Favorite Son

The sky is dark and peaceful, the city quiet as a tomb as I enter the council chamber in full armor, flanked by my brothers, Deiphobus and Lycaon. In the dim light, all are there – the king and queen, the councilors, the soothsayers, and certain of the temple priests. Paris is there as well, watching with huge eyes. A cold wind disturbs the hangings and chills the air. The torches flicker fitfully.

“Are all our people within the walls?” asks the king with great concern.

“They are,” I inform the room.

“Will they torch the fields and the villages?” asks the queen.

“That remains to be seen,” I answer grimly. “If they intend to lay siege, however, it would be unwise on their part, lest they starve themselves.”

Polydamas stands forth. “Prince Hector, how many are they?”

I turn to Lycaon, who shrugs. “Not above nine thousand,” he says.

“And how many,” asks the king, “in our garrison?”

“Three thousand.”

A murmur passes through the room as the councilors exchange glances. I note with satisfaction that my father looks unalarmed.

“So few?” asks Antenor, the old fool.

“I sent the greater part of our regiments to guard the outer provinces,” I inform him. “Please recall that we are in a fortified city. The walls of Troy have withstood greater enemies than this.”

The king smiles and nods. “Well done, my son,” he says, nodding also to my brothers, and we make our obeisance.

“If they merely wish to spend the winter at our door,” Polydamas announces, “then we may as well settle in. But would we not prefer to drive them from our country?”

“Fear not,” says the king, “Prince Hector has my entire trust.”

My heart glows with grateful pride at these words and at the blessing my mother confers upon me and my brothers. While we live, Troy shall never fall. In my heart, this is the vow I make for the gods, my family and my country. It is a vow that keeps me warm when dark thoughts crowd my mind: a mother’s kiss imprinted upon my forehead, a reminder of the womb that held me before my birth, a token of my conception – the very knowledge that I was born for this purpose: to serve Troy. And so I shall do until the end of my days.

*** *** ***

“Hector! Hector, wait!”

I knew something would spoil this moment for me. On my way to the eastern watchtower, running footfalls catch me up and Paris’ hand clutches my arm.

“Not now,” I say firmly, not breaking my swift stride.

“But, Hector,” he continues breathlessly, trotting beside me to stay abreast, “I want to help. Let me fight beside you!”

“I must have no distractions, Paris. You will remain in the heart of the city until the enemy is gone.”

“I insist upon fighting for Troy! I am a son of Troy – it is my right!”

I halt abruptly and he nearly flies past me in surprise. “Hearken, little brother,” I begin, trapping him against the hard stone wall, “you will do as I say without dispute. I feel quite certain that our parents will welcome your company, since for the duration of this campaign, they must be bereft of mine.” It is difficult to keep the bitter tone from my voice.

“Why may I not defend Troy?” he asks wretchedly. “Am I not to be treated as all of Father’s grown sons? Is this not my right as well as yours?”

“It is a duty, Paris, not a right.”

“Then,” he continues stubbornly, “is it not my duty as well as yours?”

“Till now you have defended naught but sheep, am I correct?”

He drops his head, then lifts it again, although he seems to have some trouble in looking directly at me. “You have seen my skill with bow and arrow. May I not at least join the archers on the battlements?”

“Where you will make an easy target for the enemy’s arrows.”

“No more so than any other.”

“Aye, and therein lies the problem,” I growl, grabbing his face in my hands and turning it to me. “Paris, I doubt not that we will drive these vermin from our land, but not before many Trojans have died. Do you wish to die?”

His eyes grow wide and dark. My thumbs, of their own volition, begin to stroke his cheeks. I feel his hands at my waist, beneath the breastplate, warm and gentle upon my skin. His voice is a whisper when it comes. “Must I not take the same chance as any other Trojan? Is that not fair and right?”

“This world is not fair,” I remind him. “Good men will die. How is it fair that their wives and children should lose them? These men may die heroes, but death remains ugly all the same. Is it fair that one dies and another lives? No, there is no fairness in this world.” I breathe in deeply and plow onward with the ignoble thought that poisons my conscience. “In less than a year’s time you have become our parents’ favorite. Do you call that fair? And yet it is so, and I could not and would not change it. Thus how could I go to them and tell them that you had suffered harm when I might have prevented it?”

His fingers are now curling around the belt of my kilt and tugging it gently towards him. If he does not cease, or I do not cause him to cease, I will become aroused. Already I am angry that I must be away from him while our city is under threat. By no means can I allow myself the indulgence of such unsuitable behavior just now. And yet he is so beautiful and so vulnerable that I find myself falling once again. The softness in his eyes is of no assistance whatsoever in holding me to my purpose.

“Hector,” he says quietly, “when will I see you next? Will you come to the house?”

“While the enemy is on our land, I remain with my men.”

“Oh.” His eyes drift away again. His grip on me falters. “What of Mount Ida? Do you think the –“

“Helenus is in the southern provinces with many men. Do not fear for the safety of your foster family.”

He nods slowly. “Thank you.”

I cannot be with him another moment. I press a burning kiss to his brow, release him, and walk away with no backward glance.


*** *** ***

“They are very quiet, my prince.”

The night seems endless yet I do not care to attempt sleep. Rather, I sit on the high battlements with Archeptolemus, waiting for the dawn and the likely attack of our enemies at that time. We sit near the top of the wall on the wooden platform that runs its length, our legs stretched out before us and our backs against the stout and comforting walls of Troy.

“Let them rest. We shall awaken them in the morning with a sweet fanfare,” I say, and we laugh quietly.

“Will they have reinforcements, do you believe?”

“From the scouts we have heard nothing. With luck we may kill a sufficiency of them that the rest know enough to flee and never return.”

“Why they try, I cannot fathom. Troy cannot be taken.”

I am gladdened by his conviction, yet ever have I had dark dreams about this. “Fortune and glory,” I tell him. “Mortals are such fools.”

We lapse into a companionable silence. The city is very dark, and the stars throw lambent light upon our faces and hands, and twinkle on the swords laid about the platform. Distant windows flicker with light: temples with their eternal flames. The enemy host outside may be quiet, but not entirely silent, for their horses move and nicker betimes.

“Tolemus,” I say, and he turns languidly to me. “You have –“ I struggle with a catch in my throat “– you have lain with men.”

“As well you know, my prince,” he says with a light tone. I do not look at him, but I think he is smiling.

“And with women?”

“As well.”

“Do you find them… different?”

“I will take a wife one day, that she may bear my children.”

“And that she will love you?”

“That will not be needed.”

I shake my head slowly. “Any woman would be proud to be your wife, but would she not wish to love you and to have your love? Surely women prize love above all else?”

“As men prize honor? That may be, and for that purpose a women will have her children to love. Women love children more than husbands, in any case.”

This still troubles me. My parents are deeply in love one with the other, I feel quite certain. “The king and queen –” I begin haltingly.

“I meant no disrespect, Prince Hector. I was speaking of myself.”

My voice falters, yet I plow on. “Is honor enough for you, then? Do you not wish for love?”

He lays a hand on my knee and I force myself not to start. “I have found love,” he says with great conviction.

Aphrodite on Olympus! Surely he cannot mean what I fear! This time I fail to suppress a jolt of alarm.

He continues dreamily, as though he has not noticed my distress: “He serves in the regiment of Prince Helenus.”

I am both ashamed of my momentary lapse of sense and relieved beyond measure. I should have known that Archeptolemus meant the touch as a brotherly gesture. I lay my hand upon his and squeeze it. “I did not know. Forgive me. Had I known I should have placed him in your regiment.”

“We are warriors, prince. We live this life and we know no other. It is no matter.”

“Perhaps it is a very great matter,” I say, releasing his hand, which slips back to his own lap. “If you will allow it, the situation shall be remedied when the regiment returns.”

“I thank you, my prince.”

“You must never hesitate to ask, Tolemus – you know I would grant you almost anything.”

“I do know, and it is a precious gift which I cherish.”

“Not more than I cherish the gift of your friendship,” I say with deep sincerity.

We fall silent for another while, but still I burn with questions. Finally I gain the courage to speak again: “This man – you love him?”

“Yes.”

I tilt my head and rest it against the wall to gaze at the stars.

“Something troubles you, my prince?”

I shake my head, yet clearly I have not convinced him, for I sense that he is still watching me with that furtive smile.

“I think you are in love, my brother,” he teases gently. “Is there a soft bed where you long to be? Who is the fortunate maiden?”

This startles a laugh from me, yet even so I keep the sound hushed. Rising to my feet I mumble some foolishness about needing to see that the archers have a sufficiency of armaments and hurry away, heedless of what he might think of me.

As I pace the battlements and the watchtowers in the dark night, to my very great shame, I do long for a soft bed and a warm presence at my back, and I do love him dearly. Yet Paris is a dangerous distraction, and it would behoove me to learn better control, lest I pay for it later.

*** *** ***

The days drag by in a haze of dust blown on chill winds. The archers shower the ruffians with arrows while the ruffians shout back that we are craven dogs who dare not fight in open battle. Though my men look to me at times when these shouts are heard, little does it concern me, and I keep my own counsel, for I have my own reasons. As I show conviction, they take heart and are content once again.

Certain of the councilors harangue the king but he remains steadfast in support of me, making me grateful to be his son, and to redouble my efforts to earn his approval.

On the sixth day I send orders for the signal to be lit at the top of the palace. Because Troy sits on a promontory overlooking the plains, it cannot be seen by the host on the plain, but it can be seen from the distant hills. After some time, one of our lookouts informs me that an answering signal has appeared in the south. With luck the enemy will fail to descry the second signal. Even so, it will be too late. If they are wise, they will leave. If they are not, they will die.

*** *** ***

Hardest of all is the waiting. I have made all preparations: Archeptolemus is charged with readying the horses; the captain of the archers has everything well in hand on the walls; the queen has taken the lead in sacrificing to the gods for our protection.

As for myself, I find myself wondering what Paris is doing. I have not seen him in five days, and my hands long to know the silkiness of his skin again. Or at the very least, to assure myself that he is well, and perhaps to have one of his sweet smiles to myself. It is weakness that moves my feet, yet I seem not to possess the strength of will to arrest the movement, and find myself striding quickly through the city streets, taking the stairs to the upper levels two or three at a step, until I come to my house where I have not been in many days.

Flinging open the door, I step into a twilight glow from the windows. Paris is not here. A servant is lighting the brazier to warm the room. She stops and bows quickly upon seeing me.

“Where is Prince Paris?” I ask her, going from one chamber to peer into the next.

“I have not seen him today, my lord,” she says meekly.

Both bedchambers are clearly empty and the bedding fresh and undisturbed. I turn in the archway of my own chamber and look at the woman.

“Each night I light the torches and fires,” she says, “in case he should come.”

“And does he?”

“Each morning the torches and the brazier have burned out,” she says, her head still bowed, “yet no sign that he has been here.”

“And yet you prepare the house each evening and morning?”

“Indeed, my lord. Should I not?”

I have no intention to frighten her, and the sternness of my voice is meant for Paris, not for her. “No, you have done well. Have no worries on that account. Then has the prince been staying at the palace?”

“I know not, my lord.” She looks up cautiously. “The palace is not my place and I know little of what happens there.”

So – where is Paris? Does he feel so lonely without me that he chooses to stay with our parents and our younger siblings? It is possible, yet unless my instincts misgive me, I fear that he has done something quite different.

The woman is still standing, unmoving. “Shall I extinguish the fire?” she asks.

Pulled out of my distracted mood, I tell her to leave it as it is, for I have decided to stay here tonight. I instruct her to bring food and wine, and then I go in search of my wayward brother.

For brother I have judged him to be, although when it first came to me I know not, this realization of our kinship. Cassandra’s certainty is powerful. Although many have called her mad, oft her mumblings have come to pass. And yet that brings no solace, for her mumblings about Paris are that he is not only a son of Troy but also its doom. And she has taken, of late, to casting sad looks in my direction, causing me to shudder inwardly at the meaning of that. I refuse to ask for explanation or elaboration. Some things there are that even Hector fears.

Yet I will take Paris for better or worse, as I have taken everything in my life. If my shoulders are broad, then it is but right that the burden of the future should rest upon them. Even the burden that is my young and foolish brother, I sigh to myself. Perhaps I deserve everything I have, good or bad though it be. And might it not be that I have concluded that he is indeed my brother simply because I wish it so?

For six days and nights I have seen nothing of Paris, nor have I heard his laugh, nor felt his heated gaze following my every movement. I have missed him greatly. My heart beats faster as I think of seeing him soon. One day, perhaps, I will cast off my madness and kiss him when I see him. Clearly the gods have not imperiled Archeptolemus for loving a man, and how I envy him his freedom. Would it not be better had Paris and I been simple warriors of Troy, bound to follow the king and his sons in battle, yet free to love in our own time?

These pleasant thoughts grow as I pace the short distance to the palace, such that it comes as a grave shock when I reach it and find no Paris there, and my father tells me wonderingly, “But Paris said he was to join you on the walls. Is he not there?”

*** *** ***

The scene on the south walls does little to improve my reputation for equanimity. There are the outraged recriminations I have for Paris, his passionate protestation of his right to defend Troy, the apologies of the captain of the archers – all conducted in fierce whispers, for it is one thing that the enemy outside the walls should hear the normal sounds of the sentries marking the hours, but quite another that they should hear us bellowing in anger at one another. Clear it is, at any rate, that Paris misled the captain into believing that he was there under my orders, and in fact has spent three nights on the walls.

As I cannot allow Paris to argue with me in front of the men, I order him harshly to the house, and he obeys with an angry look. I take time to reassure the captain and review our plans for the morrow before following Paris.

He waits for me by the door to the house, in a dark corner.

“Get inside,” I command.

“How could you speak to me like that in front of them?” he asks angrily.

Somewhat taken aback – since I am the aggrieved one here – I open the door and wait.

To no avail. Very well, if he intends to be stubborn. Before he knows what has transpired, he is hoisted over my shoulder and I bear him inside, slamming the door to and bolting it. I stride across the room – peripherally noting that the table is now laden with food – and into our bed chamber, and throw him upon the bed.

“Disrobe,” I say.

“Hector—“

“NOW!”

There is uncertainty in his eyes. With fumbling fingers he begins to undo his beloved armor, yet his hands are shaking and he makes slow progress. I cannot bear to watch. I grab him and begin to pull his armor and his clothing from him roughly, flinging it upon the floor.

When he is naked I push him back to the bed and stand over him, panting like an untamed horse. My heart is slamming against my ribs, and my hands are clenching and unclenching at my sides. There is little light, as the thick draperies have been drawn against the night, and only a very little light falls through the archway from the main chamber. Paris watches me carefully, a flicker of torchlight in his dark eyes.

I want to devour him. And why should I not? On the morrow I will be the first out of the gates, the target for the enemy, and even mighty Hector can die. Therefore why should I not do as I wish now? For if I do perish, what will it matter what I did the night before?

Hardly knowing what I do, and giving a deep groan that makes my own face flame, I drop to my knees on the hard floor and hook my hands behind Paris’ knees and wrench him to the edge of the bed, where his legs fall on either side of me. He emits a small squeak of surprise, rising on his elbows and staring at me.

In a moment my addled wits remind me that I have not had the foresight to remove my own clothing, and being now in an awkward position on the floor with my knees already protesting, my hands yet clutching Paris’ calves, and his arousal – which is as beautiful as every other part of him – so near to my face, I take him into my mouth and begin to suck frantically.

“Oh, GODS!” he wails, startling us both.

I had no notion he could yell so loud.

His body spasms and my mouth is flooded with his bitter seed, which I swallow without complaint. Paris flops limply back to the bed as I stand and shed my clothing faster than ever I have in my entire life. I crawl onto the bed and turn him over and drag him to the far side. He is gasping something over and over – my name.

“Put your hands here,” I instruct, arranging them on the stout bedpost and yanking his hips up until he is kneeling.

“Why?” he asks plaintively.

“Because I wish it!”

He complies, seizing the post with both hands and leaning his forehead upon it as well. His body trembles as I push his legs farther apart.

Oil, I think stupidly. Cursing liberally, I scramble across the bed and find the vessel of oil on the floor on the other side. Much of it ends up on the bedclothes as I struggle to coat myself while shuffling back to Paris on my knees, yet I can wait no longer and hold his hips still and thrust into him. He whimpers but objects no further, so I begin to withdraw and thrust so forcefully that even the sturdy bed frame begins to creak. I reach for the post with one hand and lean over Paris. Although I am covered in sweat, his back feels cold against my chest. His head is thudding against the post with each thrust, and even in my need I cannot bear the thought that it might harm him; I push my hand between his forehead and the post so that I am cradling his head. No doubt it is now my hand that will reap the bruise, but I care not.

“Paris,” I whisper in his ear, “you must obey me always.”

“I try,” he whispers back in a broken voice.

I come to completion in silence as ever. Withdrawing from his body, I lay myself down and pull him into my arms, to envelope him in my warmth. The eiderdown I drag over us, and Paris twines his arms about my neck as best he can and hides his face against my throat.

I stroke his back and his buttocks. Never can I remain angry with him. “You must try harder,” I tell him gently.

My only answer is sniffling and a tear or so on my shoulder, but soon enough these turn to even breaths as his body slackens into sleep.

The food and the wine at the table now beckon, and I realize I am unusually hungry. Trying not to disturb Paris, I rise and find a robe and sandals to wear. He shifts in his sleep, perhaps seeking the missing warmth, and my heart squeezes to see him like this. Seating myself on the bed’s edge, I touch his cheek and his ear and his curly locks. Every part of him is very precious to me. I kiss the sharp point of his shoulder where the coverlet has slipped, then pull it over him more completely.

The lamp is still lit in the outer chamber and I sit and apply myself to eating the cold meats and the fruits, and drinking the dark red wine. Before long there is a sound at the entrance to the bedchamber, and Paris stands there, rubbing his eyes and yawning. He too has donned a robe and slippers, although the robe is mine and looks as though it might slip off at any moment.

“May I eat, too?” he asks sleepily, shuffling over to me, whereupon I put one arm about his slender middle and pull him onto my lap. With my free hand I pour a goblet of wine for him, and he takes it from me with both hands and drinks long. After he sets the goblet aside, I select a succulent grape and bear it to his lips, and with but a moment’s hesitation his lips part and he takes it from my fingers. The touch of his tongue on my fingers arouses me.

As though in answer to my thoughts, Paris sighs and leans back against my chest. I continue to feed him; with each proffered morsel his lips linger upon my fingers, or he catches my hand with his and licks the juice from my fingers. When at last he is sated, he takes another draught of wine and sets the goblet aside, leans back and belches in utter contentment.

“Paris,” I begin, and he nods but closes his eyes. “In the morning, you may go to the eastern battlements and join the archers.”

His eyes fly open and he looks up at me.

“But you must do everything the captain tells you. You are to take no foolish chances. Keep out of sight and do not make yourself a target for the enemy. I am sure you already know that they have excellent archers as well.”

“Not like Trojans,” he says with pride.

“The archers will have a most important role tomorrow,” I continue. “It is time we drove these marauders from our land. While they remain out of range of bow and arrow, it would take eternity to destroy them from the safety of Troy.”

“Are we not prepared for a long siege?”

“We are, but why should we allow them to besiege us? There are caravans on the way to Troy even now, yet if they saw us in battle they would have no choice but to pass us by.”

“Then why did you send so many of our warriors away?”

I take hold of his chin and shake it gently. “Foolish Paris, until I knew the enemy’s numbers and the threat they posed, how could I leave our outlying territories unguarded?”

“Then do we know that the territories are safe?”

“We do now,” I answer. “We have had reports from each region.”

“How? I thought we had closed the gates.”

“There are secret ways in and out of the city, and the enemy does not have enough men to surround or monitor the entire perimeter.”

Paris takes another grape and chews on it thoughtfully. “If the enemy does not have enough men, then why have they challenged us?”

I shrug, accidentally dislodging his head from my shoulder, but I catch him and press his head back against me where it belongs. “Troy excites envy,” I tell him. “It would be a great prize. Many think it worth the attempt.”

“Are we not lucky, Hector, that we are Trojan?”

“In some ways, yes,” I say. I will not tell him of my misgivings: that it might be better to live in peace as a simple shepherd. Instead I begin to arrange the platters and bowls and food on the table to represent the plan of Troy. “You have noticed that the gates open upon narrow corridors leading into the city, have you not?”

He nods, intrigued by the representation.

“Why do you suppose that is?”

He chews on his lip.

I want to kiss it. I do not voice the thought.

“I do not know, Hector.”

“It was done so of a purpose, that if the enemy breach the gates, they must enter this way and be trapped in a narrow space.” I arrange several loquats, representing enemy warriors, in the corridor made of oranges.

“Archers may shoot down into the space from the roofs of buildings.”

“Just so. Yet if our forces are to come out of the city and drive the enemy away, it works against us, for we must squeeze through the same narrow space, making too effortless a target as we exit the gates onto the plain.”

His eyes open wide. “Are you going outside the city tomorrow?”

“Yes. As I said, I will wait no longer while they sit at our doorstep and befoul our land.”

“But, Hector, that would be very dangerous!”

“And that,” I say with a smile, selecting a loquat and holding it against his lips, “is where the archers become most important.”

He takes a bite from the loquat and I drop the remainder into my own mouth.

“We will keep them away from the walls to give our warriors time to get outside the walls!” he cries. “Or if they are dim-witted enough to hang close to the gates, we will slaughter them where they stand.”

“And you,” I continue, “must do as the captain instructs. Once we join battle it is imperative that the archers hold off, or risk killing their own fellow-warriors.”

“I need not stop,” he says stubbornly. “I have proven that I have an eagle’s eye and Apollo’s aim.”

I wrap my arms around him tightly. “Paris,” I warn, “if you do not promise to do as the captain says, I will not allow this.”

“But how can you fight them – they are nearly triple our number!”

I smile down at him. “Do you doubt your brother?”

“Of course not. And yet… more than eight thousand against our three. It seems difficult. Especially as at least a thousand of our men are archers and will not be on the field.”

“Certainly that is what they believe,” I agree. “I imagine they will be quite surprised when they find themselves caught between the city’s battalion and the regiment of Helenus.”

“Helenus? You said he is at Mount Ida.”

“Indeed he was. But he and his regiment have stolen back and are hidden only a few leagues off.”

He frowns. “Will they not yet outnumber us greatly?”

“We have the advantages of surprise and of placement. Also we are Trojans. You see you need have no worries. Promise that you will obey the captain of the archers.”

He breathes out an exaggerated sigh, melting against me as his eyes flutter closed. “Very well, I promise.”

Of their own volition, my hands have found their way under his robe as I stroke his arms, his ribs, his belly. He stretches and relaxes more deeply against me. I untie his robe and pull it aside so that I may caress his thighs. His legs fall open as he hooks his ankles around the outside of my calves.

“Are you cold?” I ask, not wishing this exposure to the cool air to cause him discomfort.

“Not whilst you are touching me.” His eyes are closed; his voice, drowsy. He rubs his temple against my jaw, and his hair brushes teasingly against my throat. “Hector, please,” he whispers.

“Hush,” I soothe, curling my hand around his cock.

“Oh,” he murmurs, as though surprised.

I stroke and explore him – the silky skin, the pulsing heat, the tiny moist slit. Mindful of my roughness earlier, I wish only to love him gently this time. Yet Paris groans as though he is dying and his hands clutch at my clothing, my forearms, wherever he might gain purchase, and his body braces against mine as he strains to thrust into my encircling hand. I still his motions with my other arm firmly about his middle, while stroking him slowly but steadfastly. I watch his face: his eyes squeezed shut, his mouth open and panting, the dark lashes laying upon his golden skin. Impulsively I lean close and run my tongue along one beautifully formed eyebrow.

Paris moans again, softly, and says, “Kiss me?”

With desire and foreboding equally mixed, I carefully kiss each closed eyelid, and his nose and his chin. I rub my bearded cheek against his smooth one. His turns his head minutely and his soft lips brush against mine. I allow the gesture. His lips part and his tongue touches my lips.

Finally, it seems, I reach a conclusion: if I am to be cursed, I may as well be cursed for taking pleasure as for denying myself. I push my tongue into his willing mouth and explore him there while my hand still explores his aroused cock. Moments later he finds completion, yet although I pull the robe around him again, we continue to kiss for a long while. Later, when he is asleep, I carry him to our bed, extinguishing the torch on the way.

*** *** ***

Awakening in the dark, I don my clothing and armor. I rouse Paris and he hurries to another room to use the chamber pot, and when he returns I help him into his armor, buckling it carefully, strapping on the greaves and kneeling to lace his sandals.

When he is fully prepared, I rise and place my hands on his shoulders. There is trepidation in his eyes, not unusual for a young warrior at his first battle. “Are you afraid, Paris?”

“A little.”

“Remember that I, and Deiphobus and Helenus and Lycaon and Archeptolemus, know fear as well. But more than our own death, we fear what might happen to our families and our country. Let your love of what you protect give you the courage you will require this day.”

He nods, hesitation shifting to determination. “I will make you proud.”

“I know that you will.” My hands cup his face and I kiss his forehead, then the tip of his nose, and then his sweet mouth. “Let us go and join the men.”

Paris catches my arm as I turn to leave. “Please be careful, Hector.”

“Paris, I cannot have any concern for my own safety when I lead my men in battle,” I tell him gently.

He contemplates me for a long and quiet moment. “Then may the gods protect you, Hector.”

I stroke his cheek softly. “May the gods protect us both, and Troy as well,” I say.

And we go out together to greet the red dawn.