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Andromache wandered upon the lonely hills of Elysium.
Many moments ago she had been one soul in a rhythm of other spirits, pushing against each-other on one gigantic book, headed by a man covered completely by cloth so nobody could understand if he was truly a man or a shade like the rest of them.
Getting upon the boat was surely a journey in itself. Andromache was stood in a line, by herself, her eyes feeling carved out by the hands of a great carpenter. She held her coins tightly in her hands, thinking of nothing, for her mind had surely escaped her. Surely.
When it was her turn to step upon the boat, the messenger god was waiting by the side, as if he was meaning to meet her all this time. Him, with his giant cap with large wings flapping beside them, mirroring his lovely woven shoes, smiled at her like he had seen her through all her tricks, plights, miseries and moments, and he turned his head to the man who could not be distinguished and he laughed like it was all a joke. He was terribly beautiful. All gods were like this, dangling their cruelty behind their eyes.
"Charon," He grinned. "Take the girl to Elysium. The boss orders it to be this way."
The ferryman said nothing in turn.
Andromache spent a long while upon the boat, only to watch as all of the wallowing, weeping souls, some gripping onto the hands of children whilst others coddled grandparents and infants. One by one, they all stepped off the boat, into different sectors of the end, judged by the hands of gods she only knew in stories.
She remained until she was one of the last people upon the boat, save for a few fine, younger men, who reminded her too much of the past.
Nobody spoke to her. Nobody needed to.
She wasn't sure they remembered her.
She surely didn't remember them.
What did it matter then? On she went, wandering like a lost dog, looking for her owner.
And who might that man be? Oh, those memories of that very fine man, that very nice man indeed, have been lost or distorted entirely in her old age. She cannot remember the sound of his voice, the feeling of his hair within her fingers. She used to braid his very fine head of hair and make it up into so many styles, the girls were all so surely jealous. The men on the battlefield could not see if his hair had changed from one day to another so it didn't mind so much to them. It mattered a whole lot to Andromache.
She remembered his name, few things about him.
He did not grow the same wrinkles she did. He died too young. She missed him terribly. He was good with horses, like her.
This was the beginning of their friendship, talking about all of her friendly horses that her father had brought to Troy for her. For him.
Troy, sacred windy Ilios.
Perhaps a little piece of it would remain somewhere at the end. Perhaps.
Poor lovely Troy. Her home was on fire and the last thing she ever heard of it, ever saw of it was the heat lapping at the edges of the temples and the sound of the screams of all their people. There was nothing they could have ever done. Perhaps the honor and glory that a man takes for himself is what he is always supposed to receive. The fates made it this way, the gods have nothing to do but follow the songs of the above and hope for their better ends. Even they fear for their lives, even when they will live forever. Troy was always supposed to fall as unfortunately as it had.
Andromache came upon a corner and stood on the top of a large hill, looking at everything below her.
There was a large clearing, like the ones she used to see when she was a little girl, playing with her brothers in the woods. All sorts of flowers bloomed in the edges of this clearing but what consumed the majority of the ground was large, tall grass, that ate up the ground and made it unseen. The sky above was bright, cloudless, blue like warm summer afternoons.
She watched as many people she couldn't see very well stood within the shade of a tarp, held up by what looked to be large masts.
There was a lovely table, bearing many foods, fit for a feast with many chairs, for many friends ready to appear. They seem to be awaiting somebody.
There was a familiar man, sitting upon a chair, and even from where she stood on the top of the hill, she could hear him clear as day.
"Is the meat ready yet? I'm starved," He rolled his eyes, his legs hung over the arm rest while his body was turned in an awkward angle.
A girl laughed in the corner while a boy that looked to be the same age as her ruffled his hair, "Yes, it is ready! Keep quiet now, you'll wake the baby."
"The baby will always be a baby."
"No, haven't you seen? He's been growing a bit."
"Children cannot grow in death."
"Perhaps Lord Hades makes exceptions."
"I don't think so."
Andromache found herself drawn to this table and these group of people who seemed like old friends. Whoever they were, Andromache didn't know. But she remembered the way they looked so clearly in her mind it almost felt like an insult that she couldn't remember them just as clearly.
An older man, with deep wrinkles upon his face, smiled weakly. He squeezed the hand of a smiling woman, talking excitedly to two other girls at her right.
The older man laughed, "But he does seem to be growing! Little by little."
The man who had spoken first, this complaining man with a dangling earing upon one of his ears grimaced, "We are all starting to go mad."
"Have us some respect, Paris, we're not so uncivilized."
Paris.
Paris, Paris, Andromache remembered Paris.
Her mouth fell open, tears pooling her eyes.
Paris, she remembered Paris! Alexandros of sacred Ilios, the prince of Troy, who brought so much ruin yet used to be so sweet, so kind, strumming his lyre at the end of every meal to entertain them.
And then, like the beginning of a new day, Andromache remembered everything.
Paris, her dear friend, who ruined all of their lives. Was the old man that was chiding him dear Priam, who looked younger than Andromache had ever seen him before? Was the lady holding his hand good Hecuba, grinning excitedly? Were the girls that were surrounding the table, armed with their good brothers, all of her old friends? Trolius, Polyxena?
She could almost call out their names, run into their waiting arms.
How long had she waited for this?
There was a finer man, taller than all of the rest, holding onto an infant.
Andromache couldn't see him from where she stood, closer now to the table with so much food slowly being piled upon it by lovely, bloodless hands. Hands without callouses, pains, scars.
And the good woman, like a very mad woman, grinning loudly with tears streaming down her cheeks yelled at the top of her lungs, "Hector!"
Hector turned immediately, gripping tightly onto the babe.
There he was! Glorious Hector! Her darling husband skilled in only good things! He knows only how to care for good horses, knows how to shoot perfect arrows on lovely bows, knows how to sort arguments between his siblings because he is so glorious in council, so marvelous, a sight to behold!
He stood up immediately, eyes wide, like he had heard heavens' voice breathing in his ear.
Her darling husband, free from all of his scars, all of his burdens, bearing nothing that held him once to the world above.
He left the babe somewhere, perhaps in the arms of one of the girls, Andromache wasn't all too sure.
She was too busy racing, her eyes too blurred with all her tears, gripping tightly onto her dress and all her garments.
And Hector, her lovely husband whom held her so dearly in his chest, raced after her.
"Andromache!" He called, like they were children again, and his eyes were as full of tears as Andromache's were, bearing seas and rivers and lakes, dripping down his fair cheeks. The gold that held his lovely braids glimmered in the sun as Andromache grew closer and closer to him, the world blurring around her as there was only him, him and nobody else!
Hector opened his arms and they met in the middle, tangling each-other in their long, lonely limbs.
Her husband took her in his strong arms and spun her around and around, gripping onto her tightly. Andromache wrapped her arms around his neck, gripping tightly, sobbing like a maiden, laughing like a fool. Hector finally set her to the ground and they held one another tightly, hands coming all over, brushing ever corner of their skins.
Andromache kissed his lips, kissed him once and twice and again and again, only to make sure he was there.
She reached up and touched his face, his hair, his cheeks.
"You," She breathed, laughing like it was something hilarious. She couldn't believe it.
"I," Hector laughed, pressing their foreheads together.
"You are here."
"I have always been here."
"How long?"
"For all my life."
"I have been here since the day you died."
"How come I never saw you anywhere?"
Andromache laughed, touching his neck, his shoulders, his arms, his chest.
He was there, he was real, he was solid. It was not an imagination from the cruelest wishes of old Morpheus, no, no it wasn't, because he was real and alive and he was there, right within her hands! He did not change when she pushed her fingers upon his skin, no! He stood and he laughed and he breathed like he was alive again, like they belonged only in Andromache's lost memories!
And she kissed him once and again and another time.
Hector gripped onto her hands, "Andromache-"
"Please- let me-"
"I have to tell you something."
"Tell me. Tell me only if it will not make me sob and scream," She sobbed, on the verge of yelling.
Hector smiled at her and kissed her forehead, kissed her eyes, her nose, her chin.
He pressed his hands on either side of her face and cupped his cheeks. He brought his nose down upon her own and made their faces into two halves of one whole, as they were always meant to be. This is what the gods had always deemed them to be, this was how they had always been. This is how they will always be, in the minds of her and him, together for the rest of forever.
She could barely believe it.
"You are so beautiful," Hector mumbled. "My lovely girl, at-last, back in my arms."
"I have never left."
"Always, you were here?"
"Always. Your heart beat in my chest. I died the day you went away."
"Ah, my beloved Andromache, don't tell me I have waited so long for you only to hear you haven't had any good days since my passing."
"I have had good days," Andromache reasoned, gripping onto him tightly. "Though they weren't as lovely as the days I spent with you."
"In the before."
"In the before."
"Before war, before all of these horrible troubles of man."
"Do you regret it all?"
"Terribly."
Andromache pressed her tears into his lovely tunic, breathing him in.
"Oh gods. So much time has passed."
"It doesn't feel so fast. Time feels stranger somehow."
"How does it feel for you?"
"Like you haven't been here for a hundred years. Like you've always been here. I don't know."
Andromache laughed and kissed his lips again, gripping against his skin.
Hector lowered his head and kissed her jaw, mumbling softly, "Would you like to meet someone?"
"Who?"
Hector grinned at her, kissing her cheek and then the side of her ear, her temple.
Andromache sobbed, "My Scamandrius."
And so Hector, lifting her within his strong arms, took her to the generous table lying within the clearing amongst the tall grass while their babe patiently awaited them.