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Having finished readying himself in the dim light of his room and fully occupied with the thought of hunting down some breakfast, Paris slunk from his rooms with a careless leisure that sent him crashing right into Deiphobus the moment he got through the door.
He heard a muttered curse from his brother as he stumbled back into the doorway, rubbing at his shoulder where it’d jabbed into a point on Deiphobus’s shoulder plate. He was fully armored except for his helm and looked distracted enough that Paris felt he could pin their collision at least partially on him should he need to.
However, it seemed Deiphobus’s distraction was great enough that he couldn’t be bothered with squabbling with him because, after looking him over with a disgruntled noise, he took off down the hall again.
Long legs keeping up easily, Paris trotted after his brother. “What happened? Why aren’t you out in the fields by now?” he asked, curiosity getting the better of his caution, leaving himself vulnerable to rebukes he would rather avoid.
In fact, it was specifically to avoid such rebukes over how infrequently he fought on the field himself that Paris got up so late. He usually enjoyed sleeping in regardless, but even when he woke earlier, he lingered in his rooms to avoid scorn from the rest of Troy’s soldiers, hard stares that pinned him like spears, sharp words like their bronze blades.
But that was just the thing. It only worked because Troy’s soldiers left in the morning. To see Deiphobus this late- it must have been at least ten- and fully geared yet still in the palace; it was an oddity that piqued Paris’s interest.
It only grew more unusual when Deiphobus failed to jump on the exceedingly easy opportunity to berate Paris for his many and oft repeated shortcomings. Instead, his expression scrunched up, he sighed, and then simply he responded, “I’m looking for Hektor.”
“Hektor?!” Paris couldn’t help exclaiming in disbelief. “Well why isn’t he on the field?” The idea that he wasn’t out there either was infinitely harder to believe.
Deiphobus grinned as he so often did, although it did not reach his eyes, flitting as they were to every doorway and side hall they passed. “Wouldn’t I like to know? They sent me looking for him.” He craned his neck to look down a hall they briskly walked by, but when Paris did the same, he saw it was inconveniently devoid of Hektor. “I thought he maybe overslept,” he offered lamely.
Paris allowed himself an inelegant snort and retorted, “Hektor has not overslept a single day in his entire damn life. I’d bet my life he’s never slept past dawn.” Neither had he given anyone reason to believe he’d ever start. "I don't doubt for a second that Hektor's just with some other section of the army and you and all the rest just missed him," Paris declared.
"I don't think so. His horses are all still in their stalls."
"You're joking!" He got no response.
With a sideways glance, he saw the strain in Deiphobus’s wry smile and realized, abruptly, that he was afraid. Deiphobus was perfectly aware that Hektor didn’t oversleep and that he would never laze about enough to make himself late, not to this, not in defending his city. And then, lacking those more benign possibilities, the remaining explanations for Hektor’s absence were more concerning, arching up like grim shadows from the depths of his mind.
The realization left Paris nervous as well.
He recognized now that Deiphobus was making his way to Hektor’s rooms. “Well, I’ll help you look anyway,” Paris told him absently, now peering down the hallways more attentively himself. His brother merely hummed. The metallic clinks of his armor echoed down the hall in contrast to the light padding of the soft leather soles of Paris’s shoes.
A harried looking serving woman rounded the corner out of Hektor’s rooms as they approached, blowing stray strands of her disheveled hair out of her face with a huff. Deiphobus stopped her with a hand on her arm and asked, “Is Hektor still in there?” nodding to the rooms.
The woman averted her eyes to maintain a measure of politeness when she couldn’t stop a scowl. “I don’t know, I think so,” she replied tersely. “They kicked me out.”
Deiphobus’s gaze sharpened at that and Paris started, “They-?” but didn’t bother to finish the thought when his brother released the servant and went inside without another word. Paris followed.
They went through the hall and passed a few currently unoccupied guest rooms before coming to Hektor’s. The door to the antechamber was open and he heard a voice spill from inside. Deiphobus quickened his strides until he entered the room and had time to bark Hektor’s name in alarm before Paris promptly followed him across the threshold.
A pair of men were already in the room, one loitering uneasily near the entrance and the other further in. He recognized Hektor's charioteer, Eniopeus, crouching next to where Hektor sat heavily against the wall. His brother’s long hair was unbound and messy, another rarity considering that keeping his hair neat seemed to be the only vanity Hektor allowed himself, slight though it was. Still, Paris couldn’t say why that caught his eye first of all the things amiss in the room.
Hektor sat tense and unresponsive, staring past them all with his jaw so tight Paris found it a wonder that he couldn’t hear his teeth cracking. A pace in front of him, an alarming gash was carved into the floor which Paris couldn’t begin to fathom the cause of, although his mind provided the fanciful image of a hulking giant ripping into the boards with a knife.
An acrid scent hung in the air and he saw the curtains hanging around the window nearest Hektor were burnt half through at around hip height. Blackened, charred scraps of the once fine fabric sat ruined on the floor. As he returned his gaze to his brother, following that gash that lanced towards him like the shaft of an arrow, he saw that the hem of Hektor tunic was burned the same way and the skin of his thigh underneath looked raw and blistered. The wound looked to curl around the side of his leg.
As he took all of this in, Eniopeus cautiously said, “Hektor...” and, when he went unanswered, set a hesitant hand on his commander’s shoulder.
Quick as lightning, Hektor flinched and lashed out to grasp Eniopeus’s wrist and twist it away from him. With a gasp, the man's expression warped and he leaned away as far as the hold would allow, releasing a little, punched out “Ah-”
It didn’t take a genius to realize that Hektor gripped his wrist to the point of pain with his more than formidable strength, but before anyone, the charioteer included, could implore him to stop he let go and fixed a harsh hold on his own arm instead. Eniopeus retracted his hand and dropped back on his haunches with a grimace. Hektor’s head dipped and his hair fell over his face.
“Don’t-” He made a strangled noise and didn’t continue.
“Hektor...” Deiphobus called, the name dripping with anxious concern. He took a halting step towards him, as cautious as approaching a wounded lion, but only one, clearly at a loss of what he could do.
Paris hissed out a low breath from between his clenched teeth.
The atmosphere of the room was foreign yet recognizable to him and it set his body on edge, set his skin crawling. It never meant anything good. That lingering tension, hanging in the air like static electricity. That oppressive weight over everything, like too heavy hands pinning him down. Powerful things left such marks on the world, though Paris never thought he’d see Hektor left in the aftermath.
Paris needed to remind himself that his brother as well had the favor of a god to his name. He had no need to remind himself that such gifts always come with complications, with costs.
“Alright, enough,” Paris cut in, putting on a false composure that wasn’t as convincing as it usually was. He stepped up behind Deiphobus, looking around his shoulder to where Eniopeus was now peering over at him. “Give him some space, I can help, don’t worry about it,” he said distractedly, too focused on the sight of Hektor to put much effort into keeping the nervous edge out of his voice.
Perhaps he should have tried harder so he could actually convince them all to leave. Deiphobus turned to face him with a pinched, pained expression muttering, “Paris, I swear-” though he failed to voice any more of the threat.
“I know, I know,” Paris placated. “Just let me try, I can help. It’ll be better if you go, I...” Paris tried for a disarming smile, but aside from a brief twitch of his lips, fell utterly short. Perhaps it was for the best. He didn’t want Deiphobus to think he saw this as less than serious because it was and his brother was well aware of that. Paris wasn’t the only one who could read the room, even if he was the only one who knew what it meant.
Deiphobus’s eyes took in every inch of Paris’s face and Paris was glad it was he who had come, he who hated him less than many of their siblings. Deiphobus was willful and easily irritated but also had a better sense of humor than most of them that Paris had always loved. They had bonded in the past over some of the most unifying activities, namely making fun of other people together, and although Deiphobus had taken many chances to give Paris a thorough tongue lashing, he also didn’t see him as fully incompetent.
Paris prayed that would prove enough here.
He saw anguish in his gaze and helpless frustration at the prospect of leaving Hektor now. He knew he wanted to be here to try and help, for he wanted the same. For someone else, that would have been enough to justify chasing Paris off, but Deiphobus’s concern for Hektor overpowered his distaste of Paris. He didn’t know what he could do for Hektor, and in the face of Paris who declared that he did... he was willing to give him that chance.
Deiphobus scowled but took a step towards the door. “Fine, fine, just-” He sighed. “We’ll be around, if you need.” Paris watched as Eniopeus looked between the pair of them, but he rose to his feet without argument.
Doing his best to be reassuring, Paris did manage to smile this time. “Shoo, shoo, it’ll be fine. Now shoo,” he swatted ever so lightly over Deiphobus’s bracer. His expression eased, if only very marginally, and Paris’s smile widened.
Deiphobus smacked his hand away idly and left the room with the others with one last backwards glance. They didn’t close the door, but Paris accepted that. He turned back. Hektor hadn’t moved.
The air felt even more desolate in the other’s absence, ringing in a way that he felt instead of heard, and he tried to shove dismal memories of an angered Aphrodite out of his mind.
Stepping gingerly, he made his way to his eldest brother. Paris stayed just out of arm’s reach, not out of fear, but because it seemed the best distance to let his presence be comforting yet not invasive. He went to the wall and sat against it as well, settling in parallel to Hektor, not in opposition to him. He simply waited for a few moments, letting the silence grow as comfortable as it could in such circumstances, which was, admittedly, not very comfortable.
“Long night?” Paris murmured sadly, knowing the answer.
Hektor grunted, short and clipped. He didn’t raise his head.
Paris paused a little longer. He’d acted more confident than he truly felt. This was incredibly difficult to broach. His mind scrambled for something to say that wouldn’t dig into fresh wounds, that might soothe them instead. He sought to voice his concern for Hektor, his desire to help, without further bloodying his certainly injured pride.
“Are you alright?” he said in the end, only to immediately amend with, “Are you hurt?” trying to make the question less unforgiving, less painful to answer.
Hektor shifted then, bringing his broad hands in front of him where he seemed to consider them for a heartbeat before lifting them to frame his face, thumbs pressing into his temples. “I...”
“It‘s nothing of consequence,” he said after a beat, voice rougher and far more frail than Paris was used to hearing.
Paris considered that and decided it was as likely to be true as false. He couldn’t see anything immediately concerning, and he hardly seemed in a state to have disguised any injuries. Also, the fact that he didn’t deny the burns Paris could see suggested he was being honest. Still, Hektor was a notoriously poor judge of his own limits, including what could endure without consequence. He also had a very questionable view of what consequences were worth actually paying heed to.
“Shall I call for a physician?” he figured was the most reasonable response.
Paris watched a shudder rake its way through Hektor’s spine and the muscles of the back of his neck bunch up as his head lowered a fraction further. “No,” he answered quickly and decisively. “There’s no need for that.”
Under different circumstances, Paris would have insisted, would have gotten Hektor to a physician if he had to drag him cursing by the ankles, but not now. Paris knew better. This was not an acceptable place to push.
Not after- presumably- some altercation with Apollo.
The spill of more ink dark hair over his shoulder drew Paris’s eye to another charred mark in the back of Hektor’s sleeve. His bicep looked seared there too, though Paris took some comfort in the fact that the blackened stain of soot didn’t extend more than an inch up from the hem.
“Alright,” Paris acquiesced gently. The concession was promptly made worthwhile when Hektor released a heavy breath and unwound some, dropping his hands into his lap. His head rolled lower, but it was relaxed this time and he lifted it a few moments later. As his hair parted, Paris studied him from the corner of his eye.
Hektor looked utterly exhausted. He looked utterly, deeply exhausted relative to how he usually looked which, well, he always looked dead tired anyway. So-
At least he looked straight ahead, nowhere near Paris who couldn’t keep pity from lining his face, tugging on his frown. Neither could he break his stare, side eyed though it was, that let him take in his brother’s every shift so they could guide him through how to walk this knife’s edge of making things better, not worse.
“It feels cruel that you should bear such troubles when you already give all of yourself every day.” Hektor shut his eyes, brows pinched, in response. Paris was hesitant regarding the wisdom of skirting so close to the issue, but he weighed it more important to try and push away any blame his brother had set upon his already overburdened shoulders.
“Did you get any sleep last night?” Paris continued so that his prior statement no longer hung between them.
Hektor scoffed, but it was too harsh for humor. “No,” he groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb. “Fuck. It’s so late.” The declaration sounded like brambles being pulled from his chest. He shook his head heavily, perhaps in attempt to clear it from the exhaustion and pain written clear on his face. “I need...”
Paris’s heart leapt into his throat when he pulled his weight forward, back hunching off of the wall, but he made it no closer to standing up than that before shivering and stopping. Rude and overly loud, Paris heard his blood roaring in his ears.
He refused to miss a beat though and with a quick twist and shove of his hands he swung around so that he sat facing Hektor instead of at his side. “You need some rest, Hektor,” Paris said, perhaps a touch too fast, now trying extremely hard to keep the anxiety from the tone of his voice.
Hektor shook his head again, this time clearly in disagreement. “Can’t. I need-”
“They’ll survive a day without you,” Paris told him as lightly as he could. “But I’m less sure you’ll survive a day going out to fight as tired as you are now. Better to get some rest and leave when you’re refreshed.”
Hektor’s expression warped harshly, eyes squeezed shut and brows furrowed dangerously. The curl of his lips was just shy of a snarl. He bit out, “This isn’t about that.”
“It should be,” Paris replied gently. “Doesn’t this seem like a good place for that caution you’re always telling me about?” he suggested, trying for humor. Anything to draw attention away from the prospect of the rest of the Trojan forces fighting without Hektor. Let them hold their own for a single damn day, he thought venomously. Far more important to ensure his brother’s head remains on his shoulders.
Unfortunately, admirably, frustratingly, Hektor’s thoughts never strayed far from the state of his men. He dragged his hands roughly through his thick hair, making Paris wince as he tore through tangles. “I can’t- This doesn’t- This doesn’t matter.”
Hektor’s voice rose, regaining the volume Paris was used to, but none of the evenness. Each word was riddled with vulnerability, cracked open to leave the raw intensity of his emotions exposed. His voice was impassioned and in pain more than it ever was, more than Paris truly felt comfortable with.
Hektor, his ever steady, ever strong brother- except he wasn’t. No one was always steady and strong, Paris knew that without question, but it felt like Hektor was. Paris knew that wasn’t true, yet every day he took advantage of the fact that, to him, it might as well be. He’d never seen Hektor truly falter. Until now.
Hektor’s distress clogged in Paris’s own throat. His fragility had his own heart skipping beats. To see Hektor defeated had him dizzy with fear.
It left Paris deeply guilty.
Hektor should be allowed his emotions, and Paris knew that the reason he never acknowledged them, at least never his troubles or his fears, was because he knew it upset the ones who depended on him. The ones he loved and cared for. Paris had no right to get swept up in his own anxiety over Hektor’s struggles.
“Just- get out of the way, Paris. I need...” Once again he failed to finish that statement, and though he braced his hand against the floor, he once again failed to rise. Even Hektor seemed to know that what he needed was not the same as what he believed he must do.
Paris heard a click of noise from the doorway but he would not turn, only begged that no one was foolish enough to interrupt.
For once, he decided he needed to take a page out of his brother’s book and shove his emotions out of the way and ignore them. He wasn’t nearly as well versed in it as Hektor was, but he was a considerably better liar, and that would have to be enough to make up for the deficit.
He took a steadying breath and swallowed his fear.
“It already matters, Hektor,” Paris exhaled. “You’re hurt and you haven’t gotten any sleep. You’re not limitless. You’d be far better able to help in the field if you allow yourself time to recover rather than if you run yourself into the ground.” Part of Paris is desperate to wail that if Hektor left now he might never come back, all he needed to know to convince him that Hektor needed to stay. But he was not the one that needed convincing and Hektor never cared much about his wellbeing, as much as Paris hated that fact. He had to come at this from a different angle.
“Come now, you know things will be better once you’ve slept.” Paris reached out and tenderly set his hand over Hektor’s own.
Hektor flinched, hard, fingers flicking in to curl into a fist with a jolt, but he did not pull further back or force Paris away. He lifted his head and, for the first time, met Paris’s stare. His dark eyes were fiery, wild and desperate.
With his every last ounce of control, Paris marshalled his countenance to reign in his anxiety, yet convey his concern. He let his brows furrow and lift but he kept his breathing deep and even. He met Hektor’s gaze as steadily as he could and did not let his hand tremble where it met his brother’s.
“Come on, I’ll get you settled.” Paris rearranged his leg beneath him, sitting on his heels, ready to rise. He tugged lightly on Hektor’s arm. He made no move to follow, turning his head away and breaking their stare mulishly. His eyes traced that tear in the floorboards and Paris could see him battling with himself, as if, after so long, he couldn’t remember how to stop fighting.
Paris squeezed his hand in vain.
“Hektor,” came from the doorway and Paris’s pulse ratcheted up another degree. Hektor looked past him, so Paris turned as well now to look at Deiphobus. Mouth dry, Paris stared at him with all the intensity he could. He just needed the chance to find the last thing that would convince Hektor to rest, it was so close, it was so fragile. It would be so easy to ruin it all with a misplaced word or twisted inflection and send Hektor running out to the front on nothing more than the last anxiety ridden dregs of the adrenaline that came from facing a god and he wanted to rattle Deiphobus to make sure he saw that-!
But he could only stare and pray that he knew.
“Paris is right, you should stay. That’s for the best,” he said, quick and steady. “Get some sleep, Hektor. You’re human too; you need it.”
Paris could cry in relief. He would have to do something nice for Deiphobus later, maybe beg the cooks to make some of those honeyed desserts he liked so much. He said that well. That was it, Paris thought, that was enough.
That was good, since he honestly had no idea what he could have done to finish winning Hektor over.
Hektor’s head dipped, echoing exhaustion. “Fine,” he breathed so quietly Deiphobus likely didn’t hear it, though he probably saw it, the surrender bleeding through his form. “Not here,” he mumbled and Paris nodded immediately.
“Right. I’ll get you settled,” he repeated. He rose from his crouch, knees twinging at the shift from the uncomfortable posture. He curled his hand underneath Hektor’s dry, calloused palm and tugged on it as he rose, wordlessly offering him a hand up, but when he made no effort to lift the weight of his arm with him, Paris let their hold slide apart.
If Hektor preferred to stand under his own strength, it was best to let him do it. And if he was fully honest with himself, if Hektor had actually accepted and tried to use him to leverage himself up, he probably would have just pulled Paris sprawling to the floor.
Though he stooped like armor of lead weighed upon him, Hektor set his hands against the ground and pushed himself to his feet, uncurling stiffly. Paris watched the motion as keenly as possible. As best as he could tell, the burns were probably more extensive than what he’d seen, but nothing seemed dramatic enough to necessitate him going back on his word regarding a physician.
Paris took his wrist once he was up, trying to make casual a motion he considered deeply important. He felt the deep, steady thumping of his heart for a moment before his fingers settled to a different spot.
When he turned to the door, Deiphobus shifted. “I’ll be back, then,” he told them simply. Paris silently thanked him once again for not drawing attention to how he was leaving to fight while Hektor was not. He nodded once, as much to him as to Hektor, Paris realized with a stunned jolt, then swept off.
Perhaps Paris was not the only one grateful.
At a weary, half stifled groan, Paris flicked his eyes back to Hektor. His gaze looked bleary yet overly sharp, the air of the room still such that it chipped away any complacency at his edges, an unwelcome whetstone. His dark eyes felt flinty scanning Paris as he said, “You’d best keep your word now that you’ve gotten the better of me.”
His words were not set against Paris, nothing meant to be unkind, it was simply all of this that left each part of Hektor abrasive. He refused to take offense where he shouldn’t.
He smiled instead and said, “You needn’t fear that I was lying.” Even before Hektor had said anything, he’d had no intention whatsoever to linger in this room. “Come on, let’s go.” He tugged again and this time, Hektor went.
Paris entertained the briefest thought of bringing Hektor to Andromache so he could spend the day with his wife. Andromache had taken up a second room elsewhere in the palace with some of the other women so that she and her newborn son could have more company on the many nights Hektor spent camped outside their wall. His brother relished the time he could spend with his wife and child and Paris wondered if he had been about to call for her before the night went awry.
Still, it was only the very briefest thought before Paris discarded it without hesitation. If he brought Hektor together with them, nothing would keep him inside the city. Hektor loved them desperately, beautifully, and in that, would do anything to protect them. For their sake, he would throw himself at any danger without pause.
It would be beyond foolish to pull up that admirable, aggravating instinct in Hektor now. It drove Paris to madness because it never stopped, not even long past the point of reason. Still, he knew that it wasn’t reason to Hektor, their doomed and dogged defender, but passion, and he couldn’t truly find it in himself to wish he’d change.
If he would not go to such damnable lengths for the ones he cared for, Paris didn’t know if he would love him so fiercely. Certainly he wouldn’t be the same.
So Andromache would have to wait a while longer for her husband and Paris’s rooms would have to do.
He reasoned that Andromache would appreciate Hektor’s preservation more.
Luckily, Paris’s rooms were not far, in the same wing as Hektor’s own, a fact he grew grateful for as Hektor’s feet dragged more the further they got. Paris kept pace with him, prattling on about nothing, about the overcooked bread at dinner last night, about the new song he’d worked out on the lyre, garnering a single flat hum at one point in response. He simply let his words flow as something for his frayed and tired thoughts to take hold of should they need too.
And tired he clearly was as he stumbled into Paris’s chambers, dim from yet to be parted curtains. Now away from the tension of the scattered fallout of whatever conflict they’d left behind in his own room, Hektor looked like a puppet with his strings cut, ready to keel over. His eyes, heavy lidded, blinked slowly, barely opening again to show how he scanned the room. “Damn you and your lavish taste,” he muttered, though now it landed on Paris’s shoulders with the proper levity.
“Don’t complain, Hektor,” he retorted cheekily, “especially when it will serve you well today. Come on. I assure you you’ll find it all very comfortable.” He pulled him over to his bed of quilts and furs and pillows and gently pushed him to sit.
For once, he felt glad that Helen, in her ever growing discontent, abandoned him as often as she stayed with him. Although, in truth he knew Helen loved his brother dearly and would have readily moved aside.
For now, Hektor sagged into the bedding, looking admittedly out of place amidst all the fluffy finery. Paris would usually gripe that Hektor’s chambers were drearily austere, but he’s currently willing to admit in the privacy of his mind that the contrast actually came from his own perhaps excessive enjoyment of luxury.
Fortunately, Hektor was dressed lightly, without either his ever loyal armor or the more elaborate clothes he wore when the palace demanded his formality. Once he messily kicked away his sandals, the light, simple tunic that remained was well suited to rest in. Again Paris grieved that he didn’t get any of the rest he desperately needed and deserved during the night as he should have, as he clearly intended to.
Hektor laid out heavily on his back, dark lashes already resting against the deep bruises beneath his eyes. “You will wake me if I am needed, Paris,” he stated, the voice of a commander still managing to find purchase in his rasp. He watched that all too familiar wrinkle form between his brows and even with his eyes closed, Paris could see perfectly in his mind’s eye the stern glare he would give.
Paris heaved a sigh and lied, “Yes, yes, Hektor,” because there was nothing else to be said. If Troy needed him, she would wait. There was nothing more in his brother to give now.
Still, he told the lie well, having known from the beginning that he would need to tell it, and it was the last thing needed for Hektor to yield, give in. His form softened, his nose wrinkled for a brief moment before he turned over onto his stomach, one arm shoved up under the pillow.
“Blanket?” Paris inquired, even as he tossed one over him. He released a faint noise, shifted the side of his face against the pillow, then promptly fell asleep.
Paris watched. Blinked.
He turned away and sat on the floor at the foot of the bed, long legs in an inelegant sprawl before him. Well, that was that, he supposed, pondering what should come next.
The thought of leaving now sat uneasy, rubbed him the wrong way, despite that there was nothing more for him to do. It wasn’t like he had to stay to protect him, deep in the heart of the citadel as they were. And even if Paris entertained his wildest paranoia, it wasn’t like Hektor would need it. No matter any exhaustion, Hektor would fight with the ferocity of a bear, and with all of one’s strength, should someone attack. Paris would make little difference, as ill suited to close combat as he knew he was.
Though, not all danger laid in vicious Achaean warriors arrayed outside their walls. Otherwise, Hektor would not be recovering wounded in his bed. Paris had faced enough of his own divine troubles to know there was nothing he could truly do to turn them away should they come sweeping in again, a harsh, pitiless gale. Nonetheless, Paris had faced enough of his own that the idea lodged in his throat anyway. In the end he would- it would...
He swallowed. Paris was staying. He knew that much, and he drove the rest of his pointless conjecture away.
Breathing a silent sigh, he stood gingerly. Looking over at Hektor, he felt the sudden desire to carefully pick loose the tangles snarled in his dark hair, soothing them out so it laid neat again, ready to be braided back as he preferred when he woke. He shoved the urge down, dismissing anything that might rouse Hektor from his rest, shaking his head and scattering his own curls.
Instead, Paris grabbed a book from a side table and lounged in some cushions on the floor and occupied himself with reading. The calm air was filled only with the soft shift of pages and the steady flow of Hektor’s breathing.
It did not remain that way for anywhere near long enough before Paris just about leapt out of his skin at a brutal, demanding pounding at the door.
Paris swore viciously under his breath as Hektor lurched awake with a grunt, shoving himself up on an elbow. Throwing the book aside, Paris dashed to the door, hoping to chase off whatever damn bastard came crashing in before everything could fall apart.
Scowl twisting his lips, he threw the door open to the unwelcome sight of Aeneas. Just as Deiphobus had been, he was armored save for a helm. There was dust on his greaves, sweat on his brow, and a dark cut to his gaze.
Paris did not give ground.
“What do you want, Aeneas?” he bit out, too riled for propriety.
To Aeneas’s credit, he greeted him with “Paris,” where he had not, though he sounded no less irritated. “I was told that Hektor was with you?” Paris shifted his weight, trying to put himself in the way of his sight of the bed. “He is needed, the other commanders are asking for him.”
Paris opened his mouth, ready to inform him that the only thing the commanders were good for was asking too much of Hektor, but he was interrupted by his brother’s voice from inside rumbling, “I am here.”
Paris spun around, Aeneas taking the chance to shove another step into the room, to find Hektor on his feet. And aggravated noise escaped his chest as he jumped to intercept him, now striding towards the door.
“Good, good,” Aeneas said, quick and relieved. “We need your insight. The battles to the west are growing troublesome.”
“Hektor, you can’t-” Paris tried, but he walked around him without a glance. Another, significantly less composed noise burst from him and he seized Hektor’s arm above the elbow and yanked. “This is ridiculous!”
Hektor turned heel to confront him face on, muted light and tense expression doing his exhausted features no favors. “Enough of this Paris, I need to go,” he barked.
Aeneas, at least, seemed content to wait out this little spat before continuing to try to drag Hektor off.
“Hektor, please, you need to stay. Going to fight like this is too dangerous.”
A steely look came into Hektor’s countenance at that, sharpening his worn edges. “I refuse, as I always have, to ask any danger of my men that I would not willingly face myself,” he stated lowly.
“But it’s not the same danger!” Paris cried in exasperation. “It’s more than that, more than you would ask anyone else to face! You’re injured-”
“A few little burns don’t matter-”
“You haven’t slept at all-”
“I slept just now-”
“That was barely anything!” Paris yelled at him. “You need more sleep! How long was that, truly? What time is it?!”
Hektor looked him over, lips pursed into a thin line before he offered meekly, “Quarter past eleven.”
“It wasn’t even an hour!” Paris shrieked, anger and upset at all of this boiling over. He seized both Hektor’s hands in the tightest grasp he could muster, refusing to let go. “If you go now you might never come back! Do you care so little about that that you refuse to do anything about it?” He felt his eyes start to grow wet.
“Do you think I’m doing this to hurt you?” Hektor replied, voice earnestly grieved, still rough with lack of sleep, swiping his thumbs over the back of his knuckles. “I do this because I need to. Death is always a risk, but when my presence on the field can keep alive any of our men who would have otherwise died, then it is my responsibility to be there. I owe that to them, to our people and our allies who fight to defend our city and our families. I will not stay idle while their blood is being spilt.”
“Do you find that worth any risk? Any consequence? If you should die today, then it’s a certainty that you will save no lives tomorrow, nor the day after, nor for the rest of the damned war, however long it will last. It’s already been so long, and you’ve taken so few moments to care for yourself. If you can’t do that, can’t you at least try to protect your city beyond just today?”
Hektor’s eyes narrowed. He rasped softly, “Do not speak as if I don’t try to protect this city. Every moment I try.”
“I don’t mean try as in sacrificing every part of-” Paris tried to amend but Hektor cut across him.
“And my care goes to my people. My family. To you, Paris. I care about each and every one of the men out there, the ones I’ve known all my life and the ones I’ve never known the name of. I will fight for them as they fight for me. And it is my place to weigh what risks and consequences are worth it to me, not yours.”
Paris’s loud inhale shuddered alarmingly “Why, Hektor?” he choked out, tears welling thicker. His lips parted, but Paris wouldn’t be stopped. “Why, why can’t you treat your own life with the same regard? Why can’t you see that it’s just as valuable?” He felt Hektor’s hands tense against his own which he abruptly realized were trembling. His voice, though it wavered, did not break.
“You always neglect to protect one person in Troy and that’s yourself. And if you won’t do it, who? Who would you allow to? Certainly not me, though the heavens know I’m trying!” Tears broke free and rolled freely down his cheeks, but Paris paid them no mind.
“I don’t want to put more on your shoulders, to ask you to protect one more thing, but I must! I need to when it’s yourself! Because- then- if you don’t-” He sucked in another breath, clutching at him.
“Paris...”
“I beg you to be fair to yourself, Hektor,” Paris gasped, heavy tears falling from his chin, “especially when the gods are not.”
He watched just long enough to see Aeneas jolt and stiffen beyond his brother and to see Hektor freeze up, pain and sadness breaking through his expression before his tears blurred over everything and he squeezed his eyes shut. He felt a fat drop fall onto his thumb before rolling down over the back of Hektor’s palm where Paris had pulled their hands towards him, a crust of salt left in its path.
For a time, all there was to be heard was the soft, broken sound of his crying and a single, shaky exhale from Hektor.
Paris tugged on his hands, a silent request, having said all he could.
Hektor sighed a second time.
“What did the other commanders need to know?” Hektor asked, barely above a whisper, head half turned to Aeneas. Paris swallowed, watching the decision of Hektor’s wellbeing be handed off to another once again. He hated it, but understood. Paris had taken too much from him, instigated too much death and destruction for Hektor to listen to his voice alone in this. Paris could only hope that, in the end, he would be allowed to repay at least some measly fraction of the debt he owed, of the protection Hektor had given him for so long.
But Hektor protected all of Troy, and perhaps they were all willing to repay.
At least for the day.
“I- should go back to them and inform them who you wish to issue commands in your stead for today,” Aeneas answered, voice tense but level and unhesitating. Returning the choice to his brother.
The subsequent silence needled in his lungs like ice cold bronze.
Once more, Hektor slowly dipped his head low enough that his hair hid him from view. Paris and Aeneas waited without a sound, waiting to know if Hektor would remain or take up his spear.
Waiting.
Silent.
“...Sarpedon,” Hektor breathed, and only then did Paris breathe as well.
“I will tell them,” Aeneas said, and then the door was closed and he was gone.
Hektor gently pulled his hands free of Paris’s shivery fingers and lifted them to cup his face, wiping away his tears with his thumbs. “Peace, Paris,” he murmured. “I’m still here; you can ease your worries.”
Paris wanted to berate him, remind him that Paris was supposed to be the one giving him comfort today, not the other way around, but he couldn’t. He wouldn’t be Hektor otherwise.
Instead, he batted his hands away lightly then maneuvered so he could shove Hektor’s back. “Get back to sleep,” he whined and earned a tired chuckle that made him feel blessedly lighter. Hektor stumbled back to the bedding at Paris’s little pushes, sitting down once more.
Paris sat tiredly at one of his plush chairs as Hektor laid on his side this time. Paris didn’t retrieve his book just yet, staring idly at the wall instead, but as the minutes passed, Hektor didn’t fully settle. He turned to the other side then back, legs shifting over each other, arms tense against his chest.
“You would feel better rested if you actually got some rest,” Paris murmured.
Just as low, Hektor replied, “I... feel uneasy.”
Paris did not respond immediately, looking around the room. He stood quietly and retrieved his lyre where it sat propped up against the far wall. He settled cross legged on the floor a few paces from the bed and started lightly plucking a calm tune. Hektor said nothing, but when Paris looked over, his eyes were still closed.
He was not yet half way through the second composition when he noticed that his breathing had evened out into sleep.
Hektor slept the day through, only rising well past sundown. Paris held no expectations of receiving thanks from his brother and couldn’t smother his shock when he did regardless. Not aloud, but when Hektor finished gathering himself to leave, he turned back to Paris and gazed at him steadily. With a strong, steady hand, he pushed Paris’s black curls from his face and set a kiss to the center of his forehead.
In the long heartbeat with his warm, dry lips pressed there, Paris could think of nothing but when he’d staggered lost into this life of a prince only to find Hektor helping him to his feet and guiding him forward, that broad hand ruffling up his hair, welcomed with a kiss to his brow.