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The wedding celebrations were loud; how could they not be? The throne room, on most days, is usually sparse, as the children of the royal family do not mingle with one another. They do not even remember whether they truly are the children of Priam, who sits upon his throne as he gazes over what his kingdom has become. Ilion has become wide and prosperous from the gates of the capital Ilium to the provinces of Skamander and Ida, much to their king's efforts.
Hektor, for as long as he can remember, has spent most of his days in the throne room of his father, if he is not out gallivanting around the coast of their kingdom with his brothers and his hands tightening on the reins of his horse, or in his room learning music, or perhaps in the gardens practicing all the sword stances and aggressive strategies. He does not question such customs; his father has told him he is his oldest, legitimate son. Aisakos, his seer brother (bless his departed soul, for he has joined his wife in the afterlife), was not suitable to claim the throne.
There are remnants of anger towards his deceased elder brother for the declaration of his disastrous prophecy of his long-lost brother, Paris. How could a seer, a priest of Apollo, a guardian of the young boys, say that a young babe, merely a newborn, would bring the downfall of Ilion? And how can his father believe it so easily?
No matter. These kinds of feuds last for a short time.
The music plays a variety of songs, as a bard himself strums his lyre, its handle golden and unblemished as his voice, melodically inclined and his audience prone to swaying with his song, seemed as if it were blessed by Apollon. Hektor finds himself thinking that if Aineias is not busy competing with Deiphobos or flirting with Kreousa, he will have been putting this bard to shame with his voice. Or, if Paris were not in Mykenai now, he would be challenging the bard to a competition on who has the most enchanting voice.
Hektor’s thoughts always flow back to Paris in the weeks after his departure towards the kingdom of Sparta. He expresses miserable regret over being ill and letting his younger brother take the pressure of being a diplomat to the Greeks. Helenos could not do it; he is not friendly enough, almost a mystery as his twin Kassandra, so it falls to the third oldest. At least he will return soon, perhaps today if the weather is smooth sailing. Hektor’s eyes flit to Deiphobos, who is laughing at something Aieneias said. Hektor sighs, turning his eyes to the table so he can focus on finishing his meal.
“My lord… are you alright?” A soft voice reminds him that he is not alone on his side of the table— while his father and mother occupy the very end of the mess hall, they are far away from him. They are too distant from him, further than his arms could reach.
“I am fine, Andromakhe,” he tells his new wife casually, lounging on his seat as he drinks a cup of his wine, courtesy of the servants. He is not prone to drinking Dionysos’s fermented beverages, unlike his father, whose cups are lavishly filled with wine day-by-day from servants whom he has winked or flirted with, even in front of their mother. It is as if he is trying to numb himself of whatever pains are in his body; or in his heart.
Andromakhe looks at him for a moment and returns to her food. He stares at her for a couple more moments, absolutely mesmerized by how her dark, snake-like curls seem to cover parts of her face as if her hair were a veil herself. His father has chosen well for his new bride; from the land of Cilician Thebe, and King Eetion’s only daughter of seven brothers. Indeed, from the fertility of her mother alone, it will be direct that she will bear him sons in their marriage bed. She too, was a good wife— according to Eetion, she was a skilled, perfect weaver, her hands like the legs of a spider as she continued to weave and weave.
(He remembers the dinner festivities two winters ago, as Andromakhe sits silently, politely on one side, as her father does most talking for her and her claimed merits.
“She can weave you a cloak in a fortnight, my prince,” he had said, wine dribbling down his cheek. A slave comes to wipe it for him. He laughs.
Hektor does not.)
She is good to him— in return, he shall be good to her, as the gods intend. There is yet to be intimacy or love growing forth from this union; it seems Aphrodite has yet to notice the wedding music playing in the large throne room.
(As if she is… preoccupied.)
No matter, they will learn to love each other or tolerate their presence. Andromakhe is the future queen of Ilion, after all, so she is granted much more independence than most women her age. She can bear her children, weave their clothes, feed them with her milk, and Hektor will consider her job done. He will not make her life in Ilium difficult; she must be homesick for a land she will never see again.
Not finding it in himself to continue this conversation, he returns to eating his food and enjoying the festivities and games his brothers play for his honor. Sometimes, he is embarrassed by how clear they are with their affection for him; the storge within their hearts always seems to burst at the seams when he is in their presence. He does not know what to make of it— their affections being more than what his father displays for him.
Nevertheless, it is a grandiose wedding celebration; Hektor commands the bard to sing the story of Pyrrha and Deucalion, the lovers who survived a flood to wipe out humanity. He's always admired this tale since he heard of it, and now, his admiration for the song echoes through the throne room, hypnotizing the crowd as the cymbals and tambourines and lyres are played with haunting, alluring precision.
The celebration is going smoothly.
As if the Moirai hear his thoughts, they turn the thread another way, as a messenger, with an expression so tense he could simply crumble in a moment, whisking past the happily married couple and behind Priam's dining posture. He bends his neck to whisper the news he is summoned to bring.
All at once Priam stands, the center of attention, as Hektor himself turns his head to look at his father, the man that is now focusing the sun's lights onto him.
“Paris has returned from Sparta,” King Priamos declares, and a betraying thought protrudes from Hektor’s mind; he wishes the messenger came to him rather than his father. He is capable of announcing his younger brother’s return. There is extreme pleasure on his father's face; his brother must have done well. “He comes bearing gifts as well— let us come and greet him from his journey.”
Hektor’s eyes flare. As much as he too, is eager to greet his brother from his journey to a strange land, he doesn’t want to greet him at the expense of his wedding. The out-of-place Andromakhe looks uncertain as well if she should remain seated or follow her father-in-law’s order.
Keeping his face expressionless, he stands, telling his new wife indirectly she can follow her new husband’s decisions. He follows his parents, who are a distance away from him, across the halls laden with gold and painted with purple and all the colors that claim the royalty of their blood. Andromakhe, with a nervous, slow shuffle, follows behind him, her head down as she does not look at people’s eyes. Her taciturn nature is quite a contrast to his family’s own loud personalities.
Well, not loud, per se. More as if they wish to be in the gods’ attention more.
“I bet the ‘gifts’ Alexandros acquired are poisoned meat and wine,” Deiphobos whispers to Aineias, who rolls his eyes. Hektor wishes that Deiphobos would refer to his elder brother by his proper, regnal name, and would stop talking behind his back.
“Deiphobos, do not think I don’t hear you all the way here,” Hektor reminds warningly, and appropriately, his younger purses his lips but doesn’t say anything else. “Behave when you are with each other.”
Aineias’s laugh echoes along the chamber, as Deiphobos’s incoherent muttering follows. Hektor is not threatened by this; he knows all his brothers feel the same way about him: undying loyalty and love. How he is blessed with the most affectionate brothers, he will never know.
They are finally at the mouth of the entrance of the castle; their castle is built upon blocks of limestone, the fast work of their laboring builders as they build until they have created a tall palace, rivaling their own gates, made of the strongest, fortified, and thickest stone that has ever been created. Some say it was crafted by Epikourios and Gaieochos when they are punished by their lord due to their mutinous plot, its walls forever blessed to not be breeched by any invader, until Herakles had come to their coasts with a thirst for blood, his hands never resting until he has slaughtered all the Ilion men.
Hektor will never let that happen. He knows it keeps his father awake at night.
Their palace is built elevated from the humbleness of the ground as if they are in the middle of heaven and earth. He remembers getting tired from all the stairs he must climb before reaching the top and onto his father’s arms, proud that he is getting stronger every day. Most laboring merchants, or even noble ladies and slaves, come ascending the steps gasping for breaths, fanning themselves as sheens of sweat come to cloy at their skin. They wait at the front of the steps, overlooking their capital, their walls; out there was the sea where they always come and play, riding their horses or covering themselves with sand.
(When Andromakhe has a child, Hektor will bring him to the beaches, for there is peace in these waves.)
He feels Andromakhe’s warm body beside him; tentative, but close to remind everyone that he is married to her and thus, is now under his protection.
The envoy of Paris makes their way to the family on their stairs, with Paris and a veiled woman leading the entourage. Hektor narrows his eyes at this woman; he and his father did not give Paris any female slaves for his journey to Sparta. In fact, this woman does not even look like a slave— she hides her face in a golden veil, and from the way she walks, it is as if she has walked the palace’s own grand hallways with poise and elegance, a regality that is only rivaled by the princesses of Ilion.
There is now a pit in Hektor’s stomach where the excitement of being reunited with his brother should be.
Paris reaches the top of the steps first, bowing to his father and kissing his hand. When he resumes proper posture, there is a triumphant smile on his face. Hektor supposes that, from the woman by his side and the bundles upon bundles of treasury the slaves carry to their palace, he has been very successful with this diplomatic trip. He must have enchanted them enough that they give him their treasures and a woman as a concubine.
(Paris mentioned he had a wife he married in the peak of Ida; where is she, anyway?)
Behind them, Helenos gasps, whilst Kassandra hisses as if she were burnt with iron.
“Welcome home, my son. Tell me, is Sparta as militaristic as they say it is? They seemed to have treated you well.” Hektor laughs at his father’s attempts to joke, only to relieve himself of the intense paranoia radiating around him.
Deiphobos is the first to speak, his eyes traveling from his older brother to the woman he is accompanying with. “Dear elder brother, why have you brought back a woman with you? Do not tell me the gracious king of Sparta gave you a concubine to warm your bed with.”
Hektor’s eyes turn to his brother, flaring ever-so-slightly. Deiphobos shrinks back, coughing to mask his fear, whilst Aineias levels him with his own judgmental glare.
Paris’s smile falters, but only a little. Yet, he could see how nervous his posture is, shaking slightly, especially when the woman comes to his side so that they may be equal. The nerve of Spartan women sometimes. His brown eyes, tinged with the lightest bit of pink and desideratum, look at Hektor expectantly. “Dear elder brother, this is the first day of your wedding celebrations, correct?”
Perplexed, Hektor says, “... Yes.”
Then the smile burgeons across Paris’s face once more, one he is quite familiar with as he sees it frequently when his brother is caught guilty of something. “Brother, may I fill you with a request?”
Hektor nods. “You can ask me anything, Paris. I shall do my best to grant your request.”
There is a lump in Paris’s throat. He is hesitating with this request, whatever it may be. He flits his eyes to the woman by his side, and he knows that she is holding her gaze as if she is carrying a boulder. Hektor does not like what his request is implying.
“There is a week of festivities in the honor of your marriage,” Paris starts, his voice still tremulous, as if he is about to back down when he is being poked by a lion. “All I ask is one day — today — to be married to my new bride in the eyes of the gods.”
Hektor is stunned, shocked by his younger brother’s audacity to give him one day of celebrations. His parents and siblings too, are stunned— so were the servants and palace guards, watching this exchange with perplexed, wide eyes. The slaves, who should be working and toiling within the palace, freeze at the utter disrespect levied by a greenhorn prince. The advisers who had gone with Paris look unsurprised, or exasperated even, as if they know this will be happening.
Hektor is not the first to take offense; whilst Hekabe looks at Paris as if he has turned into a hydra, and Priamos is as stunned as Hektor, his siblings clamor to his defense.
“How dare you!” Unsurprisingly, Deiphobos is one to take the request with transgression. “Have you no shame, Alexandros?! Has your raising as a shepherd come ahead and made you disregard princely customs?” Paris bristles at the shepherd comment, but continues to hold himself proud. “What is your eagerness for a wedding? We can wait a fortnight until our storerooms are full of food and drink to indulge in! Why, did that Spartan bitch hypnotize you so—”
While Paris is not a very combative person, always being beaten by Hektor or Deiphobos (a factoid Deiphobos holds over his head) he is fast; he has quite the archer’s physique, and it comes to head when he is competing with them to run. The only person to ever outrun him is Aineias. Before Hektor could discipline Deiphobos, Paris is but a blur to his eyes, as he tackles his younger brother to the ground. The rest of the siblings come to action (except Helenos and Kassandra, who stare at the woman with those unsettling golden eyes) ripping them off each other.
“Do not—” Paris snarls, as he snatches Deiphobos’s curls, making his younger brother wail in response, “Do not call her a bitch. She is a queen among women, the fairest of them all, my wife, given to me by Aphrodite as she promised many moons ago!”
Hektor blinks at these defensive statements, looking at the woman with more intensity. Her golden veil flows across the cool winter breeze, and Hektor swears he sees a tinge of fiery golden hair as if she were made from fire.
There is only one woman rumored to have hair like fire.
He did not like what his mind was getting at; just who was this woman, who seemed to just watch them with observant, interested eyes? It explains why Helenos and Kassandra, the seers (or rather, the seer and the fraud), stare at her as if she is a catalyst for the walls of Troy cracking.
“Paris!” He pulls his younger brother off Deiphobos, who is being held off by Aineias and Kreousa. He glares at his brother with wide, intense brown eyes.
“Hektor,” Priamos must have snapped out of his reverie, “stand down, put Paris down.”
He ignores his father. He points at the woman, standing still like a statue. She has yet to move; not even lift a finger. “Who is this woman? She is not a mere Spartan noblelady, is she not? You called her the fairest of them all; she has fiery gold hair!”
There is silence in the palace. Not even the guards dare to make a sound, as the advisers themselves look defeated. It was like they are waiting for the moment the King of the Gods will strike them down. Only Kassandra’s shaking and whimpers are comprehensible in this realizing silence. They all stare at Paris, waiting for him to say what he needs to say about this issue.
He must have been feeling the weight of the stares, and he turns back to his woman, to someone else’s woman, and back at his brother’s blazing eyes. “She is—”
“Helen,” finally, the statue of this woman speaks. Her voice is… hard to describe. It is as if he is speaking to a nymph for the first time, as if a goddess has descended from the heavens to mingle with mortals. Hektor feels a shiver come from his spine, as the palace stays silent once more. She lifts her veil, the face of the most beautiful woman in the world staring at them with those haunting, stormy blue eyes. Hektor swears clouds are forming within her irises, a symbol of her divinity. Her golden hair, whipping around like flames, contrasts heavily with her dark skin, and perplexes him greatly. Where did it come from? There are tales that Leda is not Helen’s mother, and rather, Nemesis herself.
It does not take Hektor a moment to snap out of his trance at seeing the most beautiful woman alive, for he is already married. Paris, however, is enchanted, enthralled by her voice, by her beauty— well, perhaps everything about her. Maybe this is why he had stolen her off in the first place; she compares him through beauty and allure. “She chose to come with me, away from her boring lifestyle in Sparta. She is to be my bride today, for that is what the gods have promised me.”
Whispers erupt amongst the crowd, as all their siblings glance at one another, wanting to verify if this story is true. Priamos himself, the most religious and superstitious of their family, serving the gods before serving himself, seems to be at a loss of what to do. His son has violated Menelaos and Helen's marriage bed by bringing her here, amongst strangers disguised as family. Yet, Paris claims it is a price of the gods for her to follow him to Ilion, to the gates of Ilium.
Hektor thinks that Paris may be lying, but he has been a great follower of the gods, moreso Aphrodite. Still, it doesn’t ignore the fact that Paris is a scoundrel, however, maybe he can sweep this under the rug. From the look of consideration in Priamos's expression, he may as well be thinking of a way to pardon him.
But just when he is about to accept Helen to his family, a great cry, almost like the sound of a dying ewe echoes through the mass of siblings. He turns to find Kassandra fighting against Helenos's own tight grip around her body as if he is afraid Kassandra would do anything rash. He should not be so wary— she is a woman who is wiry, small, and fragile after her fraudulent attempts at replacing Aisakos as their seer. She is not a threat, even when her eyes burn gold as if she is currently being attested by the supposed prophecies she claims to see.
“No, how could you, Paris!” Kassandra shouts, her voice dripping with madness as attention turns to her. Even Helen, stoic as ever, turns to see her with eyes that seem to think she did not expect this. “You have brought the cataclysm of destruction into our city, to our sacred gates! The gods shall never forgive your violation of the marriage bed and xenia, nor shall the Greek kings, who will muster up forces to destroy us all! I am begging you, brother, to bring her and the treasures back to Sparta before it is too late!” She is shaking, shivering all over, looking faint in her brother’s arms. Helenos himself seems to have the same opinions as his sister, with the way he looks at her with understanding.
Paris, however, is not one to be begged for when he has what he wants. “Kassandra, the fraud seer of Apollo! You do not get to speak of love and destruction when your failure of prophecies are not believed and vehemently untrue! You want to force me to bring Helen to the shores of Sparta once more and be run over by a sword? No— Helen shall be staying here, in the gates of Ilium, lounging with our family.”
Hektor knows he will regret the insults he has aired towards Kassandra, but Hektor himself cannot ignore the foreboding sense of war coming to their doorstep. Even his ears ring with war drums, beating rhythmically fast as if it is counting his own breaths. Andromakhe, who is still watching this exchange, glances at Kassandra with frightened eyes; of course, she'd be terrified of his loose-minded sister.
Kassandra screams once more, almost a wail of pity. “She is a scourge upon the earth! Karmic retribution, if I say so myself! We will all be dead or made slaves if we let her in the palace! She has no place here! Why aren't you listening to me?!”
“Kassandra, that is enough,” Priamos declares, his voice authoritative. He looks at Helen, who looks as if she were waiting for them all to greet her. A pointless endeavor, when she is the guest in their home. The one marrying into their family, unlike in Sparta where they let a woman sit on the throne with her outsider husband. “Helen is welcome in our palace, in Ilion. I am pleased to have another daughter-in-law.”
Helen humbly bows before her new lord, whilst Kassandra screams more as the supposed onslaught of their futures flashes before her eyes.
Then, Kassandra breaks free from Helenos’s grasp, stunning those who are near her. In a moment, she is in front of Helen, her teeth grinding against one another, tears in her eyes. Hektor is not fast enough to prevent her rage from tearing off Helen’s golden veil; one that must have cost a fortune. Helen herself looks shocked, betraying any hint of detachment or neutrality she feels in one moment. Hektor, aghast that Kassandra has done something like this, runs to block his sister from her ire, fearing what she will do next.
“This is the face of destruction! The fairest woman on earth, the one who will bring our house to the brink of ruin!” Kassandra declares, waving her golden veil around. The Spartan woman stands frozen, a step below his younger sister, as Paris rushes to her defense.
“Damn you, Kassandra, you are more insane than when I have left!” Paris tells her in a distressed, concerned manner.
“Kassandra, we cannot stop fate!” Helenos beckons to her, grabbing onto her shoulder with a resigned expression. “We will not be granted the best outcome if you try and defy fate. War will always be heading our way. Your insults against the Spartan woman will not defer the war drums we hear in our ears.”
“You and Helen will bring conflagration wherever you go. The flames will rise above and take what is stolen from them.” The pale-haired woman lets out a sob, tears streaming down her cheeks, as Paris retrieves the golden veil from her hands and brings it to Helen. She does not look up, nor thank her new husband; instead, she looks at her veil, as if she were contemplating something.
“Fine, Paris,” Hektor says, ready to get this over with, this entire situation under wraps. He looks at Kassandra warily, whose arms are snaked tight upon Helenos’s tall frame. “I shall give you today for your wedding. My brothers and Aineias will be discussing new border patrol whence the Achaeans come, rage-filled in their ships.”
He dismisses Andromakhe, telling her to return to her bed chambers as they will resume the celebrations for their wedding the next day, and with Deiphobos, Aineias, and his cousins (Helenos cannot come when Kassandra’s face is buried in his shoulder), they all lock themselves in a room to collaborate and figure what will be the best course.
War is coming.