Summary: "I am a coward and a fool." A post-Menelaus fight conversation between Paris and Hector. Not slash.
Disclaimer: I think we've established the fact that I own nothing. No infringement intended.
B R O T H E R S
You hear his footsteps approaching long before they reach your door; ever since you were children you'd been able to identify them—soft and swift and bringing with them a certain sense of comfort.
You find no comfort in them now.
You do not look up as they stop, resting in what you know to be your doorway. Shame burns heavy in your heart and you let it become you in the bow of your head, the aversion of your eyes, the hunch of your back.
He is your older brother, the one you've always turned to for support and protection as a child; he'd never failed you, never ceased to drive the monsters from your dreams or protect you from one of your elder brothers' taunts. He taught you to ride and to arch, yet always made sure you were spared from the hazards of battle.
He has protected you in all your failures and shortcomings, saved you from Menelaus, yet he cannot save you from the burn of your cowardice.
You speak first, lifting your chin and eyes, straightening your back as you know a Son of Troy should, though your eyes hold no pride.
"I am a coward and a fool."
The words hang between you and he with the heavy weight of a dead man's corpse. From the depths of your mind you note that he does not affirm your words—though—your heart counters—neither does he refute them.
Instead he walks to your bedside and places a callused hand over your brow as he used to when you were boys, calming you.
He sits by your bed, choosing not to lord over you as you know both his person and spirit does, but to sit at your side like a mentor, a friend, a brother.
"Yes, little brother," his voice is slow and passive, and his eyes shine with sadness as they meet yours, "Yes, you have acted as a fool might—though a fool would not see his actions to be foolish. Yes, your actions may have been those of a coward, but the fact that you wear your shame now shows that you can know pride—they go hand in hand."
You don't quite know what to make of his words, though they prove once again what you've known for years—that your brother is far the greater man than you. Had it been one of your younger brothers, you doubt you'd be so forgiving.
"Hector," his attention catches at your address of him by his first name—you've called him simply "brother" for most of your life, save a few instances. "All my life, I've wanted to become the man you are—to be as brave, and as strong, and as righteous. I thought that by…I thought that by—" the burning in your throat makes it difficult to continue, yet you do, making sure that your eyes continue to meet his, "I thought that by challenging Menelaus, I could be more like you: a man willing to take responsibility for his actions and die for love and country. But I've failed myself; failed Troy; failed you, miserably."
He sighs, and you liken him to Atlas, carrying the world on his shoulders; no end in sight to the burden he bears. Your shoulders have never been cursed, or graced, by such a responsibility, though you know, and perhaps fear, that they might be, all to soon.
"You are very young, my brother, and it is good that you learn the consequences of your actions now. Long have you been a favorite in father's eyes, as in mine, though I'm not sure it's been to your credit. Perhaps I shouldn't have lied to him, all those years ago, about what became of his horse. Yet perhaps you've grown into yourself a bit more of late—you are a different man, Paris, than the one who stole Helen away from Sparta, and not, I think, a worse one, despite your mistakes."
An urge to make him proud—to be the brother he's always wanted you to be—rises within you, and you sit up straighter yet, replying: "Then I will fight with you brother, I will watch you, and though I do not believe I will ever be as great a man as you, I shall try. I know that I have doomed Troy, in loving Helen, but my love for her is true, and I will try to…" Your words drift away, but you sense that it's important to say them now, and be true to them, before it's too late. "I shall try to make you and father proud, as I've always wanted to, yet have never quite understood until now."
He smiles a bit, a soft, sad smile that matches the somber look in his eyes, and it occurs to you that you have never seen him look so troubled. He looks out your window to the east, where you know Apollo will drive his golden chariot in but a few hours, then looks down again.
He does not meet your eyes this time as he speaks. "I won't be around forever, Paris. There will come a time, a time which draws ever closer, when I won't be here to look out for you." He sighs once more, and clasps your shoulders with both of his hands, his brow furrowing as he does, "I killed a boy today, perhaps your age. I don't think he had ever been in battle before, and I don't think he really knew what it meant to die."
Another pause.
"He was Achilles' cousin."
You shake your head at the words, trying to keep their dooming echo from your ears, their bitter taste from your mouth, but you can't keep them away.
"I won't be around forever." He repeats, as though still trying to get used to the idea, or perhaps simply in an attempt to prepare you.
"No!" You counter, your head still shaking, your vision blurring as hot tears threaten to break from your eyes' gates. "No!"
"Listen to me, Paris," He grips your shoulders tighter and forces your eyes to meet his. "I do not fear death, if that is what the scales have doomed me for(1). I have lived a good and true life, honoring the gods, loving Andromache, and fighting for Troy. When I am gone, this will pass to you. Respect the gods, love Helen well, and fight for Troy. Become the Prince of Troy I know you can be. Make me proud."
With that, he is gone; his ever soothing presence vanished from your room. The candlelight flickers, and in the east, rosy-fingered dawn stretches out to grasp you. You fear the new day.
You fear for your brother. He is not a warrior of the same mold of the legendary Achilles; your brother—brave warrior though he is—was fashioned for peace, whereas the former, you think, is suited only for war; for the kill.
You cannot help but weep as he leaves your room, for he, whom you loved the most as a boy, for Troy, the beautiful land that your folly doomed, and for the little brother you are no longer.
For if the gods have doomed Hector, tamer of horses, greatest of all men in Troy, surely the rest of Troy will be quick in following.
fin
Author's Notes: I have to say, I was irked by many of the movie's deviations from the Iliad et al., though I did like the relationships shown between the characters in the movie. As such, for this story's purposes I have chosen to follow the movie canon, as it were. If I made this story true to Greek mythology, the story of Hector's and Paris' brotherly relationship wouldn't really work, as Paris grew up away from his family raising sheep on Mount Ida (not very conducive to the formation of relationships between brothers). ( I also liked the Achilles/Briseis angle).
I'm thinking of continuing this piece by writing more conversations between the story's characters (i.e. Briseis and Achilles, and perhaps a Priam and Hector one), depending on whether people like this or not.
Footnotes: (1) On Mount Olympus, Zeus weighs Achilles' and Hector's fates against each other on his golden scale, and Hector's fate fall, dooming Hector to deaths.
Please, tell me what you think.