Favorite Son

On the open hearth, the fire crackles and sputters in a contented fashion as Agelaus relates, in a voice beginning to quaver with age, many tales of his long life on Mount Ida. Dresus stokes the fire while Archeptolemus, seated to my right, drinks deeply from a goblet and then returns his respectful attention to Agelaus. On the other side of this humble cottage, Paris is playing some game with his foster-sisters, the husband of one, and two of our warriors.

It is strange yet wonderful to me that we can sit here thus – common shepherds, unwed girls, battle-hardened warriors, and the heirs to a great house – companionably together. It would never happen in Troy. Yet there is such an air of relaxation about this place that my spirit feels calmed and lulled.

Agelaus begins a tale of a dark night in the forest, when young Paris single-handedly slew seven wolves to protect his flock. I glance over at Paris and find he is looking at me. He knows which story is being told. I grant him a small and private smile to show that I am proud; in return he blushes and turns back to his game.

Agelaus’ voice continues, soothing, slow: stories now of the boy Alexandros, how he grew up in this house, how he learned to take part in this life, knowing nothing of his heritage, and probably caring less. Stories of how his foster-mother doted upon him, and his foster-sisters as well. Stories of feasts and weddings and his coming-of-age: celebrations in which I had no part.

Would that I had been with Paris when he was a child. How sweet he must have been as a baby, how he would have followed me about when he could walk, how I would have been the first to train him to string a bow and ride a horse. I find myself longing for time that is gone forever, for youth that cannot come again. Never can I have this part of him. Never.

That thought punches through me like a spear. I must leave this room at once before I shame myself.

Grasping the thin arm of the old man, horrified that my need is so great as to cause me to interrupt him, I say, “Carry on, honored father. I shall return soon.” Archeptolemus seems surprised, but I know he will ascertain that none left behind suspect anything amiss.

As I step outside, the blessedly cool night air is balm of another sort. I walk some ways from the cottage into an area of deep shadow. I am trembling, yet not from the cold. In a moment the creak of the door opening and then closing can be heard. I stand very still in the dark, but Paris finds me easily. He walks into my arms and I bury my face in his hair.

“Hector?” comes his small, soft voice. “Are you well?”

I squeeze him until he squeaks.

“It was wrong,” I whisper.

“Wrong?” he asks.

“Wrong to take you from your family, from your city, from your heritage, whatever the prophecy. It was wrong to take you from me.”

“Oh, Hector,” he says sweetly, “I am with you now.”

It is hard to restrain myself from crushing him again. How finely made he is, how unlike myself with my ungainly slabs of muscle and my many disfiguring marks. It is the same inside – his spirit is giddy with love and laughter, while mine is scarred with fear and longing.

I whisper something into his hair, and am not surprised that he wants to know what it is.

“Did you speak, Hector?” he inquires, stroking the back of my neck carefully.

“No,” I lie. “I said nothing.”

“Oh,” he murmurs. His arms tighten about me and he rests his head on my shoulder. “I am with you now,” he repeats.