Work Text:
After Hector dies, Helen beginnings sleeping in Andromache’s bed. Paris objects, of course, whining at her as she weaves. She has learned to ignore him these days, to lose herself in the minutiae of what is a around her. It is a useful skill to have, to be able to look up and absorb herself into the ceiling as he grunts on top of her. She nods once he finishes his rant and waits until he is asleep to go to Andromache
When she first arrived at Troy, a million cold glances greeted her. Hecuba and Priam had done their best to forget why they had banished Paris in the first place, but most had not. Whispers followed where she walked, she’ll bring nothing but trouble, she’ll ruin us all, if she betrayed her first husband, then she’ll betray her second. Whispers had followed her since she’d first become a woman and people began to note her beauty, but they still bit like the first frost of the year.
Andromache had been a miraculous change. Her husband was the eldest son of Priam, surely she’d heard the rumors, but when she met Helen, all she did was grab her hands and promise they would be friends. She had kept that promise: Andromache was always stopping by Helen’s house, asking her questions and laughing like a spring. She was as clever as Clytemnestra, but with none of her bitterness or anger. She loved her husband, she loved her in-laws, she loved her brothers, she loved her city. When war came, she watched Hector march off with pride and worry. She was gentle with her son and skilled in the home. Helen was jealous of her in an odd way: Andromache was everything she wished she was, but she could not hate her for it. Instead, she found only affection for her, affection tinged with a desperate I am not her and I can never be with her and I wish I had never brought this war into her home.
Hector’s death is cruel and pointless and Helen hates herself for being the cause, no matter how indirectly. He was a good man, one of the best she’d ever known, and Andromache had loved him. Widowed, she spends most of her time sitting at a window, eyes quiet. Astyanax sits at her feet, tugging her skirts, confused by her silence.
Andromache is never asleep when Helen joins her. Her eyes are closed and her body is still, but she always blinks up at her and moves to give her room. The first few nights, she doesn’t dare to touch her, not sure what Andromache wants or needs. But about a week after Hector is dead, an arm wraps around her waist as she lies down and a head settles on her shoulder. She rests her own hand on Andromache’s, rubbing small circles into her palm until she falls asleep. She always leaves early, to go back to Paris’ bed before he notices her absence. She doesn’t really need to bother, he always sleeps late.
This becomes a constant for them: Helen goes to Andromache, Andromache holds onto her, Helen touches her as much as she feel she can. Andromache is soft and warm and her hair smells like apples. Sometimes, Helen kisses her cheek or her arm and thinks I would gladly take up all of Hector’s trials to have a true place in this bed. But she always feels awful after that, dirty and cruel.
Paris dies and Helen neither mourns nor celebrates. She did not love him, did not want him, she hates him, but he still didn’t deserve her as a wife. His body burns and a woman, neither young nor old, looking like she was carved out of oak wood, runs by and jumps on the pyre. She learns that it was Oenone, Paris’ old lover, and she feels pity, pity, pity, for the woman. She watches the smoke and feels like a sinking rock that more smoke will follow soon enough.
That night, she does not go to Andromache’s bed. I will make myself unloved and unlovable, she decides, I will make it so that I can destroy nothing else. She doesn’t remember the last time she slept in a bed alone. She is lonely, but that, of course, is the point.
The next night, Andromache comes to her bed. Helen sits up and looks at her.
“I missed you last night,” Andromache says, settling next to her. Helen kisses her, harsh and mean, and tells her to leave. Andromache doesn’t. Instead, she lies down. After a minute, Helen lies down, facing her. There are lips on hers and hands smoothing her hair and a crook of a neck to tuck her head into. She will be hurt because of me, Helen tries to remind herself. But Andromache is here and the night is long and by burying herself in hair that smells of apples and small hands that hold hers, maybe she will forget that fact.