
Hector did not believe in the reassurances the aged Archeptolemus gave him of their unmistakable victory. Glancing behind him at the gleaming armor of his Apollonian guard and the glint of steel from the raised spears of a force twenty-five thousand arms strong, Hector believed in something else. He believed in the might of Troy and the unwavering loyalty each of Her sons had for a city that was more than the walls or the streets, but the very heart and soul of the people.
Victory on the battlefield was not decided by crows flying against an endless backdrop of blue. Victory was guaranteed by the men that fought and the men that died.
Looking away, Hector’s gaze was soon on the force opposite them - the Greek army watching them from their defensive trenches, cowed from yesterday’s defeat and wary of another. He closed his eyes for a moment.
There was a signal for archers.
A hushed silence filled the air, the silence that spoke of a time before chaos.
This was their battlefield and blood would once again soak the grounds.
A cheer was heard from the far end of the Greek line, growing steadily louder as the once-listless soldiers raised their weapons to the sky and cried to the heavens.
The Trojans noticed it not, thinking of the lives they would save with the lives they took away.
Hector brought down his arm, sword flashing gold in the light of the sun, and the Trojan army charged, arrows whistling through the air once the archers were close enough. Dozens of men on both sides fell, first blood spilt.
Onwards the Trojans charged, expecting no press of bodies against their own, but a bronzed figure leapt over the trench, golden sword raised to the sky. The cry that came from the army of the Greeks deafened the skies and they too leapt from the trenches, filled with a spirit that was not there before.
Both armies met with a metallic clang of armor against armor and the sickly sound of flesh pierced by swords and spears. Sand beneath sandaled feet was soon damp with blood and soldiers struggled to keep their footing, many a life lost due to a misplaced step. On and on the fighting raged without ceasing and land gained and lost was clearly seen.
No one, least of all the Trojans themselves, expected to be the ones driven back, men falling like wheat to scythes. At the forefront of the Greek army fought Myrmidons, fabled to have been ants turned warriors by the King of gods. These warriors fought with a fury and ferocity never before seen by the defenders of the city.
But the figure that stood out, that put valor into the hearts of the Greeks was the glittering form of Greece’s greatest warrior.
Achilles.
The mighty warrior pressed forward, protected by his loyal Myrmidons and giving courage to the Greeks that still stood.
The Trojan line never faltered but it was pushed backwards steadily, the earlier sense of given victory wavering and all but faded.
Hector fought, unheeding of the intensity with which his opponents found themselves with, caring only for his own.
“My prince! The gods are with them this day! We must fall back!”
He ignored Glaucus’ shout and pressed on, sword slicing off a charging man’s arm and cutting off the head that was still attached. Looking in front of him, he noticed the fierce band of warriors that fought ahead. He noticed their leader, beautiful armor made only by a god’s hands, nimbleness and skill seemingly touched by the gods, as well.
“Achilles,” a murmur for his ears alone.
Hector dug his knees into his horse’s side, cutting a swathe through the forces of the Greeks to reach Achilles and his Myrmidons. His Apollonian guard, meant to protect the Heir of Troy, followed him without hesitation.
In the deep sand, Hector’s mount stumbled and he leapt of its back, running for the glorious form that was the Golden Lion. A Myrmidon stood in his way and with one sword thrust, his way was clear once again. A heartbeat later and both heroes were face to face, blood that was not their own bathing them.
The battle raged on incessantly around them, soldier against soldier for his own life, but every man knew of this meeting between champions.
There was a pause, eyes hidden by the helmets they still wore roving over his opponent’s armored form, and then their battle began.
The clang of sword against sword, the whoosh of air at strikes missed and the muffled sound of their feet on shifting sands.
Hector’s opponent was lighter on his feet, quicker, moving with the speed of one seemingly possessed. Hector danced out of the way of striking gold and parried blows he could not, an infinite well of patience filling him. There was a vague tug of unease as they fought but he brushed it aside, thinking instead of that one chance. That one moment where it would all fall into place.
As the golden sword flashed above him, whistling as it cut through air, Hector saw it.
His blade flew out, a crimson streak against a line of flesh unprotected by a helmet. Blood arched, spurting from the cut throat and the once-shining figure fell.
And while the air still rang with the strike of steel against steel, thousands of men grunting and gasping as they fought with every breath they still had, a despairing wail was almost heard from the Greeks.
Their hero had fallen.
Hector pried the helmet loose from its owner’s head, eyes widening when he took in the youthful features and dimming blue eyes.
This was not Achilles.
A gasping gurgle could be heard from the dying boy’s throat and Hector winced, a disgusted expression flitting over his face as his sword was thrust deep into the trembling, broken body. The sound ceased. As did all fighting, the Trojan army pushed back from the beach and onto the grassy inland plains.
Hector reached out, closing the eyes of the corpse beneath him but knowing the frightened gaze would haunt him always. He started when another Greek soldier, a king, Odysseus, approached.
Eyes narrowed, “Enough?”
Odysseus nodded, eyes on the body lying on the ground.
“Glaucus,” Hector called. “Have them lay down their arms! We return to the city!”
The Ithacan King turned away from the grisly scene long enough to do the same, shouting, “Arms down! Arms down! Return to the camp!”
Both men locked gazes, something unintelligible passed between them. Hector nodded once, Odysseus returning it, before mounting his horse and leading his men back into the city.
As the Trojans marched home, there was no air of jubilation, no sense of defeat, only a tainted presence that not even the sight of Troy’s walls still standing could banish. With every step that took them from the beach, Hector felt the weight on his shoulders grow heavier.
“Brother?”
He ignored Polites’ soft query.
“Brother.”
“Not now.”
The wooden gates swung open, Troy warmly receiving her defenders. A cheer almost rose from the occupants of the city that lined the streets but it petered out, bystanders sensing that something was amiss. The city’s people had seen only snatches of the battle, knew only Her army had returned to fight another day, felt the almost tangible grief and confusion of the Greeks.
Something was amiss.
Hector and his brothers dismounted, bidding the captains and generals to see to their men. He would do the same, in a moment. When he had caught his breath and the world stopped spinning.
“My prince!”
Wearily, he turned to see one of the Apollonian guards he had left with his father approach him. “What is it?”
He did not mean to be terse but there was only so much he could take.
“Hector.”
That voice. He knew that voice, in his dreams, with his eyes shut and the roar of the waves drowning out all else.
Hector looked past the guard staring apprehensively at him and saw ---
brown eyes looking dreamily on at the sky… a light blush tinting smooth cheeks… brown curls spread like a fan on the ground, exposing an elegant neck and the hollow at the base of a slender throat… one hand clutched tight around a posy of narcissus and cradled close to his chest… long slender legs crossed at the ankles… bare feet wiggling his toes now and then
He saw ---
Brown eyes filled with secrets and sadness and unmistakable love, dusty cheeks lined with tear tracks, hands clutched tightly to a tunic too large to be his own, bruises that mottled too pale skin.
All breath was stolen from him and the world stopped spinning to focus on one thing, one person alone.
“Paris.”
His brother’s figure - not a dream or a shade from past this world - flew forward and he opened his arms without second thought, catching the younger man as their bodies met and for the first time in days, it was all made right.
He had slaughtered men in defense of his city, in defense of a woman stolen from her husband, in defense of the future he could still see in his son’s eyes - in defense of the man he cradled in his embrace at this moment, wanting to never let go again.
“You are here,” Hector whispered, calloused, blood-stained hands drifting up and down over his brother’s form, needing more than to know and see but to feel that Paris was truly there, in his arms, holding him as if he would never let go. “You are here. You are here. You are here.”
He said those three words again and again, solidifying the truth of the breath that still came from Paris’ mouth and the wetness that trailed down Paris’ cheeks. “You are here.”
“Yes, Hector. Yes. I am here,” Paris whispered, pulling away to meet his brother’s still disbelieving gaze. “Here to stay.”
“Paris!”
The two finally pulled apart as Deiphobus grabbed Paris and held him tight, “Stupid, stupid, stupid shepherd boy. What were you thinking?”
Paris cracked a weary smile, “I was not.”
Polites shook his head. “That was evident, brother.” He too stepped forward to embrace Paris, as Pammon ruffled his younger brother’s curls with a relieved smile on his lips. Aenas stood close to them, hands resting on his hips as the air of hopelessness that once surrounded them dissipated.
There was a hand on his arm, as always it was Hipponous who steadied him. “Hector. He is safe now.”
Quietly, “It was my fault that he was unsafe in the first place. I should have protected him better.”
Hipponous stepped in front of him to clasp both his arms. “Brother, you did only what you could have. Even you are not all powerful or all knowing.”
“I wish I was. I would be able to protect my loved ones better then,” Hector admitted, taking in the sight of his brothers, a still injured Antiphus present with Troilus and Helenus as they joined the rest of their brothers in welcoming Paris home.
Home.
“He is home,” he repeated, needing to hear the words said just once more.
***
“My son.”
“Father!” Paris cried, running the last few steps into Priam’s embrace, tears of joy running down the aged man’s lined face.
“My boy. My beautiful boy is safe and within these walls.” Priam pulled away to grasp Paris’ face in his hands. “You are blessed by the gods.”
Paris swallowed hard, nodding as he was unable to speak.
“Come, come. Sit.” The King led Paris to seat himself at the table, a worried expression replacing his once-relieved one. “You must be tired and hungry and… Are you hurt? Are you?” Their father glanced at his heir. “Hector, did you bring Paris to the healers?”
Hector could only shake his head, eyes wide as he thought of how careless he had been. “No. I have not. I apologize, Father, I was just so overwhelmed that I did not stop to think. I ---”
He called over a guard. “Quick. Fetch the Healers! Tell them to come with utmost haste.”
“No!”
The room’s occupants, Priam and his sons, their generals and advisors, looked in surprise at the Prince.
“Father, please,” Paris said, softly now. “I am well and whole. I have no injuries so there will be no need to bother the Healers. I am sure they are needed where they are now.”
“How can that be?” Deiphobus asked. “The Greeks are brutes. You expect us to believe that they did not lay a hand on you?”
“What about the bruises you sport?” Polites asked.
“The soldiers but…”
“Who held you captive?”
“Captive? It was…”
“Was it Agamemnon?”
“No. Not really…”
Paris grew more and more uncomfortable with each question, beginning to fidget as his hands tangled themselves in his tunic to keep him from wringing them in unrest.
“Has he touched you inappropriately?”
Paris started, brown eyes on Hector’s unmoving form. “What?”
“Has he touched you in a way unfitting that of a Prince of Troy?” Hector asked, unflinching as he stared at his younger brother.
Almost stuttering, “No. No.” Paris shook his head. “He has not.”
Hector nearly said that he did not believe him - there was something that Paris was hiding - but Priam held up a hand to quiet them all. “Paris must be exhausted. We will ask these questions of him at another time. Let him rest. Give him his peace.”
Priam stepped forward to grasp Paris’ face in his hands once again, brushing a kiss on Paris’ brow. “Rest, my son. Sleep in your bed this eve and know that you are safe in Her bosom.”
Nodding, Paris stood and embraced his father again. “Thank you, Father. I love you.”
“And I love you, Paris. Never forget that. I prayed to all the gods that would listen to bring you home safe.”
“They have answered your prayers,” Paris whispered.
“They have answered all of Troy’s.”
Hector stepped forward, placing a hand on Paris’ arm. “Father, I will take him to his quarters.”
The King of Troy nodded. “Yes, yes. Do that.” He faced the room. “All of you, rest now. We will speak of all that has come to pass when the sun rises again tomorrow. Go home to your families, your beloveds, your children. Be with them.”
As everyone began to leave, Hector steered Paris out of the room and down the torch-lit hallways, shadows dancing on the walls as their footsteps echoed through the corridors. They walked in silence, Paris looking at the floor and his feet, Hector staring straight ahead with his grip on Paris growing tighter and tighter.
“Hector.”
Paris was ignored.
“Hector. You are hurting me.”
Paris frowned and stopped walking, standing his ground when he was pulled forward. “Hector, what is the matter with you?”
“What do you mean what is the matter with me?” Hector hissed. “You were gone for days! Most of Troy, including our family, thought you were killed by the Myrmidons or something far worse by Agamemnon’s vile wishes. Do not ask me what is wrong!”
Paris took a breath, the rhythm of it hitching and faltering. “Hector,” he reached out. “I am safe.”
Hector grabbed Paris’ hand before it could caress his face. “So you say.”
Frowning, “I am safe.”
“Tell me of your capture, your imprisonment. Tell me all.”
“There is nothing to tell.”
“I do not believe you. Tell me.”
“Why does it matter?” Paris cried, tears filling his eyes once again. “I am safe and home. I am here. With you! Why does it matter?”
“Because I thought you were dead!” Hector roared.
“Hector…”
“I thought you were dead and I hoped with everything in me that you were not. I am responsible for the death of thousands and I killed hundreds with my own hands and all I could think of was you.” Hector pulled Paris close, burying his face in the crook of his brother’s, his lover’s neck, and inhaled deeply, the scent that was uniquely Paris filling his nostrils. “All I could think of was you. When I first discovered your capture, I almost charged out of Troy to bring you home. I would have. I would have.”
He pulled away and Paris met his wild eyes. “I would have forsaken Troy for you.”
Paris’ bottom lip trembled as he reached out and this time, his hand caressed Hector’s face.
A whisper, “I did.”
Paris shook his head fiercely. “No! No! You did not. You were fierce and fought for the freedom and safety of our people! You did not forsake Troy. You defended Her! You honored Her!”
“Tell me who touched you.”
And this time, Hector no longer spoke of the Greeks.
“Why?”
“Because I deserve to know.”
Silence drifted between them and Hector recoiled as if burnt.
“Hector…”
He only turned on his heel and strode away, his figure cutting through the dimness bleeding into the light.
“Hector! Hector!” Paris called out, seeming to be rooted to where he stood.
Hector never turned around.
***
The doors slammed closed and Andromache jerked upright, climbing out of bed and wrapping a sheer robe around her. She entered the darkened living quarters, finding no one there. She swiftly made her way to the nursery, her assumption proving right when she found Hector standing beside the bassinet that held their sleeping son. Moonlight filled the small room, bathing father and son in a silvery light.
She said nothing, merely moving close to wrap her arms around his waist and rest her head on his still armored shoulder.
The silence that lay between them was one of understanding, not the awful one that filled the space between two brothers who were more than just family.
“I killed a boy today,” Hector finally said.
Andromache lifted her head.
“He was much too young.”
She pressed a kiss to the nape of his sweaty, bloodied nape - blood not his own.
“He was someone’s son, someone’s brother, someone’s beloved.”
“That is what war does, husband. It kills,” Andromache replied.
“War did not do that.” Hector reached out to stroke his infant son’s plump cheek. “I did. And I alone will pay the price it has wrought.”