No Covenants

“Let no man enter.”

Achilles did not look toward him as he spoke, but Ajax moved to make a fire before the tent of Achilles nonetheless. Although Ajax’s own eyes slid over to the sight of Achilles slicing the rope at the Hector’s feet and grasping the thongs between his ankles so drag the body into his tent. There were few among the men who had known what Achilles’ intent had been this day and Ajax would guard against any who might come to know the true condition of the Trojan prince before Achilles wished.

The large warrior pierced a bit of driftwood into the beginning fire and thought upon the fallen prince’s position. Ajax himself had sparred with Hector but a few days past on the plains of battle and he had found the Trojan’s champion to be one of the few opponents that could withstand his great spear; Hector was a proud and fierce warrior. He wondered if Achilles would grant him the opportunity to spar with the prince again, but as the fire grew and night progressed he looked up at the darkening skies and wondered if there would remain an opponent to battle with.



Once inside the privacy of his tent Achilles dropped the still bound feet of his captive. He observed the still figure allowing himself time to contemplate what he would do once the man had woken. Achilles let his mind work out all the possibilities imagining what they would look like as his eyes roamed over the dust-caked and bloodied flesh as he set about temporarily securing the man to the ground.

Hector’s body was scratched, though not too terrible, and his skin bore dark shadows where it had collided with rocks when drawn behind Achilles’ chariot. No doubt his back had lacerations from the abuse it suffered against the uneven terrain before the city’s walls. Although his fellow Greeks had extracted a small moment of revenge their punishment had been minor and caused little damage to the prince’s body.

The once exalted prince would beg in the dirt for his death. Priam’s eldest son would no longer lead the acclaimed horses of Troy, he would crawl at Achilles command. Patroclus name would be honored with Hector’s disgrace.

Noble Hector. Proud Hector. Tamer of Horses. The man was lauded in the city and indeed throughout the Aegean as near the status of a god. Yet he had slain a child, no whiskers yet on Patroclus’ face, but he was killed in the wars of men. Noble Hector. His prowess in battle. His manner as a man. Yet he had fallen before Achilles and Hector was no half-god, he was a mortal; and all mortals were made to suffer at the gods’ pleasure. So Hector would suffer at Achilles pleasure.

Zeus himself might have known fear had he gazed upon the face of Achilles in that moment.


Hector was aware of his dry mouth first, it opened before his eyes, though he emitted no sound. His eyelids moved slower in their attempt to minimize the pain of the sand as the tiny grains dragged themselves across his eyes. Allowing himself a thick swallow that returned just a little moisture to his mouth and mindful of the ache in his shoulder he turned slowly to his right and fully opened his eyes.

He had expected the shades of his fellow fallen warriors. He had expected to see the forms of his own slain brothers. He had thought to see the looming figure of Charon or even Lord Hades himself. He had not expected, in place of the River Styx and the dark lord, to be faced with a mountain of animal pelts and the golden-tanned figure of Achilles lounging upon it.

Lounging did not suitably describe the man before him on the furs; he had the look and manner of a lion contemplating the best moment to sink its claws into his prey. Hector drew a quick breath as just this minimal movement had set a pain akin to the heat of a fire to his shoulder. He swallowed once more and forced his dried-out mouth to wet the dust that seemed to cover his throat in an attempt to lubricate it enough to speak. Ignoring the pain to his shoulder he kept his eyes steadily upon the poised warrior before him.

“That will burn, the spear went clean through” Achilles murmured at him as though he only spoke of the condition of the sky and not the nearly fatal wound to his shoulder.

Achilles had rested on his piled furs since before the sun went down simply waiting for the moment Hector would awaken. He’d been tempted to carve into the flesh of his captive many times now as the hours wore onward, but he knew it would be far better to witness the look in Hector’s eyes when he realized where he had come to be. Hector did not disappoint.

The cloud before Hector’s dark eyes seemed to disperse and Achilles smirked as he croaked around his first words.

“What am – ” was all he managed to choke out before Achilles leapt from his bed. A sandaled foot wedged into his neck and cut the air moving through his wind-pipe – effectively blocking any further speech.

“You do not speak.” Achilles hissed down at him and leaned more of his weight onto the right leg that had planted itself over the warrior’s neck. “Your men think you dead, even now the women wail in morning, and I promise you, dog, you are, though not before I have my satisfaction.”

He bent at the knee, mindful to balance his weight as he wished the man discomfort, but he did not want to release him to Hades just yet. “But you will not speak to me – not unless I ask it of you.”

Hector grimaced and he dug his uninjured right shoulder into the ground in an attempt to dislodge Achilles’ foot from his throat. He gained just enough air to begin a word, but barely a sound made it past his lips before Achilles was upon him.

Retaliation came quick and Achilles moved faster than Hector’s confused mind could make sense of. Blunt nails scraped into his scalp and twined around the long curls of his hair yanking his head from the ground while Achilles lunged at him and thrust a knee in place of his foot.

His next words were barely discernable through his growl, “I told you do not speak there will be no more warnings. I will not suffer your tongue and if you use it again you will suffer for it.”

Achilles seethed his chest heaving in rage and Hector decided that it would be wiser to wait until he knew exactly what had transpired before enraging the man further. Likely he was in the Greek encampment, Achilles ‘personal quarters’ it seemed, though he was only wearing minor injuries as far as he could tell. He would keep silent for now, long enough to ascertain what the warrior was planning and perhaps he would have time enough to regain strength to his limbs. Once he thought of them he realized that neither would move at his wish though Achilles did not hold him in any way other than under his chin. With most of his concentration occupied with the intake of breath it took some time for him to realize each wrist was held to the ground with leather thongs wrapped about each wrist and secured in the manner one would stake a tent.

Having grasped his hair with his left hand and jammed his right knee into Hector’s neck Achilles’ right hand had remained with naught to do. In an instant the fingernails on his right hand dug into the open wound on Hector’s left shoulder and it leaked dark fluid under the strain. “Though I will not forbid your screams….”