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Before rosy-fingered Dawn began to drive her chariot across the sky, long-locked Hektor rose to face the day ahead. Before all else he went down to the stables, where unruly Xanthus, mild Podarges, coarse-maned Aethon, and stately Lampus awaited him. Already they eyed the wheat and wine mixed to Andromache’s exacting instructions which she swore would render his steeds both powerful and pliable beneath his hand; Hektor the bold knew better than to doubt her. If he broke horses, she tamed them. So it had always been between them.
He sat beside his feasting horses and watched the sun rise.
Hektor best among the Trojans broke his fast at his mother’s side, seeing the lines of worry upon her noble face. He took the sweet figs she offered him, the honeycombs hoarded over long years; he ate the fragrant bread laid at her table and blessed her for it. When even this could not coax a smile, filial Hektor took her long hands in his own and swore an end would soon come to the siege upon their shores. Why, then, should she sorrow any longer?
High-souled Hecuba kissed his hands for gratitude, and hid tears behind her dark veil.
Soft-handed Paris overtook his brother as Hektor strode towards the Scean Gate. "Listen to me," he said, cheeks bright from exertion. "Listen. It is not too late yet; we have enough men to hold the Achaeans at bay until our ships might cast off. We might be gone before the season turns, if only you will listen--"
"To leave," replied shining Hektor, "how many behind?"
"Some, surely. But how many more will perish if we tarry? You know I speak truth, brother."
"To leave," spoke iron-willed Hektor, "our throne and our pride behind?"
And to that Paris had no answer.
To the battlefield sped Hektor of the shining helm, and all who looked upon him trembled. He seemed unto the gods, dark eyes afire, and the hearts of his men soared. In time with him they swung their swords, loosed the reins of their horses, and charged towards their foes; in keeping with him they carved their names upon destiny.
From the walls watched the men and women of Troy, and gladly they called down to him. A fortunate few saw him salute in return. Long would the bards sing of those men who fought and died with Prince Hektor!
At noon, when the armies paused to refresh themselves, mighty Hektor sat surrounded by his commanders. He did not rest and relish his meal; instead he summoned scribes and dictated letters for the families of the fallen, marking them with his seal. Later they would be delivered. They might not do much, or anything at all, to heal an infected wound or jolt a motionless heart back to life, but they may prove some comfort for those left behind.
Man-killing Hektor whispered the names of the dead to himself and wondered who would someday send word to those he loved.
The afternoon previous he had visited his sister in her rooms. It had been one of her good days. She had not ranted or raved or torn her hair, whispering terrible impossible things in his ear. She smiled up at him, his favorite sister Cassandra once more, and told him that his wife had sent her fine wool to help her practice her weaving.
“Better to learn now,” she said, “than someday alone in a courtyard in Achaea.” Because it was one of her good days, she stopped when he flinched.
“Not while I live,” he promised.
“Yes,” she said.
Again he went into battle, bloody thankless business that it was. As far as he could see, neither grey-eyed Athena nor ferocious Ares played any part in the proceedings; only Kydoimos stumbled about, strewing confusion in his wake. Hektor hurled a spear towards the nearest humanoid figure in the dust, dodging one in return. His aim was true as ever. Later his men would pretend that had been Nestor or Agamemnon or Achilles himself, not a frightened boy destined to die unnamed, unmourned, and far from home. Later they would congratulate him, and Hektor would swallow his shame and smile.
Within the council hall, men argued for peace and penitence; for returning golden Helen and her riches to Spartan hands. Tonight Hektor did not add his voice to his din, but watched his father’s face.
When they were alone, and Hektor knelt before him, he reminded his father that they had much to lose, should the war not end as they hoped.
High-hearted Priam replied, “Indeed we do, and more than even you know, first-born and first-loved of my sons, but for Troy’s sake, gladly would I part with all my treasures, save one. Save you.”
And glorious Hektor wept.
By moonlight Hektor took up his son, who he alone insisted on calling Scamandarius, and brought him to the window so the boy might see the river for which he was named.
“One day,” Hektor told him, “when it’s safe, I will take you there, so that you might learn to swim as I did. One day I will teach you to ride a horse. And one day, I fear, I shall have to whip you for playing on the walls where you might fall and break your neck—just as I did.”
The immortal gods above listened and said nothing.
“What would you wish for,” asked his wife, “if the gods promised you any prize?”
He replied with the truth—Andromache deserved no less—but he dared not dream of victory. “To have what my cowardice desires.”
“My husband, a coward? Impossible.”
“I am,” corrected Hektor, shepherd of his people, “and the worst kind, for gladly would I fall first, leaving you behind. Gladly would I be buried and breathless before my city burns while crying out my name.”
White-armed Andromache watched him, wordless, before rising to her feet. “Great gods forbid it should be so,” she whispered, tightening her hold on him.
Right-thinking Hektor rose before the dawn.