*hands out tissue*
My only warning? Everyone knows how The Iliad ends.
Title: Beloved ~ Chapter Forty-seven
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, Chapter Forty-six
Manip courtesy of my lovey, punk_pony
Dedicated to all those who have been waiting.
Chapter Forty-seven
There was an unwavering rhythm.
An arrow drawn from a quiver, notched and a string pulled back, released and flying through the air till it hit its intended target. Again and again and again, the archer not faltering once, despite the fact that he had been there all night.
Helen watched Paris shoot arrow after arrow, noticing the way his arms trembled from the strain. Unable to watch anymore, she walked to him and laid a hand on his arm, whispering, “Enough.”
Paris’ gaze was on the target, already riddled with arrows, string pulled back and arm taut. He finally breathed out and laid the bow to rest, hanging his head.
Once closer, she embraced him, able to feel his heart thudding in his chest. They stood there for who knew how long, steadying one another, keeping each other standing.
Afterwards, Helen said quietly, “I am glad you are safe.”
“Did you pray for my safety, as well?”
She shook her head, a bitter smile on her lovely countenance. “The gods will not listen to my prayers, but I hoped all the same.”
Paris returned his smile with a mirthless one of his own.
“Is there a reason for this?”
“For what?”
She waved towards the target. “For your slaying of a defenseless object that has done nothing to you.”
Ordinarily, her trying to make light of the situation would have worked but Paris only pulled away to walk towards the target, pulling out the arrows one by one.
“Paris? Did I upset you?”
He sighed and shook his head.
“Does this have anything to do with Hector?” she asked. At Paris’ pause, she knew. Helen sat on a stone bench and continued to watch him. “He was frantic with worry when he discovered you missing.”
“He told me.”
“Did he also tell you of the haunted look in his eyes? The one that did not leave until he saw you again, I would guess.”
Softly, “No.”
“Did he tell you of how your brothers banded together after your capture? Of how Antiphus fought with Menelaus for your safety, even if everyone knew the Greeks would not honor their pact?”
Softer still, “No.”
“Did he tell you that he loved you the moment he saw you again?”
Paris glanced at her. “He did not have to.”
“Then why do you stand here and practice a skill that is second nature to you when you could be with him?”
Sighing once again, “We fought.”
“About?”
“I would not tell him of my capture.” He would not tell Hector of other things, as well. Some things were too difficult to tell.
“Why not?” Helen asked, frowning. “Does he not deserve to know?”
“He does.”
“Then why not tell him?”
“Because I have failed him.” Paris’ anguished eyes were on hers. “And I do not want him to know that.”
“He thinks he has failed you.”
“Never!” Paris protested. “He could never fail me.”
“And why not?” she challenged, standing when he came closer, green eyes flashing.
“Because I love him! No matter what he does or what he has done, he would never fail me!”
She raised an eyebrow and nodded. Paris’ eyes widened before drifting shut. “I have been a fool.”
“It is not too late ---”
Both their heads jerked up when they heard the sentry call out.
A lone chariot approached.
***
Andromache held Astyanax in her arms, cradling him close as she looked on at her armored husband, the babe in her arms squirming in fright at the fearsome warrior that stood before them.
“Do not go,” she pleaded. “Please, I beg you. I had a dream last night. It was not a good dream. I do not know what I would do if I lost you.”
“Andromache, I must.”
“HECTOR!”
He smiled tightly. “Do you hear that? My opponent calls me out. I cannot leave him waiting.”
She could only watch with tears brimming in her eyes as he took off his helmet to place a kiss on Astyanax’s head, Astanyax happy once he recognized his father. Hector took him from Andromache’s arms, holding his son’s hand in his own and the child curling his own little hand around his father’s finger.
“You will make me proud,” Hector whispered. “You will be a worthy King of Troy. My only regret is that I will not see you become one.”
Astanyax only giggled, making smacking noises with his lips, Andromache stifling the sobs that threatened to overwhelm her as he handed the infant back to her.
Hector looked at Andromache intently, eyes speaking of his vast love for her, saying all he already did, all he could not and would never get the chance to. Andromache gazed back unflinchingly, shadows under her red-rimmed eyes, her gaze speaking of her steadfast love and unchanging devotion, needing no words to tell him that he was and would always be her greatest and only love.
Their lips met in firm press of mouth against mouth, Hector the one to pull away.
He walked to Priam, the father who raised him, the King who taught him to be the man he was now.
“HECTOR!” came another of Achilles’ yells.
Hector kneeled before his father’s standing figure and pressed a reverent kiss to the hand that signified the strength and might of Troy. He looked into the blue eyes filled with grief and resignation and the fierce pride that only a father could have for his son.
“Forgive any offense I might have done. I served you as best as I could. Everything I am I owe to you.”
Priam had him stand, cupping his face in his hands and pressing a kiss to his son’s forehead. “May the gods be with you.”
Hector nodded and bowed deeply before walking away, pausing when his father called out to him. He turned ---
“No father could ask for a better son.”
Head held high, Hector only bowed again, his father’s words touching him deeply.
Glaucus approached him, the older man the one to bow now. “It was an honor to serve you, my Prince. May Apollo guard you.” Hector clapped the general’s shoulder and kept walking, his brothers coming to stand before him.
“HECTOR!” Achilles bellowed again.
Priam’s sons said nothing, merely gazing at their eldest brother. As one, they saluted Hector, closed fists pressed against their hearts as they bowed.
“Defend Troy till your last breath. Honor Her till the last beat of your heart. Love Her in this life and in the next.” Hector said, head turning as he met each of their eyes.
One last nod and he made his way to where his mother and sisters sat, kneeling before his mother as he did with Priam.
She cupped his face tenderly, “My first born. My Champion. My Hector.”
“Mother,” was his reverent whisper, eyes drifting shut as her lips were pressed against the crown of his head. The smell of roses wafted over him as he stood, facing his sisters.
“Women and daughters of Troy, your faces are engraved in the flesh of my heart.” He turned away before he could see them weep.
As he made his way to the stairs that led to the city gates, Cassandra stood before him, pressing something into his hand. “Brother.”
“Sister.”
“Apollo has not abandoned you like he has done me. Until your last breath and beyond it, Troy is yours.”
Hector smiled and pressed a kiss against the apple of each cheek, nodding to Melina and walking down the shadowed stairwell. Each footstep seemed to strike in counterpoint with the beat of his heart and the faces of his loved ones blurred together until one image stood out.
Only one.
Hector froze at the bottom of the steps, hand placed against the wall to steady himself, fighting the rising tide of grief that echoed through every part of him.
He was not there.
Taking a deep breath, he continued on his way, one step after the other, seeing the gatemen begin to pull at the chains that opened the massive city gates. He could see out onto the field now, Greeks lining the dunes like spectators at an amphitheater.
The gates were nearly open ---
Hector turned slowly, feeling someone’s gaze on his back.
Paris stood behind him, beautiful despite the tunic that did not fit him and the bruises that adorned his skin, beautiful because Paris was beautiful and he knew it the moment he saw his brother’s sleeping form in the bassinet.
He stood unmoving, watching as each step Paris took brought him closer and closer till they stood face-to-face, hardly a breath of space between them. They did not touch but that did not matter, Hector could feel every touch that Paris had ever bestowed him, every caress, every embrace, every heated press of lips against burnished skin.
There were no words to fill this moment, nothing to say that would make things right because things were right, no matter what was unsaid or unmentioned.
“HECTOR!”
Paris lifted his hands, palm up, Hector doing the same till they met, fingers intertwining together.
We belong to one another.
Hector leaned forward till their lips met, moving in a dance they knew as intimately as one knew how to breathe.
Time did nothing - it not stop. The Heavens did not grant them a miracle, no hours stretched in that one moment. It was over too soon, too quickly. But as brief as it was, Hector never felt more complete.
“HECTOR!”
Paris’ eyes were clear when their hands disentangled, taking Hector’s helmet in his hands and placing it carefully on his brother’s head, fitting it till it was worn well.
“HECTOR!”
Hector bowed to Paris and walked through the now-open city gates, not looking back once.
Behind him, Paris’ lips moved but no sound came forth.
I love you.
***
Paris made his way to the top of the walls, ignoring everyone else, eyes intent on the battlefield below. He stood at edge of the walls, hands gripping tight enough that his knuckles turned white from the strain.
There was nothing but silence from both sides, every Trojan standing at the fortifications and watching their Champion, every Greek standing at the crest of dunes and watching their Champion.
And there stood Hector and Achilles facing one another, exchanging words. He knew what his brother was saying, asking for an honorable burial for the one that fell. He knew what Achilles was saying, denying even that.
Deep inside him, he knew.
Achilles tossed aside his helmet, a sneer on the handsome face. Hector paused a moment before doing the same.
They drew their swords and it began.
Every man, woman and child knew that this fight would be remembered forever, and its ramifications felt years after it had ended. No King that stood atop the Trojan walls or on blood-stained sands would be able to say that there was any moment greater than this.
Paris watched, eyes not missing a single swing or thrust, sparks flying as swords collided with shields. He had never seen fighting of this nature and with his heart thudding painfully inside him, he knew. This one fight was what every other fight, every death, every arms practice or training had led to. He could feel the charge in the air, see the way everything changed with each blow exchanged and countered.
It was painful to watch, Paris’ hand fisted so tightly his nails broke skin and blood filled his clenched hand.
It was beautiful to watch, Paris drawn by the sheer deathly power the two warriors displayed on the field below.
There was not one single wasted movement, no time for embellishments or intricate motions meant to bedazzle. It was fierce and deadly, one strike leading to another and the exchange of blows so swift that one could hardly see it.
Inside him, a knot grew tighter and tighter, something within him winding till he was afraid he would burst apart at the seams. Still, he could not look away from the scene - Achilles almost skewered but no, it was Hector held in place and the golden sword swinging with a hiss of air that Hector avoided at the last possible moment.
Paris’ heart beat, must have beat, in time with Hector’s.
Another exchange of blows, Achilles pressing his advantage as Hector fought him off and one strike that stripped a line of bronze from Achilles’ armor.
Only bronze!
Paris clenched his hands tighter, blood trickling down the edge of the wall, when Achilles’ and Hector’s swords met, frozen in an intimate tableau of life and death.
For a moment all was still, Paris able to hear Andromache’s ragged gasps from where she sat against the wall, unable to look, holding Astyanax tightly, who only cooed and played with his mother’s hair.
In the next moment, Paris felt his stomach plummet when Hector fell, Paris’ eyes wide and a scream logged somewhere in his throat. To his surprise, Achilles stepped back and waited for Hector to retrieve his weapon.
He shook his head.
No. It was no act of honor, but one of pride. Achilles knew no honor.
Paris leaned closer, murmurs from behind him speaking of their worry he might topple over, but did they honestly think he cared?
Hector was tiring. He knew it, and his brother knew it. Hector had enough strength for one last try, one last chance for his life. One.
Paris began to pray. Not for himself, but for his father and his mother - they could not watch their oldest son die. For his brothers and sisters - all they knew of strength came from Hector and Hector could not fall. For Andromache - she who gave her life to him and who knew no other love but that of her husband’s. For Astyanax - a child who needed his father to see him grow, see him laugh, see him fall in love and marry, see him become the man his own father was.
He prayed as they fought, Hector moving in a burst of explosive fury that left all breathless, sword striking, striking and striking, all of Hector’s strength and spirit and unquestionable valor placed in this one final barrage.
And after this assault, Achilles still stood, unmoving as the statues of the temples that filled the city, uncaring, unheeding, silent. It was Achilles’ turn to bear in, Hector blocking each downward swing of his enemy’s sword - by the gods, how much did he have left?
Another glint of gold, one he would see every time he closed his eyes and succumbed to a darkness that was not absolute no matter how he wished it to be. A bronze shield raised and he knew there were seven layers of the toughest oxhide cured by brine, bronze heated at the forge and hammered until it took the form of his brother’s shield and armor ---
His brother’s heart, beating steady and without falter, Paris’ head pillowed on his chest as he listened to the unfailing rhythm with a smile on his lips ---
Achilles’ sword pierced it all.
There was nothing that could have prepared them for it. Nothing. Priam stood suddenly, clutching his heart as if he received the blow, staggering backwards until Hipponous caught his aged father, tears running down the stoic warrior’s face.
A crow circled lazily above them.
There was a shrill scream, ringing through the empty space and rising till it reached the high noon sky. Hecuba fainted, Ilione’s arms around her mother’s slack form as she shook with suppressed sobs.
The sun continued to beat down mercilessly.
By a battlement, Cassandra stood, unseeing brown eyes not on the horrific scene of her brother’s death but elsewhere, past the Aegean Sea filling the horizon and the flames that licked at Troy’s crumbling walls. She saw it all before and now she would see it all again.
Hector looked into cold blue eyes.
The crowds of Troy groaned aloud and Andromache shut her eyes, clapping her hands over her hears and shaking her head unceasingly, whispering a steady stream of no, no, no, no, no. Astyanax glanced at his mother in confusion, little hands patting her face.
Achilles pulled out his bloody sword and walked to his chariot.
There was a faint buzzing in Hector’s ears. Dazedly, he lifted an arm to swat away at some irritating insect but found not the strength to do it. The sun was blinding him, heat competing with the cold that crept slowly, from his feet upwards, creeping upwards. Tired. He was so tired. He needed to rest, just rest but no, he could not. No, no. No resting. He looked up at the sun and saw Paris. Dry, chapped lips tried to form three words but Paris said it first.
He closed his eyes.
All of Troy could only watch as Achilles tied a rope around Hector’s feet and secured it to the back of his chariot, Creusa moaning low in her throat as the warrior hopped on and cracked the reins, her brother’s body dragged behind in the dust. Aenas stood stiffly, clutching her and their son close to him.
Troy’s defender was desecrated.
Deiphobus strode forward, hissing, “Bastard. I will show him honor!” He turned on his heel and made for the stairs, his brothers not hesitating once as they followed. Antiphus clutched a sword in his hands, eyes bright and glassy. Polites and Pammon, at first all but leaning on one another, but now moving determinedly on their older brothers’ heels, Troilus close behind as he thought of nothing but vengeance.
“No!”
They turned to see Priam all but lying on the floor of the Royal Pavilion with the blue canopy overhead flapping in a stiff wind, Hipponous kneeling beside him and Glaucus standing close. “I will lose no more sons this day,” the broken man whispered.
Muffled sobbing could be heard from where Laodice embraced Helenus, refusing to look as Achilles abused their brother’s body. Helen stepped out of the shadows to kneel beside Andromache, smoothing tangled hair and caressing tear-stained cheeks. She took Astyanax and helped the distraught woman to stand, not once looking over the walls as they made their way back to the palace.
Everyone began to leave, any weeping fading and lost to the winds as their eyes looked at anything other than the blood staining the ground where Hector, Tamer of Horses, died.
Paris never looked away.
Title: Beloved ~ Chapter Forty-seven
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, Chapter Forty-six
Manip courtesy of my lovey, punk_pony
Dedicated to all those who have been waiting.
Chapter Forty-seven
There was an unwavering rhythm.
An arrow drawn from a quiver, notched and a string pulled back, released and flying through the air till it hit its intended target. Again and again and again, the archer not faltering once, despite the fact that he had been there all night.
Helen watched Paris shoot arrow after arrow, noticing the way his arms trembled from the strain. Unable to watch anymore, she walked to him and laid a hand on his arm, whispering, “Enough.”
Paris’ gaze was on the target, already riddled with arrows, string pulled back and arm taut. He finally breathed out and laid the bow to rest, hanging his head.
Once closer, she embraced him, able to feel his heart thudding in his chest. They stood there for who knew how long, steadying one another, keeping each other standing.
Afterwards, Helen said quietly, “I am glad you are safe.”
“Did you pray for my safety, as well?”
She shook her head, a bitter smile on her lovely countenance. “The gods will not listen to my prayers, but I hoped all the same.”
Paris returned his smile with a mirthless one of his own.
“Is there a reason for this?”
“For what?”
She waved towards the target. “For your slaying of a defenseless object that has done nothing to you.”
Ordinarily, her trying to make light of the situation would have worked but Paris only pulled away to walk towards the target, pulling out the arrows one by one.
“Paris? Did I upset you?”
He sighed and shook his head.
“Does this have anything to do with Hector?” she asked. At Paris’ pause, she knew. Helen sat on a stone bench and continued to watch him. “He was frantic with worry when he discovered you missing.”
“He told me.”
“Did he also tell you of the haunted look in his eyes? The one that did not leave until he saw you again, I would guess.”
Softly, “No.”
“Did he tell you of how your brothers banded together after your capture? Of how Antiphus fought with Menelaus for your safety, even if everyone knew the Greeks would not honor their pact?”
Softer still, “No.”
“Did he tell you that he loved you the moment he saw you again?”
Paris glanced at her. “He did not have to.”
“Then why do you stand here and practice a skill that is second nature to you when you could be with him?”
Sighing once again, “We fought.”
“About?”
“I would not tell him of my capture.” He would not tell Hector of other things, as well. Some things were too difficult to tell.
“Why not?” Helen asked, frowning. “Does he not deserve to know?”
“He does.”
“Then why not tell him?”
“Because I have failed him.” Paris’ anguished eyes were on hers. “And I do not want him to know that.”
“He thinks he has failed you.”
“Never!” Paris protested. “He could never fail me.”
“And why not?” she challenged, standing when he came closer, green eyes flashing.
“Because I love him! No matter what he does or what he has done, he would never fail me!”
She raised an eyebrow and nodded. Paris’ eyes widened before drifting shut. “I have been a fool.”
“It is not too late ---”
Both their heads jerked up when they heard the sentry call out.
A lone chariot approached.
***
Andromache held Astyanax in her arms, cradling him close as she looked on at her armored husband, the babe in her arms squirming in fright at the fearsome warrior that stood before them.
“Do not go,” she pleaded. “Please, I beg you. I had a dream last night. It was not a good dream. I do not know what I would do if I lost you.”
“Andromache, I must.”
“HECTOR!”
He smiled tightly. “Do you hear that? My opponent calls me out. I cannot leave him waiting.”
She could only watch with tears brimming in her eyes as he took off his helmet to place a kiss on Astyanax’s head, Astanyax happy once he recognized his father. Hector took him from Andromache’s arms, holding his son’s hand in his own and the child curling his own little hand around his father’s finger.
“You will make me proud,” Hector whispered. “You will be a worthy King of Troy. My only regret is that I will not see you become one.”
Astanyax only giggled, making smacking noises with his lips, Andromache stifling the sobs that threatened to overwhelm her as he handed the infant back to her.
Hector looked at Andromache intently, eyes speaking of his vast love for her, saying all he already did, all he could not and would never get the chance to. Andromache gazed back unflinchingly, shadows under her red-rimmed eyes, her gaze speaking of her steadfast love and unchanging devotion, needing no words to tell him that he was and would always be her greatest and only love.
Their lips met in firm press of mouth against mouth, Hector the one to pull away.
He walked to Priam, the father who raised him, the King who taught him to be the man he was now.
“HECTOR!” came another of Achilles’ yells.
Hector kneeled before his father’s standing figure and pressed a reverent kiss to the hand that signified the strength and might of Troy. He looked into the blue eyes filled with grief and resignation and the fierce pride that only a father could have for his son.
“Forgive any offense I might have done. I served you as best as I could. Everything I am I owe to you.”
Priam had him stand, cupping his face in his hands and pressing a kiss to his son’s forehead. “May the gods be with you.”
Hector nodded and bowed deeply before walking away, pausing when his father called out to him. He turned ---
“No father could ask for a better son.”
Head held high, Hector only bowed again, his father’s words touching him deeply.
Glaucus approached him, the older man the one to bow now. “It was an honor to serve you, my Prince. May Apollo guard you.” Hector clapped the general’s shoulder and kept walking, his brothers coming to stand before him.
“HECTOR!” Achilles bellowed again.
Priam’s sons said nothing, merely gazing at their eldest brother. As one, they saluted Hector, closed fists pressed against their hearts as they bowed.
“Defend Troy till your last breath. Honor Her till the last beat of your heart. Love Her in this life and in the next.” Hector said, head turning as he met each of their eyes.
One last nod and he made his way to where his mother and sisters sat, kneeling before his mother as he did with Priam.
She cupped his face tenderly, “My first born. My Champion. My Hector.”
“Mother,” was his reverent whisper, eyes drifting shut as her lips were pressed against the crown of his head. The smell of roses wafted over him as he stood, facing his sisters.
“Women and daughters of Troy, your faces are engraved in the flesh of my heart.” He turned away before he could see them weep.
As he made his way to the stairs that led to the city gates, Cassandra stood before him, pressing something into his hand. “Brother.”
“Sister.”
“Apollo has not abandoned you like he has done me. Until your last breath and beyond it, Troy is yours.”
Hector smiled and pressed a kiss against the apple of each cheek, nodding to Melina and walking down the shadowed stairwell. Each footstep seemed to strike in counterpoint with the beat of his heart and the faces of his loved ones blurred together until one image stood out.
Only one.
Hector froze at the bottom of the steps, hand placed against the wall to steady himself, fighting the rising tide of grief that echoed through every part of him.
He was not there.
Taking a deep breath, he continued on his way, one step after the other, seeing the gatemen begin to pull at the chains that opened the massive city gates. He could see out onto the field now, Greeks lining the dunes like spectators at an amphitheater.
The gates were nearly open ---
Hector turned slowly, feeling someone’s gaze on his back.
Paris stood behind him, beautiful despite the tunic that did not fit him and the bruises that adorned his skin, beautiful because Paris was beautiful and he knew it the moment he saw his brother’s sleeping form in the bassinet.
He stood unmoving, watching as each step Paris took brought him closer and closer till they stood face-to-face, hardly a breath of space between them. They did not touch but that did not matter, Hector could feel every touch that Paris had ever bestowed him, every caress, every embrace, every heated press of lips against burnished skin.
There were no words to fill this moment, nothing to say that would make things right because things were right, no matter what was unsaid or unmentioned.
“HECTOR!”
Paris lifted his hands, palm up, Hector doing the same till they met, fingers intertwining together.
We belong to one another.
Hector leaned forward till their lips met, moving in a dance they knew as intimately as one knew how to breathe.
Time did nothing - it not stop. The Heavens did not grant them a miracle, no hours stretched in that one moment. It was over too soon, too quickly. But as brief as it was, Hector never felt more complete.
“HECTOR!”
Paris’ eyes were clear when their hands disentangled, taking Hector’s helmet in his hands and placing it carefully on his brother’s head, fitting it till it was worn well.
“HECTOR!”
Hector bowed to Paris and walked through the now-open city gates, not looking back once.
Behind him, Paris’ lips moved but no sound came forth.
I love you.
***
Paris made his way to the top of the walls, ignoring everyone else, eyes intent on the battlefield below. He stood at edge of the walls, hands gripping tight enough that his knuckles turned white from the strain.
There was nothing but silence from both sides, every Trojan standing at the fortifications and watching their Champion, every Greek standing at the crest of dunes and watching their Champion.
And there stood Hector and Achilles facing one another, exchanging words. He knew what his brother was saying, asking for an honorable burial for the one that fell. He knew what Achilles was saying, denying even that.
Deep inside him, he knew.
Achilles tossed aside his helmet, a sneer on the handsome face. Hector paused a moment before doing the same.
They drew their swords and it began.
Every man, woman and child knew that this fight would be remembered forever, and its ramifications felt years after it had ended. No King that stood atop the Trojan walls or on blood-stained sands would be able to say that there was any moment greater than this.
Paris watched, eyes not missing a single swing or thrust, sparks flying as swords collided with shields. He had never seen fighting of this nature and with his heart thudding painfully inside him, he knew. This one fight was what every other fight, every death, every arms practice or training had led to. He could feel the charge in the air, see the way everything changed with each blow exchanged and countered.
It was painful to watch, Paris’ hand fisted so tightly his nails broke skin and blood filled his clenched hand.
It was beautiful to watch, Paris drawn by the sheer deathly power the two warriors displayed on the field below.
There was not one single wasted movement, no time for embellishments or intricate motions meant to bedazzle. It was fierce and deadly, one strike leading to another and the exchange of blows so swift that one could hardly see it.
Inside him, a knot grew tighter and tighter, something within him winding till he was afraid he would burst apart at the seams. Still, he could not look away from the scene - Achilles almost skewered but no, it was Hector held in place and the golden sword swinging with a hiss of air that Hector avoided at the last possible moment.
Paris’ heart beat, must have beat, in time with Hector’s.
Another exchange of blows, Achilles pressing his advantage as Hector fought him off and one strike that stripped a line of bronze from Achilles’ armor.
Only bronze!
Paris clenched his hands tighter, blood trickling down the edge of the wall, when Achilles’ and Hector’s swords met, frozen in an intimate tableau of life and death.
For a moment all was still, Paris able to hear Andromache’s ragged gasps from where she sat against the wall, unable to look, holding Astyanax tightly, who only cooed and played with his mother’s hair.
In the next moment, Paris felt his stomach plummet when Hector fell, Paris’ eyes wide and a scream logged somewhere in his throat. To his surprise, Achilles stepped back and waited for Hector to retrieve his weapon.
He shook his head.
No. It was no act of honor, but one of pride. Achilles knew no honor.
Paris leaned closer, murmurs from behind him speaking of their worry he might topple over, but did they honestly think he cared?
Hector was tiring. He knew it, and his brother knew it. Hector had enough strength for one last try, one last chance for his life. One.
Paris began to pray. Not for himself, but for his father and his mother - they could not watch their oldest son die. For his brothers and sisters - all they knew of strength came from Hector and Hector could not fall. For Andromache - she who gave her life to him and who knew no other love but that of her husband’s. For Astyanax - a child who needed his father to see him grow, see him laugh, see him fall in love and marry, see him become the man his own father was.
He prayed as they fought, Hector moving in a burst of explosive fury that left all breathless, sword striking, striking and striking, all of Hector’s strength and spirit and unquestionable valor placed in this one final barrage.
And after this assault, Achilles still stood, unmoving as the statues of the temples that filled the city, uncaring, unheeding, silent. It was Achilles’ turn to bear in, Hector blocking each downward swing of his enemy’s sword - by the gods, how much did he have left?
Another glint of gold, one he would see every time he closed his eyes and succumbed to a darkness that was not absolute no matter how he wished it to be. A bronze shield raised and he knew there were seven layers of the toughest oxhide cured by brine, bronze heated at the forge and hammered until it took the form of his brother’s shield and armor ---
His brother’s heart, beating steady and without falter, Paris’ head pillowed on his chest as he listened to the unfailing rhythm with a smile on his lips ---
Achilles’ sword pierced it all.
There was nothing that could have prepared them for it. Nothing. Priam stood suddenly, clutching his heart as if he received the blow, staggering backwards until Hipponous caught his aged father, tears running down the stoic warrior’s face.
A crow circled lazily above them.
There was a shrill scream, ringing through the empty space and rising till it reached the high noon sky. Hecuba fainted, Ilione’s arms around her mother’s slack form as she shook with suppressed sobs.
The sun continued to beat down mercilessly.
By a battlement, Cassandra stood, unseeing brown eyes not on the horrific scene of her brother’s death but elsewhere, past the Aegean Sea filling the horizon and the flames that licked at Troy’s crumbling walls. She saw it all before and now she would see it all again.
Hector looked into cold blue eyes.
The crowds of Troy groaned aloud and Andromache shut her eyes, clapping her hands over her hears and shaking her head unceasingly, whispering a steady stream of no, no, no, no, no. Astyanax glanced at his mother in confusion, little hands patting her face.
Achilles pulled out his bloody sword and walked to his chariot.
There was a faint buzzing in Hector’s ears. Dazedly, he lifted an arm to swat away at some irritating insect but found not the strength to do it. The sun was blinding him, heat competing with the cold that crept slowly, from his feet upwards, creeping upwards. Tired. He was so tired. He needed to rest, just rest but no, he could not. No, no. No resting. He looked up at the sun and saw Paris. Dry, chapped lips tried to form three words but Paris said it first.
He closed his eyes.
All of Troy could only watch as Achilles tied a rope around Hector’s feet and secured it to the back of his chariot, Creusa moaning low in her throat as the warrior hopped on and cracked the reins, her brother’s body dragged behind in the dust. Aenas stood stiffly, clutching her and their son close to him.
Troy’s defender was desecrated.
Deiphobus strode forward, hissing, “Bastard. I will show him honor!” He turned on his heel and made for the stairs, his brothers not hesitating once as they followed. Antiphus clutched a sword in his hands, eyes bright and glassy. Polites and Pammon, at first all but leaning on one another, but now moving determinedly on their older brothers’ heels, Troilus close behind as he thought of nothing but vengeance.
“No!”
They turned to see Priam all but lying on the floor of the Royal Pavilion with the blue canopy overhead flapping in a stiff wind, Hipponous kneeling beside him and Glaucus standing close. “I will lose no more sons this day,” the broken man whispered.
Muffled sobbing could be heard from where Laodice embraced Helenus, refusing to look as Achilles abused their brother’s body. Helen stepped out of the shadows to kneel beside Andromache, smoothing tangled hair and caressing tear-stained cheeks. She took Astyanax and helped the distraught woman to stand, not once looking over the walls as they made their way back to the palace.
Everyone began to leave, any weeping fading and lost to the winds as their eyes looked at anything other than the blood staining the ground where Hector, Tamer of Horses, died.
Paris never looked away.