Author's Note: Back from a year and half's worth of hiatus (sitting for O-
levels and all). Inspiration managed to hit me for 'Troy', so here's a
piece on Hector's thoughts. Took much liberties with the characters, so if
they seem to be acting/thinking out of, uhm, character, it's just my
personal take on things.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Homer, scenes to Wolfgang Petersen and Co. This story is mainly written for pleasure, and not for profit.
"May the Gods protect you."
I stood up, head down, unable to fight the disappointment that rose within me.
I go off to certain doom, Father, and this is all you say?
I tried not to let it show. Tried to take it, accept it - to be the less favoured son - as my lot in life.
Tried not to recall the sight of Father's sword in Paris' hand on the fateful day he fought Menelaus and I won.
Past events came rushing head-on, split-second frames of all those twenty-eight years of my life... As I stepped away from my father.
I remembered...
"Would you protect me from any enemy?" ...When Paris had tried to ride Father's newly-purchased stallion. A 10-year old boy with amateur knowledge of handling horses, attempting to control a hot-tempered purebred.
There was predictability in Father's anger at hearing of Paris' exploits, and my attempts to hide the situation from him.
"What do you have to say for yourself?"
"I thought I could handle him. He looked tame enough."
"Hector, were you not supposed to keep watch over your brother?"
"Why am I taking the fall for him?"
"He is just a boy. You have to teach him right from wrong; it's your responsibility."
Paris was always the favourite, wasn't he Father?
I remembered...
... The black cowl lifting up to reveal Helen of Sparta, now Helen of Troy.
In my mind's eye; hundreds of ships on the horizon, a black-garbed warrior with speed and strength like no other, the beach littered with bodies, Troy's gates open and burning.
Father welcomed our entourage with open arms. He took Helen by the hand, had kissed her in warm greeting and led her into the palace as if everything was right and good with the world.
If only Father would put her on a ship and sail her home. Would he sacrifice his city and its people for his son's happiness?
"It is the will of the gods."
It was not as if we could not take matters into our own hands and rectify situations. It was whether we wanted to.
And Father did not.
Paris is the favourite, isn't he Father?
I remember...
...watching my brother stumble back towards the Greek army, blood steadily leaking from his leg.
"Paris!"
I ran for the horses even as he slid in the sand and grabbed his fallen weapon. I caught a glimpse of it: The Sword of Troy.
In all the wars I fought, none were carried on with that sword in hand.
Even as I hoisted Paris onto his horse and saw him safely through the gate, I could not keep green jealousy from warring with brotherly love.
Paris will always be your favourite.
"Hector!"
I stopped short, breath coming slightly quicker, my heart thudding so hard it almost hurt as my father descended the few steps that separated us.
The hesitation in his face was apparent, but so was the love in the next words he spoke to me. "No father ever had a better son."
I stared, a hundred emotions racing, interweaving – shockjoyreliefthanksgratitudefearanguishprideanxietygraceforgiveness
And then I found what I had sought after all these years.
Love.
In my last hour, I had found love.
And I finally realised a truth that had been ever-present, just unseen.
I was the less favoured son, but I was never less loved.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Homer, scenes to Wolfgang Petersen and Co. This story is mainly written for pleasure, and not for profit.
"May the Gods protect you."
I stood up, head down, unable to fight the disappointment that rose within me.
I go off to certain doom, Father, and this is all you say?
I tried not to let it show. Tried to take it, accept it - to be the less favoured son - as my lot in life.
Tried not to recall the sight of Father's sword in Paris' hand on the fateful day he fought Menelaus and I won.
Past events came rushing head-on, split-second frames of all those twenty-eight years of my life... As I stepped away from my father.
I remembered...
"Would you protect me from any enemy?" ...When Paris had tried to ride Father's newly-purchased stallion. A 10-year old boy with amateur knowledge of handling horses, attempting to control a hot-tempered purebred.
There was predictability in Father's anger at hearing of Paris' exploits, and my attempts to hide the situation from him.
"What do you have to say for yourself?"
"I thought I could handle him. He looked tame enough."
"Hector, were you not supposed to keep watch over your brother?"
"Why am I taking the fall for him?"
"He is just a boy. You have to teach him right from wrong; it's your responsibility."
Paris was always the favourite, wasn't he Father?
I remembered...
... The black cowl lifting up to reveal Helen of Sparta, now Helen of Troy.
In my mind's eye; hundreds of ships on the horizon, a black-garbed warrior with speed and strength like no other, the beach littered with bodies, Troy's gates open and burning.
Father welcomed our entourage with open arms. He took Helen by the hand, had kissed her in warm greeting and led her into the palace as if everything was right and good with the world.
If only Father would put her on a ship and sail her home. Would he sacrifice his city and its people for his son's happiness?
"It is the will of the gods."
It was not as if we could not take matters into our own hands and rectify situations. It was whether we wanted to.
And Father did not.
Paris is the favourite, isn't he Father?
I remember...
...watching my brother stumble back towards the Greek army, blood steadily leaking from his leg.
"Paris!"
I ran for the horses even as he slid in the sand and grabbed his fallen weapon. I caught a glimpse of it: The Sword of Troy.
In all the wars I fought, none were carried on with that sword in hand.
Even as I hoisted Paris onto his horse and saw him safely through the gate, I could not keep green jealousy from warring with brotherly love.
Paris will always be your favourite.
"Hector!"
I stopped short, breath coming slightly quicker, my heart thudding so hard it almost hurt as my father descended the few steps that separated us.
The hesitation in his face was apparent, but so was the love in the next words he spoke to me. "No father ever had a better son."
I stared, a hundred emotions racing, interweaving – shockjoyreliefthanksgratitudefearanguishprideanxietygraceforgiveness
And then I found what I had sought after all these years.
Love.
In my last hour, I had found love.
And I finally realised a truth that had been ever-present, just unseen.
I was the less favoured son, but I was never less loved.